First Draft of My Short Story

Hung Le

The Initiation

Let me tell you a story.

It is a story of how a Sicilian born man, christened Luciano Russo was initiated into the Mafia. It is a story about me.

My dad was a trusted soldato in the Moretti family until one day he mysteriously killed – the reason and how he was killed I do not know. Hatred and anger eventually motivated me to join the family. I therefore drove to the compound of the Moretti family in Little Italy, New York and pleaded to be initiated. Antonio Esposito, a high ranking caporegime agreed and said:

“I think you should know this before joining. If you decided to go in, you go in alive. But if you decide to go out…” The man didn’t need to finish the sentence, but he did. His whisper was like a strike of thunder.

“…You go out dead.”

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As I entered the heavily protected compound consisted of several blocks of houses, I had a feeling of fear and excitement. Although this was one of the moments to cherish, Esposito’s words rang in my ears long after he emitted it. The front door of the main building was made from veneered wood showered with delicate details only the most meticulous carpenter could offer. I pushed the heavy door and entered.

Antonio Esposito was, as I thought, expecting me. Next to him were two men about my age who will probably be initiated also.

As he led the men and me up a flight of stairs, adrenaline rushed through my veins and I knew that this is my time to shine. These are the people that I always wanted to be – running their neighbourhoods, dressed in tailored suits and eating in those five stars restaurants, driving those fancy Rolls-Royce cars, going out with fancier women, running a court as a last resort for maligned people who needed it, operating in the world in which, back at that time, had seemed mysterious, powerful, but unobtainable.

Esposito broke my train of thought as he opened the door, which led us into a dark study. There was a huge table at the back, on it a votive candle, a picture, a dagger, and a gleaming, unloaded Colt .45 – the basic equipments for an initiation. At the back of the table stood a small man and although I’ve never met him, I knew who he was – Don Salvatore Moretti.

“You all know why you’re here, gentlemen. Luciano, I am terribly sorry about the loss of your father. But no worry – you shall join us to preserve our greatness and avenge your father’s death.”

“Thank you, Don Moretti.”

He made a swift motion with the picture on the table.

“This is the patron saint of our family – St. Leolucas. You men of honour are soon going to become la famiglia Moretti.” The Don paused to pick up the dagger, the gun, and transitioned his speech to Sicilian. “If you agree to join, this thing of ours must come before your mother, wife, or children. It must come before God. If you are summoned while your mother is on her deathbed, you will kiss her fevered forehead and leave to do the bidding of your superiors. You shall use the knife and the gun to protect us. Do you agree?”

We nodded.

The Don raised the dagger to prick our right hand’s trigger finger and made us squeeze the picture of the Saint so that the pressure would make blood pour out. He then lit the pictures with the candle and put it into our hands, telling us to rub it together back and forth.

“If you ever betray your friends,” Don Moretti said, “you will burn. Like the picture of our beloved patron saint now burning your bloodied palm. Do you agree to this?”

“Yes, Godfather.”

“You are now qualified men,” he finally said, “Gli Uomini qualificati. Please introduce yourselves to your brothers.”

There was a huge applause as we all hugged each other. I then thank the Don along with the caporegime and started for the door. However as I was heading out, Esposito closed the door.

Something was wrong.

“They can leave, but not you.”

“I… I – don’t understand.”

“Confused now, are we? I think it’s only fitting for you to know how your father died before you die!” Moretti hissed menacingly; Esposito held a gun to my head.

“What the –”

“We killed him - your father for his betrayal. Hah! He thought he was a ‘big shot’ when we started the narcotics trade so he took a liking to the Martini family, who happened to come up with the idea first. That stupid bastardo broke the omerta – the code of silence so my friend here, Esposito had to blast his brains out with a lupara. No hard feelings, kid but this is how it work. Have a good trip.”

“You figlio di putt- ”

Esposito shot.

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