Mourning in Italy

Prolog

August

"You know, kid, summer is the best season." Crazy Carl closed his eyes, letting the warm sun envelop him. A gentle breeze tousled his unruly hair, carrying the scents of sweat and fresh air. "Except that it gets so hot," he added after taking a swig from his bottle. The liquid was warm, but it felt good. He turned to look at the blonde boy sitting beside him on the weathered wooden fence. The sun cast a golden glow on the boy's smooth face, and his blue eyes stared uncertainly into the distance. "How old are you now? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"almost fifteen," the boy replied softly, almost shyly.

"I've told you so many times not to reveal your age, kid!" Crazy Carl shook his head in disappointment. A mix of concern and frustration flashed in his eyes. Sometimes the boy was just too naive, and that was dangerous. Carl coughed, the raspy sound echoing against the crumbling buildings around them.

"Your cough still doesn't sound any better," the boy observed, worry etched on his face. His brow furrowed as if he were carrying thoughts too heavy for his young heart. Carl waved him off while trying to catch his breath. The heat was suffocating, and he felt the sweat trickling down his back. Just as he was about to respond, he noticed several figures entering the dilapidated grounds. His heart skipped a beat.

"Damn it," he muttered, recognizing Domenico Marini among them. Quickly, Carl turned to the boy, who still sat on the fence, oblivious to the danger. "Joseph, listen carefully: you're going to turn around and get out of here as fast as you can!"

"What's-"

"Don't ask questions. Don't look. If they catch you, at least you can say you didn't see anything, okay? Remember: always mind your own business!" The urgency in Carl's voice left no room for argument. The boy understood the seriousness of the situation; fear widened his eyes. Nodding, he jumped off the fence and took off running, his footsteps echoing on the dusty ground as Carl watched him go, worry etched on his face.

At the same time on another continent, dawn broke with a heavy, oppressive air. The men sat around the table, their breakfast untouched, as one of them burst in, breathless and wide-eyed. "Capo, Amando Marini sta per diventare padre!" ["Boss, Amando Marini is going to be a father!"]

The man at the head of the table narrowed his eyes, a scowl forming on his lips. "E perché dovrei interessarmene? Ce ne sono già troppi." ["And why should I care? There are already too many of them."] He took a slow sip of his coffee, the bitterness mirroring his mood, and regarded the newcomer with cold indifference.

"Il bambino è atteso per aprile, e il battesimo sarà a luglio," the excited man pressed on, ignoring the dark cloud hanging over the room. "Questo significa che tutti i Marini saranno riuniti in un unico posto!" ["The baby is due next April, and the baptism will be in July. That means all the Marinis will be gathered in one place!"]

A tense silence filled the air, and the boss's expression shifted, a flicker of interest mingling with something more sinister. He straightened, his posture shifting from casual to predatory. "Perché sei così sicuro che il battesimo sarà a luglio?" ["Why are you so sure the baptism will be in July?"]

"Perché è l'unico momento in cui gli americani verranno, durante le vacanze estive dei più giovani!" ["Because it's the only time the Americans will come then, during the summer break of the younger ones!"] The urgency in his voice was palpable, but it only heightened the tension.

The boss wiped his mouth with a napkin, his eyes narrowing like a predator calculating its next move. "Quindi abbiamo quasi un anno per prepararci... per un'opportunità." ["So, we have almost a year to prepare... for an opportunity."]

A chilling smile crept across his face as he contemplated the gathering of the Marinis, their numbers, and the potential for chaos. The atmosphere in the room thickened with the weight of unspoken plans, each man aware of what will come.