28. ANTONIO
ANTONIO
I had spent days trapped in my own head, questions circling like vultures. Was Joey really in the mafia? And if he was—did Ma know? Or was she too caught up in his swagger to see him for who he really was?
No matter how hard I tried to piece it together, the answers slipped through my fingers, leaving me with nothing but a pounding headache and more questions. But I couldn’t let it go. Not until I knew the truth.
I stood inside Mr. Russo’s small newspaper shop, waiting to head out on my morning paper route. The air smelled faintly of newsprint and fresh coffee, as it did every morning. Behind the counter, Mr. Russo was busy sorting through stacks of newspapers, organizing them for everyone’s routes.
I shuffled my feet, my nerves getting the better of me. The question I’d been dying to ask was burning a hole in my brain, but part of me wondered if I should keep it to myself. The longer I waited, the more the silence suffocated me. As I fidgeted with a newspaper, I finally asked, “Mr. Russo, can I ask you something? ”
He didn’t even look up from what he was doing, stacking and sorting the morning papers with practiced efficiency. “You can, but make it quick. I’ve got things to do, and you’ve got papers to deliver.”
I swallowed hard, my nerves threatening to choke me. “Do you think the mafia is real?”
That got his attention. He paused mid-motion, his hands still on the papers, and turned to glare at me. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto mine. “What kind of question is that? Where you gettin’ these ideas from, kid?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. I just hear stuff, you know. People talk. Plus, it’s always on the front page of the papers.”
He snorted and shook his head. “No. Ain’t no mafia. Just a bunch of shit people tell to scare kids like you into behaving. Now, hand me that stack of newspapers,” he said, nodding toward the pile at the end of the counter.
I grabbed the stack and brought it over, but the question still burned in the back of my mind. I couldn’t let it go. “Then why do people call Joey The Shark ? They say he’s?—”
“Enough!” he snapped, cutting me off. His voice was sharper now, clearly angry. “Joey’s just a guy trying to live his life. He’s brought Staten Island to the height it’s at right now! You’re Italian! This is stereotypical hate being plastered by those who don’t want men like Joey to succeed! People like to run their mouths when they don’t know nothin’. Joey’s the best goddamn thing Staten Island’s ever seen, you hear me?”
“But the papers?—”
He pointed a finger at me. “Stop reading the goddamn papers, Antonio. Half of it’s lies, the other half’s trouble. You’d do well to leave it alone, you hear me, boy? You deliver the damn papers—you don’t read ’em! That ain’t your job! They got proofreaders in the city! You’re a paperboy, so deliver the papers! It takes me long enough to pack them up for you! ”
Frustration boiled inside me, but I didn’t dare show it. I just wanted to understand why everyone acted like this. The papers and the news claimed there was a mafia, but everyone I knew who might be connected swore it wasn’t real. Why did people clam up or get angry when you said the word “mafia” in this town?
“But why can’t we talk about it? If it’s not real, then?—”
Mr. Russo leaned onto the counter. “Kid, there are things you don’t stick your nose into. Things that ain’t your business. Joey’s a good man, and that’s all you need to know. Now, if I hear you bring this up again, we’re gonna have a problem. I’ll have to dock your pay or, worse—fire you. And you’re a damn good paperboy. I don’t wanna do that, but you keep pushing, and you’ll leave me no choice. You got it?”
I nodded reluctantly, knowing this wasn’t the end for me. “Yeah. I got it.”
I slung the bag of newspapers over my shoulder, adjusting the weight as Mr. Russo straightened up and muttered to himself, loud enough for me to hear, “Kids these days. I tell ya.”
I didn’t respond. I just pushed open the door and stepped out into the smug morning air. But as I hopped onto my bike, I knew one thing for sure—this was far from over. Someone was going to have to explain why the newspapers were printing this.
After that talk with Mr. Russo, I wished I’d just let it go. All the mafia rumors, the questions—perhaps were better left alone. But I couldn’t help myself. Curiosity got the better of me, and I started asking a few of the neighbors on my paper route. Just questions here and there, nothing serious—or so I thought.
That morning seemed like any other. The streets were quiet, the air crisp despite it being springtime, and my basket weighed down with newspapers. Then, out of nowhere, a car rolled up beside me, its tires crunching softly against the pavement.
