“They’re dead,” Ivo sobbed.
“Dead? Come in, come in.”
Ivo stumbled into the house.
“That’s terrible news. Was there some kind of an accident?”
Ivo shook his head. “Don Vito had them murdered.”
“Murdered? But why?”
“My father refused to lease land from him.”
“Ah.”
“Why would he have them killed? They never did anything to him.”
“It was nothing personal,” Nunzio Martini said.
Ivo stared at him. “Nothing personal? I don’t understand.”
“Everyone knows of Don Vito. He has a reputation. He is an uomo rispettato—a man of respect and power. If he let your father defy him, then others would try to defy him, then others would lose his power. There is nothing that can be done.”
The boy was watching him, aghast. “Nothing?”
“Not now, Ivo. Not now. Meanwhile, you look as though you could use a good night’s sleep.”
In the morning, at breakfast, they talked.
“How would you like to live in this fine house and work for me?” Nunzio Martini was a widower.
“I think I would like that,” Ivo said.
“I can use a smart boy like you. And you look strong.”
“I am strong,” Ivo told him.
“Good.”
“What business are you in, Uncle?” Ivo asked.
Nunzio Martini smiled. “I protect people.”
The Mafia had sprung up throughout Sicily and other poverty-stricken parts of Italy to protect the people from a ruthless, autocratic government. The Mafia corrected injustices and avenged wrongs, and it finally became so powerful that the government itself feared it, and merchants and farmers paid tribute to it.
Nunzio Martini was the Mafia capo in Palermo. He saw to it that proper tribute was collected and that those who did not pay were punished. Punishment could range from a broken arm or leg to a slow and painful death.
Ivo went to work for his uncle.
For the next fifteen years Palermo was Ivo’s school, and his uncle Nunzio was his teacher. Ivo started out as an errand boy, then moved up to collector, and finally became his uncle’s trusted lieutenant.
When Ivo was twenty-five years old, he married Carmela, a buxom Sicilian girl, and a year later they had a son, Gian Carlo. Ivo moved his family into their own house. When his uncle died, Ivo took his position and became even more successful and prosperous. But he had some unfinished business to attend to.
One day he said to Carmela, “Start packing up. We’re moving to America.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why are we going to America?”
Ivo was not accustomed to being questioned. “Just do as I say. I’m leaving now. I’ll be back in two or three days.”
“Ivo…”
“Pack.”
Three black macchine pulled up in front of the guardia headquarters in Gibellina. The captain, now heavier by thirty pounds, was seated at his desk when the door opened and half a dozen men walked in. They were well dressed and prosperous-looking.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?”
“We have come to help you,” Ivo said. “Do you remember me? I’m the son of Giuseppe Martini.”
The police captain’s eyes widened. “You,” he said. “What are you doing here? It is dangerous for you.”
“I came because of your teeth.”
“My teeth?”
“Yes.” Two of Ivo’s men closed in on the captain and pinned his arms to his side. “You need dental work. Let me fix them.”
Ivo shoved the gun into the chief’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
Ivo turned to his companions. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later the three automobiles drove up to Don Vito’s house. There were two guards outside. They watched the procession curiously. When the cars came to a stop, Ivo got out.
“Good morning. Don Vito’s expecting us,” he said.
One of the guards frowned. “He didn’t say anything about…”
In the next instant the guards were gunned down. The guns were loaded with lupare, cartridges with large leaden balls, a hunter’s trick to spread the pellets. The guards were cut to pieces.
Inside the house Don Vito heard the shooting. When he looked out the window and saw what was happening, he quickly crossed to a drawer and pulled out a gun. “Franco!” he called. “Antonio! Quickly!”