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Nobody pays attention to me, they don't even ask about my dad and that's another strange thing, they always ask about my dad when he's not with us. But what would be the point if they asked? I also don't know why he stayed at home instead of coming to visit i miei nonni[11].
Maybe he knew nonno[12]wouldn't be here. They said he died, and I understood that was why everyone was crying. I need to askmio papàwhere this mission is, to die. Is it really that far for women to think they need to cry?
More people keep arriving. Capos and soldiers are all received by the family's consiglieri[13]. Why isn't my papà here? I hear another loud cry, but I'm used to this one.
Tizziano woke up, and that's the other thing babies know how to do besides sleeping: crying. Did women learn from babies? Or were babies the ones who learned from women? And why aren't the men crying too? They are serious.
Mamma takes my brother from Francesca's lap and, soon after, everyone starts to leave the house, except us, who stay behind, even Nonna leaves before Fabiano enters and takes us out. I stop walking when I see the several cars in front and behind ours, but Mamma pulls my hand.
I lift my head to look at her and ask where everyone is and why there are so many soldiers with us. Mamma shakes her head from side to side, telling me not to ask, even though I haven't said anything yet. We get in the car, as always Juliano drives and Fabiano sits next to him in the front seat, while Mamma, Tizziano and I are in the back.
I keep looking at the cars lined up as we go. One more thing I must ask my papà. The streets are empty. I've only been out on these streets twice before and they were full, unlike today, when even the shops are closed.
The car stops moving when we arrive at a beautiful place with lots of grass and signs on the ground, there are crosses and angels too. Will it be a different kind of church? The priest is here too. Everyone who was at Nonna's house is here. Nonna is here too, she's still crying, and so are the women.
We only get out of the car after the others, in front and behind ours, are empty. My papà's soldiers have their weapons drawn and I frown. Papà says that a man who needs to show his gun doesn't know how to use it. Have soldiers unlearned how to use a weapon?
Mamma holds my hand tightly as we walk towards where everyone is gathered. There's a hole in the ground, and I don'tknow what it's for. Why are they all gathered around a hole in the ground? And why is everyone holding the Sagrada’s rose? Juliano doesn't let Mamma, Tizziano and I get too close to the others.
The priest starts talking, and I understand, it's a mass. This really must be a different kind of church. Why didn't my papà come to mass? And why don't mio nonno's soldiers know how to use their weapons anymore? They are all on display.
I pay attention to the priest reading, then to the prayers. Mamma pulls my hand as she walks towards the hole in the ground, we approach it and I peek from above, but I don't see anything, I think it's deep. Mamma throws a flower inside, a red rose from the Sagrada. I turn around when I feel someone touching my other hand.
A man I don't know is placing a flower on it, but it's not the Sagrada's, this one is white. Should I throw it in the hole too?
“Per tuo padre[14]!” the man says, but I can't ask why, before Mamma pulls me back.
We don't go back to the place where we were standing, we go straight to the car and, when the door is opened by Juliano, I find my papà inside.
“Papà!”
“Vitto!” he says and kisses my forehead when I climb onto the seat, getting on my knees.
Mamma doesn't get into the car, the door is closed, and I look through the window, while Juliano takes her and Tizziano to the car behind ours.
“For you, Papà” I say, holding out the flower when I remember it. My papà's forehead wrinkles as he looks at my hand.
“Where did you get this?”
“A man gave it to me, said it was for you.” Mio papà moves his nose in a strange way, the way he does when he's irritated. Then he takes the flower from my hand. “Why was everyone crying, Papà? Should I cry too?” I ask, and he doesn't answer right away, papà takes a while. Is he thinking?
“From today onwards you will learn many things, Vitto, crying is not one of them. A Don never cries, Vitto. A Don never fails, never dishonors and, most importantly, a Don never kneels.”
“I'm not a Don, Papà. Mio nonno is the Don.”
“Your nonno was a Don and today you begin to learn how to be one.”
(...)
The soft knock of the car door pulls me out of my memory, and I turn, Matteo gets out of the car with a wisely neutral expression, although too pale for his usual natural tan.
The consigliere drags a hand through his perfectly slicked back blonde hair and takes a good look around us and especially the valley below us before speaking.
“I assume you have good reason to believe that burning down the Castellani main residence would be a good idea, despite our ongoing negotiations with them.” The moderate words awaken in me an unusual desire to smile.
When Tommazo Corleone died, many opposed his son's rise to office, saying he was too young, too cruel, too civilized. And, just as I did when assuming the role that once belonged to my father, Matteo silenced every opinion opposing his appointment and earned the respect of the organization member by member.
His courteous complexion is a good front for business. People see what they want to see, and Matteo's sober appearance of hidden tattoos and elegant words make his circulation in certain circles much easier than Tizziano's, for example. In addition, of course, the consigliere is an excellent negotiator, even if the two of us can't always agree on each other's methods.