I glanced over—and my stomach dropped. Vincent “Lucky” Accetta .
Oh, fuck.
Everything in me screamed to pedal faster, to bolt and put as much distance as possible between me and the man staring out from the car window. But what was the point? You don’t outrun someone like Vincent Accetta. I knew that much from the papers alone. They called him “Lucky” for a reason—he was a walking miracle, having survived not one, but five assassination attempts.
I gripped the handlebars of my bike tighter, trying not to let my nerves show. My instincts told me one thing for sure: I was in hot water. Boiling fucking water.
“Hey, kid,” he said with a smile that didn’t hold a trace of sincerity. It was fake—like the smile a predator might give before pouncing.
“Uh…hi?” I barely managed to get the word out; my throat felt like it had closed up entirely.
“You got a minute?” he asked casually, like we were old friends.
I looked around, hoping someone—anyone—might be in earshot. But the street was empty, and even if someone was nearby, I doubted anyone would dare cross Vincent “Lucky” Accetta. I gripped the handlebars of my bike tightly. “I—I gotta finish my route. Papers don’t deliver themselves, sir. Mr. Russo will dock my pay if I don’t finish on time.”
“It’ll just take a second.”
I hesitated. My heart thumping like it wanted to escape my chest, but I nodded and reluctantly wheeled my bike to the curb. He stepped out of the car in his nice, tailored suit and polished shoes, starkly contrasting my worn trousers and sneakers. He looked powerful. Dangerous. And someone you didn’t want to mess with.
Before I could think better of it, the words tumbled out of my mouth. “Look, I don’t know anything about anything. If this is about something I said, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?— ”
Vincent raised a hand, cutting me off mid-ramble. “Relax,” he said. “If I wanted trouble, we wouldn’t be talking.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Word around town is you’ve been asking questions,” he continued, “about things that don’t concern you. About people who don’t like being talked about.”
“I wasn’t trying to cause any problems!” I blurted out the words, spilling over each other in my panic. “I just—people talk, and I got curious. I swear, I’ll stop. I’ll keep my mouth shut, sir.”
His eyes narrowed, and something dark gleamed behind them. They reminded me of my father’s eyes—cold, calculating, and full of a darkness you didn’t argue with. I felt small under his gaze, like a mouse caught by a hawk. “That’s smart,” he said. “Curiosity can get people hurt, Antonio. You don’t want to end up in over your head, do you?”
I shook my head so hard I thought it might fall off. “No, sir. I swear, it won’t happen again. I’ll forget all about it. I’ll forget I even heard the word ‘mafia.’”
He chuckled then, but it wasn’t a friendly laugh. It was low and cold, like a predator's sound before it strikes. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, taking his time with the first drag. I could tell he was enjoying how scared I was. Then he exhaled, his eyes on me the entire time. “But—” he started, pausing, “I got a question for you now.”
I tightened my grip on the bike, my palms damp with sweat. “Yes, sir?”
“What’s going on with your mother and Joey?”
The question hit me like a brick. I blinked, completely taken aback. “My ma and Joey?”
Oh, fuck.
His voice turned sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. “Don’t play stupid with me, kid. If you don’t want trouble coming your way—or your mother’s—you’ll tell me what’s going on between her and Joey. Or you’ll leave me no choice.”
Panic washed over me, cold and smothering. My mother was all I had, and I knew I couldn’t let anything happen to her. I stammered out the words, desperate to make him believe me. “Nothing! I swear, sir! Joey’s just been helping us out, that’s all! My mother wouldn’t get involved with someone like Joey—no offense, sir! She doesn’t want any trouble. Please, I’m begging you?—”
He cut me off with a wave. “Calm down. I’m not gonna do anything to you or your mother. Just as long as you do me a favor.”
I nodded so quickly it felt like my head might spin. “Yes, sir. Anything, sir. Whatever you need.”
“Good,” he said, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “Now, go finish your papers, keep quiet, and stay out of grown folks’ business.”
I nodded again. “Yes, sir. Of course.”
His next words sent a shiver down my spine. “This afternoon. The park near your house. You come alone. Don’t tell anyone about this.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there, sir.”
