Gibellina, Sicily - 1879

The Martinis were stranieri - outsiders, in the little Sicilian village of Gibellina. The countryside was desolate, a barren land of death, bathed in blazing pitiless sunlight, a landscape painted by a sadistic artist. In a land where the large estates belonged to the gabelloti, the wealthy landowners, the Martinis had bought a small farm and tried to run it themselves.

The soprintendente had come calling on Giuseppe Martini one day.

"This little farm of yours," he said, "the land is too rocky. You will not be able to make a decent living on it, growing olives and grapes."

"Don't worry about me," Martini said. "I've been farming all my life."

"We're all worried about you," the soprintendente insisted. "Don Vito has some good farmland that he is willing to lease to you."

"I know about Don Vito and his land," Giuseppe Martini snorted. "If I sign a mezzadria with him to farm his land, he will take three fourths of my crops and charge me a hundred percent interest for the seed. I will end up with nothing, like the other fools who deal with him. Tell him I said no, thank you."

"You are making a big mistake, signore. This is dangerous country. Serious accidents can happen here."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Certainly not, signore. I was merely pointing out..."

"Get off my land," Giuseppe Martini said.

The overseer looked at him for a long time, then shook his head sadly. "You are a stubborn man."

Giuseppe Martini's young son, Ivo, said, "Who was that, Papa?"

"He's the overseer for one of the large landowners."

"I don't like him," the young boy said.

"I don't like him either, Ivo."

The following night Giuseppe Martini's crops were set on fire and the few cattle he had disappeared.

That was when Giuseppe Martini made his second mistake. He went to the guardia in the village.

"I demand protection," he said.

The chief of police studied him noncommittally. "That's what we are here for," he said. "What is your problem, signore?"

"Last night Don Vito's men burned my crops and stole my cattle."

"That is a serious charge. Can you prove it?"

"His soprintendente came to me and threatened me."

"Did he tell you they were going to burn your crops and steal your cattle?"

"Of course not," Giuseppe Martini said.

"What did he say to you?"

"He said that I should give up my farm and lease land from Don Vito."

"And you refused?"

"Naturally."

"Signore, Don Vito is a very important man. Do you wish me to arrest him simply because he offered to share his rich farmland with you?"

"I want you to protect me," Giuseppe Martini demanded. "I'm not going to let them drive me off my land."

"Signore, I am most sympathetic. I will certainly see what I can do."

"I would appreciate that."

"Consider it done."

The following afternoon, as young Ivo was returning from town, he saw half a dozen men ride up to his father's farm. They dismounted and went into the house.

A few minutes later Ivo saw his father dragged out to the field.

One of the men took out a gun. "We are going to give you a chance to escape. Run for it."

"No! This is my land! I..."

Ivo watched, terrified, as the man shot at the ground near his father's feet.

"Run!"

Giuseppe Martini started to run.

The campieri got on their horses and began circling Martini, yelling all the while.

Ivo hid, watching in horror at the terrible scene that was unfolding before his eyes.

The mounted men watched the man run across the field, trying to escape. Each time he reached the edge of the dirt road, one of them raced to cut him off and knock him to the ground. The farmer was bleeding and exhausted. He was slowing down.

The campieri decided they had had enough sport. One of them put a rope around the man's neck and dragged him toward the well.

"Why?" he gasped. "What have I done?"

"You went to the guardia. You should not have done that."

The campieri pulled down the victim's trousers, and one of the men took out a knife, while the others held him down.

"Let this be a lesson to you."

The man screamed, "No, please! I'm sorry."

The campiero smiled. "Tell that to your wife."

He reached down, grabbed the man's member, and slashed through it with the knife.

His screams filled the air.

"You won't need this anymore," the captain assured him.

He took the member and stuffed it in the man's mouth. He gagged and spit it out.

The captain looked at the other campieri. "He doesn't like the taste of it."

"Uccidi quel figlio di puttana!"

One of the campieri dismounted from his horse and picked up some heavy stones from the field. He pulled up the victim's bloodied pants and filled his pockets with the stones.

"Up you go." They lifted the man and carried him to the top of the well. "Have a nice trip."

They dumped him into the well.

"That water's going to taste like piss," one of them said.

Another one laughed. "The villagers won't know the difference."

