The sky over Palermo was the color of a fresh bruise.
Luciano was twelve years old, and he still believed in the sanctity of Sunday. To him, Sunday meant the smell of almond cakes from the bakery on the corner, the scratchy wool of his church trousers, and the way his father, Don Pietro, would walk through the piazza like a sun around which all other planets orbited.
"Eyes up, piccolo," Pietro said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. He ruffled Luciano's hair with a hand that smelled of expensive tobacco and cedarwood. "A man who looks at the ground finds only dirt. A man who looks at the horizon finds his future."
They were walking back from the midday Mass. The rain began as a fine mist, turning the cobblestones into slick mirrors. Luciano gripped his father's hand. He felt safe. He felt untouchable. His father was not just a man; he was a monument.
"Papa, will I be like you one day?" Luciano asked.
Pietro stopped. He knelt in the mud, oblivious to his silk suit, and looked his son in the eye. His expression was a mixture of pride and a deep, haunting sorrow that Luciano wouldn't understand for another decade. "I hope to God you are better, Luciano. I have built a fortress so that you may live in a garden. Remember that."
The sound that followed was not the cinematic crack of a pistol. It was a sequence of dull, wet thuds—like someone hitting a heavy rug with a stick.
Pietro's chest didn't just bleed; it exploded.
The force of the bullets knocked the Don backward. Luciano felt his father's hand ripped from his own. He watched, frozen in a vacuum of shock, as the man who held up his world collapsed into the orange mud of the piazza.
"Papa?" Luciano whispered. The word felt small and pathetic against the sudden roar of a car engine.
A black Fiat screeched around the corner. Luciano saw a flash of a face through the window—a man with eyes as cold as the Mediterranean in winter. He didn't see a monster; he saw a mechanic of death, doing a job.
The rain turned into a deluge. Luciano fell to his knees beside his father. He tried to plug the holes in Pietro's chest with his small, trembling fingers, but the blood was too hot and too fast. It poured through his gaps, staining his white Sunday shirt a permanent, horrific crimson.
Pietro grabbed Luciano's collar, pulling him close. His breath smelled of iron now.
"Luciano..." his father gasped, his grip tightening with a final, desperate strength. "Power... is not a gift. It is a debt. You pay for it... every day... in blood."
"Don't leave me, Papa! Please!"
"Don't cry," Pietro hissed, a red bubble bursting on his lips. "In this world... tears are just... more water for the sharks. Harden yourself. Be the stone... not the glass."
The Don's eyes glazed over, reflecting the grey Sicilian sky. The grip on Luciano's collar slackened. The monument had fallen.
Luciano stayed there for a long time. He didn't scream. He didn't run. He watched the rain wash the almond-cake sweetness off his skin, replaced by the metallic tang of his father's life. He looked at his hands—the small, innocent hands of a boy who liked to draw birds—and saw them for what they were now.
They were the hands of an orphan.
They were the hands of a king in exile.
They were the hands that would eventually burn New York to the ground.
When the car of Don Salvatore Greco finally pulled up ten minutes later, they found the boy sitting perfectly still in the downpour. He wasn't shaking. He was staring at the horizon, just as his father had taught him.
The innocence of Luciano Valeriano hadn't just died; it had been executed.