his mortality every second of his life. No matter. He need not have enemies. But still one must plan. I have made you a majority heir to my banks; you will control them and share the income with my children. And for this reason: Certain interests want to buy my banks, one headed by the consul general of Peru. The federal government continues to investigate me under the RICO laws so they can seize my banks. What a nice piece of business for them. They will find nothing. Now, my instructions to you are never sell the banks. They will be more profitable and powerful as time goes on. In time the past will be forgotten.
“If something unexpected happens, call Mr. Pryor, to assist you as controller. You know him well. He is extremely qualified, and he too profits from the banks. He owes me his loyalty. Also, I will introduce you to Benito Craxxi in Chicago. He is a man of infinite resources and also profits from the banks. He too is trustworthy. Meanwhile, I will give you a macaroni business simply to run and give you a good living. For all this I charge you with the safety and prosperity of my children. It is a harsh world, and I have brought them up as innocents.”
Three years later, Astorre was pondering these words. Time had passed, and it seemed now that his services would not be needed. The Don’s world could not be shattered.
But Nicole was not quite finished with her arguments. “What about the quality of mercy?” she said to her father. “You know, what Christians preach?”
The Don replied without hesitation. “Mercy is a vice, a pretension to powers we do not have. Those who give mercy commit an unpardonable offense to the victim. And that is not our duty here on earth.”
“So you would not want mercy?” Nicole asked.
“Never,” the Don said. “I do not seek it or desire it. If I must, I will accept the punishment for all my sins.”
It was at this dinner that Colonel Valerius Aprile invited his family to attend the confirmation of his twelve-year-old son, in New York City, two months hence. His wife had insisted on a big celebration at her family’s old church. It was in the Don’s newly transformed character to accept this invitation.
A nd so on a cold December Sunday noon, bright with a lemon-colored light, the Aprile family went to Saint Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue, where the brilliant sunshine etched the image of that great cathedral into the streets around it. Don Raymonde Aprile, Valerius and his wife, Marcantonio, anxious for a quick getaway, and Nicole, beautiful in black, watched the cardinal himself, red-hatted and sipping wine, give Communion and administer Heaven’s admonitory ceremonial slap on the cheek.
It was a sweet and mysterious pleasure to see the boys on the brink of puberty, girls ripening into nubility in their white gowns with the red silk scarves draped around, marching down the aisles of the cathedral, stone angels and saints watching over them. Confirming that they would serve God for the rest of their lives. Nicole had tears in her eyes, though she didn’t believe a word the cardinal was saying. She laughed to herself.
Out on the steps of the cathedral, the children shed their robes and showed off their hidden finery. The girls in frail cobwebby white lace dresses, the boys in their dark suits, glaring white shirts, and traditional red neckties knitted at their throats to ward off the Devil.
Don Aprile emerged from the church, Astorre on one side, Marcantonio on the other. The children milled around in a circle, Valerius and his wife proudly holding their son’s gown as a photographer snapped their picture. Don Aprile began to descend the steps alone. He breathed in the air. It was a glorious day; he felt so alive and alert. And when his newly confirmed grandson came over to hug him, he patted his head affectionately and put a huge gold coin in the boy’s palm—the traditional gift on a child’s confirmation day. Then with a generous hand he reached into his
“If something unexpected happens, call Mr. Pryor, to assist you as controller. You know him well. He is extremely qualified, and he too profits from the banks. He owes me his loyalty. Also, I will introduce you to Benito Craxxi in Chicago. He is a man of infinite resources and also profits from the banks. He too is trustworthy. Meanwhile, I will give you a macaroni business simply to run and give you a good living. For all this I charge you with the safety and prosperity of my children. It is a harsh world, and I have brought them up as innocents.”
Three years later, Astorre was pondering these words. Time had passed, and it seemed now that his services would not be needed. The Don’s world could not be shattered.
But Nicole was not quite finished with her arguments. “What about the quality of mercy?” she said to her father. “You know, what Christians preach?”
The Don replied without hesitation. “Mercy is a vice, a pretension to powers we do not have. Those who give mercy commit an unpardonable offense to the victim. And that is not our duty here on earth.”
“So you would not want mercy?” Nicole asked.
“Never,” the Don said. “I do not seek it or desire it. If I must, I will accept the punishment for all my sins.”
It was at this dinner that Colonel Valerius Aprile invited his family to attend the confirmation of his twelve-year-old son, in New York City, two months hence. His wife had insisted on a big celebration at her family’s old church. It was in the Don’s newly transformed character to accept this invitation.
A nd so on a cold December Sunday noon, bright with a lemon-colored light, the Aprile family went to Saint Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue, where the brilliant sunshine etched the image of that great cathedral into the streets around it. Don Raymonde Aprile, Valerius and his wife, Marcantonio, anxious for a quick getaway, and Nicole, beautiful in black, watched the cardinal himself, red-hatted and sipping wine, give Communion and administer Heaven’s admonitory ceremonial slap on the cheek.
It was a sweet and mysterious pleasure to see the boys on the brink of puberty, girls ripening into nubility in their white gowns with the red silk scarves draped around, marching down the aisles of the cathedral, stone angels and saints watching over them. Confirming that they would serve God for the rest of their lives. Nicole had tears in her eyes, though she didn’t believe a word the cardinal was saying. She laughed to herself.
Out on the steps of the cathedral, the children shed their robes and showed off their hidden finery. The girls in frail cobwebby white lace dresses, the boys in their dark suits, glaring white shirts, and traditional red neckties knitted at their throats to ward off the Devil.
Don Aprile emerged from the church, Astorre on one side, Marcantonio on the other. The children milled around in a circle, Valerius and his wife proudly holding their son’s gown as a photographer snapped their picture. Don Aprile began to descend the steps alone. He breathed in the air. It was a glorious day; he felt so alive and alert. And when his newly confirmed grandson came over to hug him, he patted his head affectionately and put a huge gold coin in the boy’s palm—the traditional gift on a child’s confirmation day. Then with a generous hand he reached into his
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