They stayed for a moment, listening to the diminishing sounds and finally the silence, then mounted their horses and rode toward the house.

Ivo Martini stayed in the distance, watching in horror, hidden by the brush. The ten-year-old boy hurried to the well.

He looked down and whispered, "Papa..."

But the well was deep, and he heard nothing.

When the campieri had finished with Giuseppe Martini, they went to find his wife, Maria. She was in the kitchen when they entered.

"Where's my husband?" she demanded.

A grin. "Getting a drink of water."

Two of the men were closing in on her. One of them said, "You're too pretty to be married to an ugly man like that."

"Get out of my house," Maria ordered.

"Is that a way to treat guests?" One of the men reached out and tore her dress. "You're going to be wearing widow's clothes, so you won't need that anymore."

"Animal!"

There was a boiling pot of water on the stove. Maria reached for it and threw it in the man's face.

He screamed in pain. "Fica!" He pulled out his gun and fired at her.

She was dead before she hit the floor.

The captain shouted, "Idiot! First you fuck them, then you shoot them. Come on, let's report back to Don Vito."

Half an hour later they were back at Don Vito's estate.

"We took good care of the husband and wife," the captain reported.

"What about the son?"

The captain looked at Don Vito in surprise. "You didn't say anything about a son."

"Cretino! I said to take care of the family."

"But he's only a boy, Don Vito."

"Boys grow up to be men. Men want their vengeance. Kill him."

"As you say."

Two of the men rode back to the Martini farm.

Ivo was in a state of shock. He had watched both his parents murdered. He was alone in the world with no place to go and no one to turn to. Wait! There was one person to turn to: his father's brother, Nunzio Martini, in Palermo. Ivo knew that he had to move quickly. Don Vito's men would be coming back to kill him. He wondered why they had not done so already. The young boy threw some food into a knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and hurriedly left the farm.

Ivo made his way to the little dirt road that led away from the village, and started walking. Whenever he heard a cart coming, he moved off the road and hid in the trees.

An hour after he had started his journey, he saw a group of campieri riding along the road searching for him. Ivo stayed hidden, motionless until long after they were gone. Then he began walking again. At night, he slept in the orchards and he lived off the fruit from the trees and the vegetables in the fields. He walked for three days.

When he felt he was safe from Don Vito, he approached a small village. An hour later he was in the back of a wagon headed for Palermo.

Ivo reached the house of his uncle in the middle of the night. Nunzio Martini lived in a large, prosperous-looking house on the outskirts of the city. It had a spacious balcony, terraces, and a courtyard. Ivo pounded on the front door. There was a long silence, and then a deep voice called out, "Who the hell is it?"

"It's Ivo, Uncle Nunzio."

Moments later Nunzio Martini opened the door. Ivo's uncle was a large middle-aged man with a generous Roman nose and flowing white hair. He was wearing a nightshirt. He looked at the boy in surprise. "Ivo! What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Where are your mother and father?"

"They're dead," Ivo sobbed.

"Dead? Come in, come in."

Ivo stumbled into the house.

"That's terrible news. Was there some kind of an accident?"

Ivo shook his head. "Don Vito had them murdered."

"Murdered? But why?"

"My father refused to lease land from him."

"Ah."

"Why would he have them killed? They never did anything to him."

"It was nothing personal," Nunzio Martini said.

Ivo stared at him. "Nothing personal? I don't understand."

"Everyone knows of Don Vito. He has a reputation. He is an uomo rispettato - a man of respect and power. If he let your father defy him, then others would try to defy him, then others would lose his power. There is nothing that can be done."

The boy was watching him, aghast. "Nothing?"

"Not now, Ivo. Not now. Meanwhile, you look as though you could use a good night's sleep."

In the morning, at breakfast, they talked.

"How would you like to live in this fine house and work for me?" Nunzio Martini was a widower.

"I think I would like that," Ivo said.

"I can use a smart boy like you. And you look strong."

"I am strong," Ivo told him.

"Good."

"What business are you in, Uncle?" Ivo asked.

Nunzio Martini smiled. "I protect people."

The Mafia had sprung up throughout Sicily and other poverty-stricken parts of Italy to protect the people from a ruthless, autocratic government. The Mafia corrected injustices and avenged wrongs, and it finally became so powerful that the government itself feared it, and merchants and farmers paid tribute to it.

