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I couldn’t help but realize that for as long I live, November 3rd will be scorched in my mind as the day I realized I had much to learn before I could ever hope to be the man I thought I was. November 3rd was the day I killed the governor, the mayor, the police commissioner, and the fire chief, the day my brother was released from the hospital, the day we both realized my parents…both of my parents were still alive…and the day I became a parent in the eyes of the world.
One day.
That’s all it took for life to flip on its head.
“Can you tell me a story?” Gigi whispered softly in Italian, rubbing her eyes as she sat up from under the blankets I just put on her.
People—parents really did that? Story time?
“I don’t know a story. Sleep. Aren’t you tired?” I said back to her in Italian, and the look of disappointment and hurt on her face made me pause.
“Papà, are you mad at me?”
This little…person…child…is my child…my daughter. Welcome home, sweetheart.
“No, I am not mad at you,” I said, placing my hand on her cheek.
I am Ethan Antonio Giovanni Callahan, first son of the former head of the Irish mob, Liam Alec Callahan, and former head of the Italian mafia, Melody Nicci Giovanni Callahan. I am the Ceann Na Conairte, the leader of the pack, of the Irish mob. I am the Don of the Italian mafia. I am one of the richest, most powerful, and dangerous men on this goddamn planet. I have the president’s personal cell phone number. He took orders from me. No one or thing was beyond my knowledge or reach. So, how would I have a four-year-old daughter and not know about it?
“Do you not know a story, Papà?” She tilted her head sideways to look at me, obviously getting a second wind.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I don’t know any stories.”
“I do!” She grinned, sitting up and pushing the blanket down. “Once upon time….”
“Aren’t you tired?” I tried to remind her. I knew she was tired because just a second ago she was asleep in my arms.
“One story plea
se!” She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes like she was praying with all her heart.
The irony…bedtime stories were meant to help kids go to sleep and yet she was determined to tell me one.
“Okay. Tell me the story.” I smiled, tucking her in a bit more and giving her my full attention.
“Once upon a time,” she started again, speaking gently, I suppose copying whoever told her the story to begin with. “There were four kingdoms, Sicily, Naples, Calabria, Puglia, and they fought all time. They fought over food, land, and water. If it could be used by people, they fought over it. At first each kingdom only wanted to protect themselves from all the bad people in the world trying to steal their stuff. The kings of the four kingdoms tried to protect them on their own, they made small armies, but those men needed to take care of their families too before they could take care of others, so the four kings told their people if they wished to use their armies, they would protect them from the bad people who were attacking them. All the people loved their kings and wanted to be safe, so they gave their money.”
This is a child’s bedtime story? I thought, eyebrow raised as I watched her tell it to me seriously.
“They called the king’s men the Mafia. It was a word that meant ‘acting as a protector against the arrogance of the powerful.’ The people in Sicily would proudly proclaim ‘I Mafiusi della Vicaria!’ That means—”
“Heroes of the Reformatory,” I whispered in sheer astonishment, not believing what I was hearing.
She grinned wide, sitting up more if that was possible. “Yeah, Papà! You do know the story? Did your mama tell it to you too?”
I knew because it wasn’t just a story, it was history. From her question I understood that her mother told her this…her mother had made her bedtime story the history of Italian mafias?
What kind of woman would do that? One insane enough to have my child.
“My mother did tell it to me.” But not as a bedtime story, it was an actual lesson. It was so long ago I’d almost forgotten. And yet listening to her tell it I could remember as clear as day my mother doing what I was doing now.
“I Mafiusi della Vicaria!” She threw her fist out and then giggled to herself some more. “The Mafia caught the bad guys and protected their people. Everybody was happy. The four kingdoms stopped fighting…because of that, the people of the four kingdoms thought they could stop paying. But the kings wouldn’t let them. The people turned on their kings because they were mad. Then the kings stopped protecting all the people who didn’t pay, so the wars started again. Brothers fought brothers, sisters hurt sisters, and the four kingdoms sought to take over each other again. It was worse than ever before and to be in the Mafia was bad now. Now everyone hated them. Even the kings were sent to sleep, and so new kings had to come, but people couldn’t tell who the real king was because the fake kings started to turn up! All through the land, there was chaos and people didn’t know what to do. Isn’t that sad, Papà?”
“Very,” I answered, both amused and amazed at the fact that the history of the Italian mafia was now a children’s story…one she seemed to really enjoy telling. Her eyes were wide, and her smile seemed permanently stuck on her small little oval face.
“I think so too.” She leaned in as if she were going to tell me a secret. “It’s okay because one day, the head of the Giovanni family, Giovanni-Giovanni, had enough. He wanted all the fighting to stop. He wasn’t part of any of the four kingdoms, he was from Bosa, but grew up in Basilicata, and there he was surrounded by all four kingdoms. So, he and all the people there would get hurt from all sides. Giovanni-Giovanni joined the Calabria, and after 15 years working for bad king after bad king, he took over the Calabria. He had become a king!”
A Don. But king was close. She went on as if she wasn’t the one who needed to sleep.…but strangely enough I wanted her awake. I wanted to know how much of this story she knew.
