There were more sounds of shots from outside.
A voice said, “Don Vito…”
He spun around.
Ivo stood there, a gun in his hand. “Drop your gun.”
“I…”
“Drop it.”
Don Vito let his gun fall to the floor. “Take whatever you want and get out.”
“I don’t want anything,” Ivo said. “As a matter of fact, I came here because I owe you something.”
Don Vito said, “Whatever it is, I’m prepared to forget it.”
“I’m not. Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Ivo Martini.”
The old man frowned, trying to remember. He shrugged. “It means nothing to me.”
“More than fifteen years ago. Your men killed my mother and father.”
“That’s terrible,” Don Vito exclaimed. “I will have them punished, I’ll…”
Ivo reached out and smashed him across his nose with his gun. Blood started pouring out. “This isn’t necessary,” Don Vito gasped. “I…”
Ivo pulled out a knife. “Take down your trousers.”
“Why? You can’t…”
Ivo raised the gun. “Take down your trousers.”
“No!” It was a scream. “Think about what you’re doing. I have sons and brothers. If you harm me, they will track you down and kill you like a dog.”
“If they can find me,” Ivo said. “Your trousers.”
“No.”
Ivo shot one of his kneecaps. The old man screamed out in pain.
“Let me help you,” Ivo said. He reached out and pulled the old man’s trousers down, and then his underwear. “There’s not much there, is there? Well, we’ll have to do the best we can.” He grabbed Don Vito’s member and slashed it off with a knife.
Don Vito fainted.
Ivo took the penis and shoved it into the man’s mouth. “Sorry I don’t have a well to drop you into,” Ivo said. As a parting gesture, he shot the old man in the head, then turned and walked out of the house to the car. His friends were waiting for him.
“Let’s go.”
“He has a large family, Ivo. They’ll come after you.”
“Let them.”
Two days later Ivo, his wife, and son, Gian Carlo, were on a boat to New York.
At the end of the last century the New World was a land of opportunity. New York had a large population of Italians. Many of Ivo’s friends had already emigrated to the big city and decided to use their expertise in what they knew best: the protection racket. The Mafia began spreading its tentacles. Ivo anglicized his family name from Martini to Martin and enjoyed an uninterrupted prosperity.
Gian Carlo was a big disappointment to his father. He had no interest in working. When he was twenty-seven, he got an Italian girl pregnant, married her in a quiet and hurried ceremony, and three months later they had a son, Paul.
Ivo had big plans for his grandson. Lawyers were very important in America, and Ivo decided that his grandson should be an attorney. The young boy was ambitious and intelligent, and when he was twenty-two, he was admitted to Harvard Law School. When Paul was graduated, Ivo arranged for him to join a prestigious law firm, and he soon became a partner. Five years later Paul opened his own law firm. By this time Ivo had invested heavily in legitimate businesses, but he still kept his contacts with the Mafia, and his grandson handled his business affairs for him. In 1967, the year Ivo died, Paul married an Italian girl, Nina, and a year later his wife gave birth to twins.
In the seventies Paul was kept busy. His main clients were the unions, and because of that, he was in a position of power. Heads of businesses and industries deferred to him.
One day Paul was having lunch with a client, Bill Rohan, a respected banker who knew nothing of Paul’s family background.
“You should join Sunnyvale, my golf club,” Bill Rohan said. “You play golf, don’t you?”
“Occasionally,” Paul said. “When I have time.”
“Fine. I’m on the admissions board. Would you like me to put you up for membership?”
“That would be nice.”
The following week the board met to discuss new members. Paul Martin’s name was brought up.
“I can recommend him,” Bill Rohan said. “He’s a good man.”