Nunzio Martini was the Mafia capo in Palermo. He saw to it that proper tribute was collected and that those who did not pay were punished. Punishment could range from a broken arm or leg to a slow and painful death.

Ivo went to work for his uncle.

For the next fifteen years Palermo was Ivo's school, and his uncle Nunzio was his teacher. Ivo started out as an errand boy, then moved up to collector, and finally became his uncle's trusted lieutenant.

When Ivo was twenty-five years old, he married Carmela, a buxom Sicilian girl, and a year later they had a son, Gian Carlo. Ivo moved his family into their own house. When his uncle died, Ivo took his position and became even more successful and prosperous. But he had some unfinished business to attend to.

One day he said to Carmela, "Start packing up. We're moving to America."

She looked at him in surprise. "Why are we going to America?"

Ivo was not accustomed to being questioned. "Just do as I say. I'm leaving now. I'll be back in two or three days."

"Ivo..."

"Pack."

Three black macchine pulled up in front of the guardia headquarters in Gibellina. The captain, now heavier by thirty pounds, was seated at his desk when the door opened and half a dozen men walked in. They were well dressed and prosperous-looking.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?"

"We have come to help you," Ivo said. "Do you remember me? I'm the son of Giuseppe Martini."

The police captain's eyes widened. "You," he said. "What are you doing here? It is dangerous for you."

"I came because of your teeth."

"My teeth?"

"Yes." Two of Ivo's men closed in on the captain and pinned his arms to his side. "You need dental work. Let me fix them."

Ivo shoved the gun into the chief's mouth and pulled the trigger.

Ivo turned to his companions. "Let's go."

Fifteen minutes later the three automobiles drove up to Don Vito's house. There were two guards outside. They watched the procession curiously. When the cars came to a stop, Ivo got out.

"Good morning. Don Vito's expecting us," he said.

One of the guards frowned. "He didn't say anything about..."

In the next instant the guards were gunned down. The guns were loaded with lupare, cartridges with large leaden balls, a hunter's trick to spread the pellets. The guards were cut to pieces.

Inside the house Don Vito heard the shooting. When he looked out the window and saw what was happening, he quickly crossed to a drawer and pulled out a gun. "Franco!" he called. "Antonio! Quickly!"

There were more sounds of shots from outside.

A voice said, "Don Vito..."

He spun around.

Ivo stood there, a gun in his hand. "Drop your gun."

"I..."

"Drop it."

Don Vito let his gun fall to the floor. "Take whatever you want and get out."

"I don't want anything," Ivo said. "As a matter of fact, I came here because I owe you something."

Don Vito said, "Whatever it is, I'm prepared to forget it."

"I'm not. Do you know who I am?"

"No."

"Ivo Martini."

The old man frowned, trying to remember. He shrugged. "It means nothing to me."

"More than fifteen years ago. Your men killed my mother and father."

"That's terrible," Don Vito exclaimed. "I will have them punished, I'll..."

Ivo reached out and smashed him across his nose with his gun. Blood started pouring out. "This isn't necessary," Don Vito gasped. "I..."

Ivo pulled out a knife. "Take down your trousers."

"Why? You can't..."

Ivo raised the gun. "Take down your trousers."

"No!" It was a scream. "Think about what you're doing. I have sons and brothers. If you harm me, they will track you down and kill you like a dog."

"If they can find me," Ivo said. "Your trousers."

"No."

Ivo shot one of his kneecaps. The old man screamed out in pain.

"Let me help you," Ivo said. He reached out and pulled the old man's trousers down, and then his underwear. "There's not much there, is there? Well, we'll have to do the best we can." He grabbed Don Vito's member and slashed it off with a knife.

Don Vito fainted.

Ivo took the penis and shoved it into the man's mouth. "Sorry I don't have a well to drop you into," Ivo said. As a parting gesture, he shot the old man in the head, then turned and walked out of the house to the car. His friends were waiting for him.

"Let's go."

"He has a large family, Ivo. They'll come after you."

"Let them."

Two days later Ivo, his wife, and son, Gian Carlo, were on a boat to New York.