He flashed me a grin before slipping into the driver’s seat of his car. The engine roared to life, a low, menacing growl that sent a chill down my spine. I stood frozen on the curb as the car disappeared down the street, my heart hammering in my chest.
What the hell had I just gotten myself into?
My mind raced with fear and a thousand unanswered questions. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? Why did I have to go poking around, asking things I had no business asking? Now it wasn’t just me I had to worry about—what if something happened to my mother because of my own stupidity?
The weight of it all crashed down on me like a ton of bricks. And the worst part? I couldn’t tell anyone. Not a soul. I couldn’t risk it. The thought of what Vincent might do if I opened my mouth was enough to keep me silent.
I was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.
I stood anxiously at the edge of the park, watching for Vincent. My heart pounded in my chest. I saw his car pull into view. He rolled down the window and gave a casual wave, like we knew each other, his fingers signaling me to get in.
I froze. The last thing I wanted to do was climb into that car, but I knew better than to defy him. I didn’t make the rules—Vincent did, and everyone knew the consequences when you didn’t follow them. The newspaper articles I’d read were full of stories that made your blood run cold. Those who resisted didn’t just disappear; they just ended up in the headlines. The thought of becoming another gruesome tale forced my feet into motion.
“Get in the car, kid,” he barked. I hesitated before opening the passenger side door and slipping into the seat. I couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in my gut, wishing I had told someone what had happened—how Vincent and I were alone in his car—but I hadn’t dared speak. Fear kept me silent.
The moment he started the car, the air thickened with the scent of cigarette smoke. He lit one, taking a long drag before glancing at me sideways. The pack of cigarettes landed in my lap, along with a lighter.
“I’m not allowed to, sir,” I muttered.
He chuckled, an unsettling smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “But you do it anyway, don’t you?”
How did he know that? Was he watching me? The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine .
“Go ahead,” he encouraged, his tone more a command than an offer.
I grabbed a cigarette, lit it with the lighter, and returned it to him. I inhaled the smoke, hoping it would calm the anxiety coursing through my body.
“How close are you to Joey?”
“Close,” I replied.
“Do you see him as a father figure?”
“I guess you could say that.”
Vincent smirked, but it wasn’t a playful one. The kind of smirk made me nervous like he knew something I didn’t—and I was about to find out.
“I wanted to answer the questions you’ve been dying to know,” he said, “The mafia? It’s real.”
The words hit me like a punch. I thought I wanted that confirmation until I was sitting face to face with Vincent, and now I wished I were as blind as everyone else in this godforsaken town. I blinked, my mind scrambling to process what he was saying. I glanced out the window, inhaling a long drag of the cigarette to calm myself. “You mean?—”
He cut me off before I could finish. “It means things around Joey are a lot deeper than he’s letting on. This life always catches up to you. You know why they call me Lucky? ’Cause I’ve been lucky enough for it not to catch up to me, but most guys aren’t as lucky.”
Vincent exhaled a puff of smoke between us. “You want to know how it all works, huh?” His voice lowered. “Let me break it down for you, kid. It’s a game of chess—a game you’ll never escape alive.”
The papers had made it sound like the mafia was just a group of criminals wreaking havoc in the streets of Staten Island, but they never talked about how it actually worked. They never explained why it functioned the way it did .
“What are you saying?” I asked, gathering the courage to speak.
Vincent smirked at me—the kind of smirk that crawled under my skin, sending a chill through me. “I’m saying there’s one way in and one way out. You’ve read the stories in the papers, haven’t you? I’m sure Joey tells you he’s just a hardworking businessman who owns a car wholesale lot—and he is. But that’s not all he does, kid. Whether he admits it to you or not, Joey is in the mafia. And he’s what we call a capo. You know what that is?”
I shook my head. “No, sir.”
“Caporegime,” he corrected. “Capo for short. In simple terms, a lieutenant. Which means Joey runs his own crew. And under him? You’ve got Marco and Paul—what we refer to as his soldiers. They’re the ones doing the real work. The jobs. The collections. The muscle. The heavy lifting. The stuff you don’t read about in the papers.” He took a slow drag of his cigarette. “And beneath them, you’ve got low-level associates trying to prove they’re worthy of moving up the ranks.”
My mind was spinning. “Wait, so Joey’s in charge of people?” I couldn’t help but ask. It was hard to wrap my head around.
