Page 6 of Marcello

The only reason I would do what he wanted was because I knew he would hurt my family if I didn’t.

When I say ‘my family,’ I meant my mother, brother, and sister.

If he’d killed my father, I wouldn’t have minded too much.

“Do… you… understand?” Fausto asked in a threatening voice.

“Yes,” I shot back.

“Repeat it to me.”

“Don’t call unless I need money or I have info. Don’t text unless you text me first, and never put anything incriminating in a voicemail or text.”

Fausto settled back in his chair. “Good. I should make one thing abundantly clear: if you try to subvert my will… if you contact any of your family or friends… if you stall and waste time… if you don’t join the Camorra… or if you tell anyone about this conversation, I will know, and terrible things will happen. I’ll start with your little sister. Your first infraction will merit a broken arm. You don’t want to know what the second punishment will be. Understood?”

I swallowed hard. “Can I at least email my mother goodbye? I won’t tell her why I’m leaving – just that I’m leaving.”

Fausto regarded me coldly. “One email. No more.”

“…thank you.” The words tasted like bile in my mouth, but I forced myself to say them.

“Here,” Fausto said. “Take something to remind you why you’re doing this.”

He slid a photo across the table towards me, and I picked it up.

It was a picture of them eating gelato at a local shop. We all used to go there when I still lived at home.

My mother, brother, and sister were all laughing at some joke.

They were happy…

Something I felt like would never happen to me again.

“That’s all,” Fausto said dismissively. “You may leave.”

I glared at him as I stood up. I pocketed the phone and the money, but held onto the photograph as I turned to go.

“One last piece of advice,” Fausto said.

I turned back sullenly to look at him.

“I told you earlier that there are many jobs you could do for the Camorra. But truthfully, if you become a dock worker or a driver, you’ll probably never get the kind of information I require to let you walk away.

“The kind of information I seek is more likely to be found in the higher ranks of whatever Camorra clan you end up infiltrating.

“Unfortunately, the closer you are to the center of power, the more dangerous your situation will be. And you may be forced to do things you find morally objectionable. Abhorrent, even.

“You’ll find yourself questioning whether it’s all worth it.” Fausto held up a photo of my sister Gemma. “I assure you, it is. If you want your mother and siblings to continue their lives… unmolested.”

I clenched my jaw, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you familiar with the poet Dante Alighieri?” Fausto asked.

“Of course,” I said contemptuously.

Dante was Italy’s Shakespeare. He was originally from Florence before he was exiled in the 1300s because of politics. He was one of the most famous inhabitants of the city – as famous as Michelangelo or Leonardo da Vinci, who came centuries after him. Every school child in Florence learned about him at an early age.

“Then you’ll know that in the Inferno,” Fausto said, “Dante is approached by the Roman poet Virgil, who guides him through Hell and shows him all the horrors therein.