Gangster Read Free Page A

out the door.
       
         *     *     *
       
    PAOLINO STOOD IN the center of the small dining room, his eyes on his son and the man standing above him, smoking a thin cigar. The man inched the cigar from his mouth, curls of smoke clouding his thick, tanned face. He parted the top of Carlo's head.
        He's a good boy, the man said, smiling. Very quiet. No trouble to us. He's almost a part of the family already.
        I will get you your money, Gaspare, Paolino said, the lupara hanging over his shoulder, partly hidden by the sleeve of his shepherd's coat. I give you my word. Now, please. Let me have my son.
        Your father gave his word, too, Gaspare said. Many times. And I am still left with nothing. Besides, the boy will know a better life with us. We can give much more than you. And with your father out of the way, you will no longer have to live in debt. At least to us.
        Paolino looked down at his son and remembered the early mornings when he would lift him onto his shoulders and carry him down the slopes of the olive groves toward his flock. His head was filled with the happy sounds of a boy's laughter, as he urged his father to go faster and catch up to the grazing sheep. That brief and blissful memory was quickly replaced by the image of a grown Carlo, now a hardened member of the camorra, glowering at him from the top of that very same olive grove, standing tall and silent as men with guns raced to fill their pockets with the wages of the working poor. Paolino Vestieri knew he must never allow the son he loved so much to grow up to be such a man.
        He stepped closer to Gaspare and his son, ignoring the two men standing on either side of the room. One way or another, Paolino said, my son will come with me.
        You talk like a brave man. Gaspare put the cigar back in his mouth, his voice turned harder. But your actions will show where your courage takes you.
        Let me have my son, Paolino said, feeling the sweat race down his neck and back.
        I have no more to say to you. Gaspare dismissed Paolino with a wave. Tend to your flock, shepherd. Let me worry about the boy.
        Paolino fell to his knees and swung the lupara from his back to his hands. But he did not aim it at the criminal Gaspare. The gun was aimed directly at his son's chest. The two men in the corner pulled their own handguns and aimed it at Paolino. Gaspare backed away from the boy, his smoldering cigar now cupped in his right hand. Carlo stared at his father, his lower lip quivering.
        You would kill your own blood? Gaspare asked. Your only son?
        Better for him to be dead than to live with you, Paolino said.
        You don't have the heart for such a move, Gaspare said. I don't even know if I do.
        Then save him and let him come home with me.
        Gaspare stared at Paolino for several minutes, glaring into his eyes, taking slow puffs off the cigar.
        No, he said, shaking his head slowly.
        Paolino turned away from Gaspare and looked at his son. It was as if the two of them were now alone. The hard gaze of the boy's eyes told his father all that he felt he needed to know. It would not take the camorra long to steal the young boy's spirit and turn it against those he loved. They would seduce him with romanticized images of power and wealth, easily lure the child in with vivid portraits of a life much more alluring and appealing than that of a shepherd's son. It would be a corrupt life, one without scruples or morals or decency. They had not had enough time to completely tear the boy away from him, not yet, but Paolino could see that such a path had already been paved. The boy would be a thief, a criminal and, one day, a murderer.
        I love you, Carlo, Paolino said and squeezed the trigger.
        He watched as the bullet's impact sent his son hard against the stone fireplace. Carlo crumpled to the ground, his face inches from the sparks of the crackling wood, his