What I meant was—Joey, the guy I thought I knew, the one who had been helping us, the guy who took me to a Yankees game, helped me get on the baseball team, and swore up and down he wasn’t involved in the mafia—wasn’t just in the mafia. He was a key player, a capo, giving orders for some of the most vile, heinous crimes I could barely begin to understand. Crimes like murder, kidnapping, gambling, prostitution, and drugs.
Paul and Marco? The same guys who’d fixed the lights that flickered in our house, who’d repaired the electrical unit that sparked, and the guys who’d delivered a brand new car to my mother—they weren’t just good guys doing favors. They were carrying out Joey’s orders—violent, ruthless commands. They were the ones cleaning up the murders he committed. They were the ones beating people up in back alleys.
The realization hit me like a cold slap, shattering everything I thought I knew about Joey. He wasn’t just a businessman, but a criminal mastermind, pulling the strings behind the scenes. And I was sitting there, stunned, realizing I’d been living in the middle of this world without even knowing it. Everything I’d trusted, everything I’d believed in, was all a lie.
“He runs his crew, but he answers to the underboss—which, in this case, is me ,” Vincent explained. “The underboss answers to the boss, Christopher. Alongside Christopher and me is the consigliere, Hector. It’s a chain of command, kid, and we all play our part in it.”
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Christopher—Michael’s grandfather? The sweet old man who always smiled and handed us five bucks when he saw us. He was the boss? And Hector—Michael’s father—he was in on it, too? Then there was Michael, one of my best friends, swearing up and down he didn’t know anything. That had to be bullshit. If Michael was lying, then Enzo had to be lying, too. And if that was the case, how much of my new life had been wrapped in lies?
“So, you run things? You’re higher up than Joey?” I asked, trying to piece the puzzle together.
“That’s right. I’m the underboss. Think of me as the one who keeps the whole operation running smoothly—the planning, the enforcement, the business. Joey’s got his reputation and connections, but I’m the one making sure it all stays in line.”
“So, it’s all organized?” I said, half to him, half to myself. The realization hit like a punch to the gut—an organized crime family operating right out in the open. Right under my nose.
He smirked. “You could say that. We call it la cosa nostra.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “Play the game right, and you get everything—control, money, respect. That’s what it’s all about. ”
Greed.
He paused before adding, “Joey’s part of this life, yeah, but he has his own way of handling things. And I disagree with how he’s been running the show lately.”
“If you’re the underboss, can’t you stop him?” I asked before realizing I might regret saying it.
He chuckled, a dark, knowing laugh. “We’ve got something called le regole—the rules. Break them, and there’s a price to pay, whatever the boss decides. Joey hasn’t crossed the line yet . But I see it coming. The money, the streets, the power—it’s all connected, and Joey’s no saint. Doesn’t matter how smooth he talks or how soft he acts around you. He’ll make decisions you can’t even begin to imagine when push comes to shove. And I’m going to be the one to catch him.” He turned to me, grinning, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “I need you to keep an eye on Joey. All the time. Let me know what he’s up to.”
My eyebrows shot up. “How am I supposed to do that? I’m just a kid, sir.”
Without a word, he pulled the car into park next to a sleek, brand-new Chevrolet Corvette and tossed me the keys. “Those are yours now. I want you to sneak out, follow Joey in this car, and report back to me. Easy .”
“Wait, you want me to spy on him?” My heart raced as I stared at the keys in my hand.
“That’s right,” he said. “I need to know everything—where he goes, who he meets. And listen closely, kid—I also want to know if things between him and your mother get serious. You got that?”
I tightened my grip on the keys and glanced out the window at the car. “And you really think I can do this?”
Vincent leaned back in his seat. “Oh, I’m betting on it.”
His eyes and smile felt like they were sizing me up, like he already knew what I could do before I realized it myself. “You’re smart,” he said. “Follow him without him catching on, and you’ll earn some serious street cred. You’ve got a front-row seat to everything, Antonio. Just make sure you give me the details, yeah? And believe me—there’s more money to be made than what’s sitting in the driver’s seat of that car.”
Money? A new car? It felt like a trap wrapped in an opportunity, but I couldn’t ignore the temptation.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” I said, the words feeling heavy as they left my mouth.