Little Mafia

I faced Jimmy in that dimly lit cellar, the flickering yellow bulb overhead casting crooked shadows on the cold cement walls. My old friend's face was unreadable—same as always. No guilt. No fear. Just those thick glasses and that twitchy little mouth.

"You know why I brought you here?" I asked.

Jimmy shook his head. Nervous. Lying.

I moved behind the desk and gestured for him to sit. He didn’t. Rocco—the new kid, always trying too hard—stepped from the shadows and shoved him down.

“Easy,” I muttered. Rocco had no subtlety. I made a mental note: watch that one.

I must confess, Jimmy’s behavior was starting to unnerve me. The kid couldn’t sit still—kept tugging at his greasy hair, fingers slick with sweat.

“How’s your family?” I asked, softening my voice, trying to ease the tension.

“They’re good,” he stammered. “They’re good.”

“What about your brother?”

“Still in the military.”

I nodded like that mattered, then glanced at Rocco, who was picking his ear.

“For god’s sake,” I muttered. “We’re not animals.”

Rocco blinked, confused, then fished a wrinkled note from his pocket. “Uh, I’m supposed to ask about the numbers.”

I glared. “How many times do I have to say—don’t write things down.”

Still, I turned back to Jimmy. “Look, I’m giving you a chance here. You can trust me. But those numbers don’t add up.”

I reached for the drawer, my hand hovering over the handle. Jimmy’s eyes locked on it, wide and unblinking. The air in the cellar felt heavier now—thick, damp, and close.

“Please, Enzo,” he whispered. “I didn’t do it.”

I slid the gun onto the desk.

Let it sit there.

Heavy. Quiet.

“Business is business,” I said.

Then the stairs creaked.

“Fiorenzo!” came the voice.

I flinched. “Ma! I told you not to call me that! Especially in front of the guys—it’s Enzo!”

The overhead light snapped on, bleaching the room in reality.

She stood at the top of the stairs, hands on hips. “What is this crap?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, slouching.

“Don’t gimme that NOTHING.” She stormed down. “I will not have your little mafia nonsense under my roof. Jimmy, Rocco—home. Now.”

They scrambled. I stayed put.

Her eyes landed on the gun. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I don’t know what you think—”

“Don’t you get smart with me!” she said, raising the back of her hand.

“It’s just a squirt gun,” I mumbled, sliding it toward her. “We were just messin’ around.”

She picked it up, shook her head. “You and that Godfather movie. Every night like clockwork.”

She turned and started stomping up the stairs—then stopped halfway. “Oh—and no more Marlon Brando. No more of those fake mafia accents. I’m taking the VCR.”

Before I could protest, she disappeared the rest of the way, muttering something about therapy and how I was turning into my uncle Sal.

I waited until the furnace kicked on and the coast was clear. Then I reached under the desk and pulled out the real treasure.

The Godfather, hardcover. First edition.

I cracked it open and smirked.

She could take the VCR.

But the Family always finds a way.