Preface

“Lorenzo, here for your weekly trim?” An old, frail voice called from deep inside the barbershop. The smell of old shavings, aftershave, and leather hung in the air almost as loudly as the conversation. Fifty years later, the same gripes came up each week, as did the clientele. Saturday mornings were made all the better when Lorenzo went to his usual spot, got his usual style, and spoke with his usual barber.

“You ask that every week, Marty, and every week I tell you the same thing. “Stop with all the damn questions and get to work, old man,” Lorenzo replied, a shaky laugh added at the end just in case Marty decided that today would be the day he came out of retirement—or emeritus, as the Cosa Nostra called it.

“You’re lucky I’m not in my prime anymore, boy, or I’d scalp ya’.”

Marty threw the jab out lightheartedly. For decades he has been taking care of the Russo family, going all the way back to Marcio, Lorenzo’s father. Three generations later, even the youngest Russo still got serviced at Parru .

“Dad, stop making Marty’s life hell and sit down,” Giovanni said with an eye roll. “You two are always fighting, yet you’d lose it if one of you were gone.”

“That’s how it is, figlio ; to love is to fight for, with, and next to each other. Solo la famiglia conta . Never forget it, boy.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll pick you up at the normal time.”

That was the last thing Giovanni said to his father before stepping outside in the dewy day. The sun was just beginning to rise above the skyscrapers in the distance. Innocent — that’s what it looked like. A completely innocent day.

“Let’s get started, kiddo.”

“When are you going to stop calling me that, Marty? I’m damn the same age as you.”

“You’ll always be a kid in my books; now get.”

His friends sat around the quaint building, chatting it up with long-time acquaintances about the good ol ’ days.

“Yeah, I miss chasing you around, slicing and shooting until one of us dropped. Still mad about that eye, Lucifero .”

“Well, you shouldn’t have stuck your head out that Brougham. You know my shot was the best in the business, Tommy,” Lorenzo replied.

The boys’ club continued their gathering with no interruptions, like always. New customers stopped coming by twenty years ago, but the boys always rallied together at Marty’s. He’d taught them everything they knew about being a soldato , or capodecina , in Lorenzo’s case. While their father stalked the night, making the streets run red, Marty kept the boys out of trouble by giving them jobs in the shop. Occassionally he’d send them on little missions, but they’d never admit to it. What happened at the shop stayed at the shop.

The day passed by in the kind of calm way that only came with time and trust. By the time Lorenzo was ready to leave, the sun had set and the moon was high in the sky. Just two streetlights lit the barren area outside. The street had been empty for hours, the last of the business folk having left long before the sun. That’s what made Lorenzo turn his head at the sound of tires squealing on the asphalt. He had just enough time to widen his eyes, look back at the crowd emerging behind him, and shout, “Get down!” before the night was alight.

Bullets rained down from the sky, leaving behind an orange glow like napalm. Shouts of anguish came from the groups of men. In the distance, Lorenzo heard another voice shouting out, telling him to hide. A distinct smell coated the air around them. Gunmetal and blood mixed with the fumes of a gasoline-induced combustion. Their enemies had set Parru on fire.

“Get to the alley! Get down!” Gio yelled to the top of his lungs. He watched in horror as the bullets continued to drill holes into the men who raised him, his own father being the worst. Like some deranged contest, three mini missiles hit his vital organs simultaneously.

When they hit his lungs, Lorenzo gasped.

He gripped his chest as one tore through his chest.

The final hit brought about a slow end to Lorenzo Russo’s reign as Capo . A string of red liquid slowly dripped down the center of his head, quickly becoming a never-ending faucet, concealing most of his sight.

There on the streets of Chicago, Lorenzo fell. The world around him burned bright as everything he, his father, and his father’s father built turned to ash.

The last thing Lorenzo saw was his boy, reaching for his hand, highlighted by the fumes behind them. Rather than stricken, he looked murderous. That was how Lorenzo knew he trained him right.

The only man left standing that night was Marty, right next to the SUV holding the men who killed his friends. Giovanni used the shadows of the alley to hide his figure as he watched Marty climb into the car, not a drop in his eye.

“Go, Roberto. Take me away from here.”