At the end of the last century the New World was a land of opportunity. New York had a large population of Italians. Many of Ivo's friends had already emigrated to the big city and decided to use their expertise in what they knew best: the protection racket. The Mafia began spreading its tentacles. Ivo anglicized his family name from Martini to Martin and enjoyed an uninterrupted prosperity.

Gian Carlo was a big disappointment to his father. He had no interest in working. When he was twenty-seven, he got an Italian girl pregnant, married her in a quiet and hurried ceremony, and three months later they had a son, Paul.

Ivo had big plans for his grandson. Lawyers were very important in America, and Ivo decided that his grandson should be an attorney. The young boy was ambitious and intelligent, and when he was twenty-two, he was admitted to Harvard Law School. When Paul was graduated, Ivo arranged for him to join a prestigious law firm, and he soon became a partner. Five years later Paul opened his own law firm. By this time Ivo had invested heavily in legitimate businesses, but he still kept his contacts with the Mafia, and his grandson handled his business affairs for him. In 1967, the year Ivo died, Paul married an Italian girl, Nina, and a year later his wife gave birth to twins.

In the seventies Paul was kept busy. His main clients were the unions, and because of that, he was in a position of power. Heads of businesses and industries deferred to him.

One day Paul was having lunch with a client, Bill Rohan, a respected banker who knew nothing of Paul's family background.

"You should join Sunnyvale, my golf club," Bill Rohan said. "You play golf, don't you?"

"Occasionally," Paul said. "When I have time."

"Fine. I'm on the admissions board. Would you like me to put you up for membership?"

"That would be nice."

The following week the board met to discuss new members. Paul Martin's name was brought up.

"I can recommend him," Bill Rohan said. "He's a good man."

John Hammond, another member of the board, said, "He's Italian, isn't he? We don't need any dagos in this club, Bill."

The banker looked at him. "Are you going to blackball him?"

"You're damn right I am."

"Okay, then we'll pass on him. Next..."

The meeting continued.

Two weeks later Paul Martin was having lunch with the banker again. "I've been practicing my golf," Paul joked.

Bill Rohan was embarrassed. "There's been a slight hitch, Paul."

"A hitch?"

"I did propose you for membership. But I'm afraid one of the members of the board blackballed you."

"Oh? Why?"

"Don't take this personally. He's a bigot. He doesn't like Italians."

Paul smiled. "That doesn't bother me, Bill. A lot of people don't like Italians. This Mr..."

"Hammond. John Hammond."

"The meat-packer?"

"Yes. He'll change his mind. I'll talk to him again."

Paul shook his head. "Don't bother. To tell you the truth, I'm really not that crazy about golf anyway."

Six months later, in the middle of July, four Hammond Meat Packing Company refrigerated trucks loaded with pork loins, strip steaks, and pork butts, headed from the packinghouse in Minnesota to supermarkets in Buffalo and New Jersey, pulled off the road. The drivers opened the back doors of the trucks and walked away.

When John Hammond heard the news, he was furious. He called in his manager.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "A million and a half dollars' worth of meat spoiled in the sun. How could that happen?"

"The union called a strike," the supervisor said.

"Without telling us? What are they striking about? More money?"

The supervisor shrugged. "I don't know. They didn't say anything to me. They just walked."

"Tell the local union guy to come in and see me. I'll settle it," Hammond said.

That afternoon the union representative was ushered into Hammond's office.

"Why wasn't I told there was going to be a strike?" Hammond demanded.

The representative said, apologetically, "I didn't know it myself, Mr. Hammond. The men just got mad and walked out. It happened very suddenly."

"You know I've always been a reasonable man to deal with. What is it they want? A raise?"

"No sir. It's soap."

Hammond stared at him. "Did you say soap?"

"That's right. They don't like the soap you're using in their bathrooms. It's too strong."

Hammond could not believe what he was hearing. "The soap was too strong? And that's why I lost a million and a half dollars?"

"Don't blame me," the foreman said. "It's the men."

"Jesus," Hammond said. "I can't believe this. What kind of soap would they like - fairy soap?" He slammed his fist on the desk. "The next time the men have any problem, you come to me first. You hear me?"

"Yes, Mr. Hammond."

"You tell them to get back to work. There will be the best soap money can buy in those washrooms by six o'clock tonight. Is that clear?"

"I'll tell them, Mr. Hammond."

John Hammond sat there for a long time fuming. No wonder this country is going to hell, he thought. Soap!

