Page 67 of Marcello

Buzzcut burst out laughing. “For a second there, I was like, ‘What the FUCK?! He actually did shoot him in the ass!’ I thought you were a dead man for sure – but you pulled it out of the fire at the end.”

“So I passed the tryout?”

“With flying colors, motherfucker. With flying colors.”

Finally, my heart lifted.

Maybe the horrible thing I’d done would be worth it…

And I could finally make sure Mama, Edoardo, and Gemma were safe forever.

We found Lametta waiting for us in a side alley. As soon as he saw me, he snapped, “Where’s my fuckin’ gun?”

“I hid it,” I said coldly. “Just like your boss told me to.”

Buzzcut laughed. Lametta looked even more pissed.

“I can show you where it is,” I continued.

“Did you wipe off the prints before you stashed it?” Buzzcut asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll go get it in a few days.”

“What?!” Lametta yelped in dismay.

“In case the cops are staking out the area,” Buzzcut snapped.

“But – ”

“Stop being a fuckin’ pussy about your gun. We’ve got more important things to do – ”

Buzzcut clapped a heavy, calloused hand on my shoulder.

“ – like welcoming the newest member of our crew.”

I was right: shooting the drug dealer had been worth it.

I was officially in the Camorra.

“What’s your name, bro?” Buzzcut asked.

“Marcello.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to change it.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong with Marcello?”

“Everybody in my crew has a nickname, so we gotta call you something else.”

“Bellillo,” Lametta suggested with a smirk. It was Neapolitan for ‘Pretty Boy.’

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ call him ‘pretty boy,’” Buzzcut snapped. “What are you, a fuckin’ ricchione?”

‘Ricchione’ was Neapolitan for ‘faggot’ – the same as finocchio in Italian.

Lametta went pale. “No, I – ”