Two weeks later, at noon on a hot day in August, five Hammond Meat packing trucks on their way to deliver meat to Syracuse and Boston pulled off the road. The drivers opened the back doors of the refrigerated trucks and left.

John Hammond got the news at six o'clock that evening.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he screamed. "Didn't you put in the new soap?"

"I did," his manager said, "the same day you told me to."

"Then what the hell is it this time?"

The manager said helplessly, "I don't know. There haven't been any complaints. No one said a word to me."

"Get the goddamned union representative in here."

At seven o'clock that evening Hammond was talking to the union representative.

"Two million dollars' worth of meat was ruined this afternoon because of your men," Hammond screamed. "Have they gone crazy?"

"Do you want me to tell the president of the union you asked that, Mr. Hammond?"

"No, no," Hammond said quickly. "Look, I've never had any problem with you fellows before. If the men want more money, just come to me and we'll discuss it like reasonable people. How much are they asking for?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"It isn't the money, Mr. Hammond."

"Oh? What is it?"

"Lights."

"Lights?" Hammond thought he had misunderstood him.

"Yes. The men are complaining that the lights in the washrooms are too dim."

John Hammond sat back in his chair, suddenly quiet. "What's going on here?" he asked softly.

"I told you, the men think that..."

"Never mind that crap. What's going on?"

The union representative said, "If I knew, I would tell you."

"Is someone trying to put me out of business? Is that it?"

The union representative was silent.

"All right," John Hammond said. "Give me a name. Who can I talk to?"

"There's a lawyer who might be able to help you. The union uses him a lot. His name is Paul Martin."

"Paul...?" And John Hammond suddenly remembered. "Why, that blackmailing guinea bastard. Get out of here," he yelled. "Out!"

Hammond sat there seething. No one blackmails me. No one.

One week later six more of his refrigerated trucks were abandoned on side roads.

John Hammond arranged a luncheon with Bill Rohan. "I've been thinking about your friend Paul Martin," Hammond said. "I may have been a bit hasty in blackballing him."

"Why, it's very generous of you to say that, John."

"I'll tell you what. You propose him for membership next week and I'll give him my vote."

The following week, when Paul Martin's name came up, he was accepted unanimously by the membership committee.

John Hammond personally put in a call to Paul Martin. "Congratulations, Mr. Martin," he said. "You've just been accepted as a member of Sunnyvale. We're delighted to have you aboard."

"Thank you," Paul said. "I appreciate the call."

John Hammond's next call was to the district attorney's office. He made an appointment to meet him the following week.

On Sunday John Hammond and Bill Rohan were part of a foursome at the club.

"You haven't met Paul Martin yet, have you?" Bill Rohan asked.

John Hammond shook his head. "No. I don't think he's going to be playing a lot of golf. The grand jury is going to be keeping your friend too busy."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm going to give information about him to the district attorney that will certainly interest a grand jury."

Bill Rohan was shocked. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"You bet I do. He's a cockroach, Bill. I'm going to step on him."

The following Monday, on his way to the district attorney's office, John Hammond was killed in a hit-and-run accident. There were no witnesses. The police never found the driver.

Every Sunday after that Paul Martin took his wife and the twins to the Sunnyvale Club for lunch. The buffet there was delicious.

Paul Martin took his marriage vows seriously. For instance, he would never have dreamed of dishonoring his wife by taking her and his mistress to the same restaurant. His marriage was one part of his life; his affairs were another. All of Paul Martin's friends had mistresses. It was part of their accepted life-style. What bothered Martin was to see old men taking out young girls. It was undignified, and Paul Martin placed great value on dignity. He resolved that when he reached the age of sixty, he would stop having mistresses. And on his sixtieth birthday, two years earlier, he had stopped. His wife, Nina, was a good companion to him. That was enough. Dignity.

It was this man to whom Lara Cameron had come to ask for help. Martin had been aware of Lara Cameron by name, but he was stunned by how young and beautiful she was. She was ambitious and angrily independent, and yet she was very feminine. He found himself strongly attracted to her. No, he thought, she's a young girl. I'm an old man. Too old.

When Lara had stormed out of his office on her first visit, Paul Martin sat there for a long time, thinking about her. And then he had picked up the telephone and made a call.

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