I can honestly say that I was far too young to be in that rundown place. Of course, my closest friends and companions were with me there. We listened to each other’s' problems. Songs were sung, stories shared and eventually we learned to laugh away our problems. In this place, there was no judgement, no criticism. The only thing that existed between us was a mutual desire to forget. I would come back again the next day, and these friends will most likely be replaced by total strangers; strangers that will be even closer than the ones I met the night before. The identification I used to get into this bar is fake. I own that. But in a bar, men come to drink until they are someone else, and with that statement I justify my forgery. Dim lighting and the smell of alcohol surrounded me. Behind the main bar, five tables were scattered around the tavern with chairs that did not exactly belong together. However, they were not nearly as mismatched as the people sitting in them. The two men behind me could have been one of the city's crime bosses talking to a local preacher, and yet neither would know. An old pinball machine collected dust in the back corner, and in the other sat an old payphone. A sad building with a cheerful atmosphere, the tavern had played host to all sorts of people from all over the state. I asked Gavin, the owner, for one last round. He reluctantly pulled out another glass as I slapped more cash on the table. The pity in his eyes was palpable as he poured the liquor and slid my drink across the bar with practiced ease. I took a long drought and sighed. Maybe I should not have been drinking with a fake ID at my age, but at least the prospect of my depressing life in an orphanage does not seem so bad when when I am unable to even think clearly. The bottom of the glass in my hand was almost visible, with several empty ones on the bar near me. Groggily, I pulled out my wallet and staggered over the rotating floor, dodging chairs that seemed to jump in my path. I finally reached the payphone at the back of the room. My hand groped behind the machine until I found the small slip of paper I had placed there my third or fourth visit to Gavin's Tavern. Chicken scratch that was unmistakably my handwriting read "Merriam" with seven numbers below it. Too drunk to remember most nights, I always kept her number on the machine. I clumsily dialed the number, my fingers barely to punch one key at a time. Three rings, and then the kindest voice I had ever heard projected from the receiver: "Hello, Merriam's home for boys, this is Mariam speaking." "Hey Mary, it's me, Dan. Can you come pick me up at the library? my, er, friend who dropped me off didn't, ah, didn't come back." My words were slurred, but I tried my best to hide that. She had never suspected that I was ever intoxicated, in fact she probably assumed the way I was acting was a result of my "condition." Eighteen years old with a body of a man twice that age. I would die before I saw my 50th birthday. Talk about depressing. "Of course, Daniel, I'll be there in ten minutes," she replied sweetly. No matter how many times I tried to get her to call me Dan, she could never stop using my full name. Fast as my wobbly legs could carry me, I pushed the door open and walked onto the back roads of the city outskirts. Even on its cleanest days it was still a shady place. I guess urban improvement was not on any local bureaucrat's to-do list. I sat on the steps to the building next door, which was indeed a library. I would never directly lie to the woman that raised me. Honesty is very important to me, which is why I paid the full price for my fake ID. I would never cheat the Cristiano family, not after all they have done for the town. A black station wagon pulled up to the curb. the window rolled down and a rat's nest of long salt and pepper hair stuck out of the driver’s seat. The hair framed two sharp but kind bright green eyes, rosy cheeks, and a warm smile. Wrinkles were beginning to appear at the end of Mariam's eyes and around her mouth. I smiled at her and feigned balance as I carefully walked to the car and let myself in the passenger’s seat. Before I got in, I looked back at the street. The bar's light was still on, and I could see the people inside. Gavin serving drinks, the customers talking, laughing, singing, and a man, standing...alone. He was right at the window of the building, just looking out...at me. A chill went down my spine. "Is everything alright Daniel?" asked Mariam. "You look like you've seen a ghost, darling." "It's fine, Mary," I replied, looking down at her. When I looked back up the man was gone. I did not ever remember seeing him in the tavern with me, but he still looked familiar. One thing was for certain, he was definitely a Cristiano. Maybe it was just the family resemblance to the rest of the men that ran the small town I noticed, but no. There was something about that specific man I recognized, and it made me feel very uncomfortable. Shaking off these feelings, I entered the station wagon and put on my best good-day-down-town smile. The first question she asked was inevitable. How was your day? She was like any mother, from what I had seen at least. I never knew my parents, and never wanted to. They wanted me dead, so as far as they were concerned I was. Merriam always said how it easy it would be to find them. "You're Italian, so based on all statistics they're most likely in this part of the state! Why don't you try to work things out with them?" she always said, and my answer was always the same. "Because I hate them and I always will. It's a natural part of me. I wouldn't give them the time of day, a second glance, or my hand if they were hanging off of a cliff." And she looked at me sadly and nodded. We had routines like this. Every time I got in the car after a day downtown, we had the same conversation. "How was your day Daniel?" "It was good Mary." "Well I'm glad to hear it." "How was yours?" "It was fine, thank you for asking." Then one of us turns the radio on to some cheesy 80s station and we spend the rest of the seven and a half minute drive making fun of the songs. Tonight it was me that turned on the music, but this time we sat in silence. It was strange. These routines we had developed between us were never broken. The last time it happened we both agreed it was a bad feeling that caused neither one of us to even turn on the radio. That was the day a small Camry had rammed into us in a hit-and-run. We pulled up to the orphanage, which was decent sized, and the town's small orphan population allowed all of us to have our own room. It was a seven-story brick building, with Merriam's office on the ground floor, a kitchen and dining room on the first, and hotel-style rooms going all the way up to the top. Rooms facing the road had little balconies with a chair or two on them. I was lucky to get one of those. The Cristiano family had paid for the whole thing years ago as an act of charity to the city. That night as I lay in my bed, during the time of thinking and pondering before one falls asleep, the man at the tavern window was foremost in my thoughts. If a Cristiano had taken interest in me, then there was no telling what was to come. Finally drunken stupor and sheer exhaustion put me to sleep, but the man in the window still invaded my dreams, and in those dreams he was attempting to shoot me. His shadow on the wall next to us loomed over me, but my shadow was that of a newborn baby. I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and dizzying vertigo, along with severe upset stomach. I vomited several times before I was able to come downstairs to breakfast. "Good morning Daniel," Merriam said kindly. Some casual "Morning, Dan"s came from a few of the other boys through sleepy throats and yawns. "What will you be doing today, dear?" Mary asked me. I went to the closet and pulled out my guitar case. "I think I'll be trying to earn some money today," I said holding up my Martin classical guitar with medium gauge nylon strings and a five inch neck with millimeter action in its polished black leather case. I loved it. It took me years mowing lawns and doing every odd and unpleasant job to save enough money for it. Of course I had no money for a teacher, so I would spend hours pouring over internet tutorials and learning tips from anyone I met in the streets that would teach me. I waited at the bus stop for the ten o'clock trip to the small town square. Looking across the street, I noticed a tan trench coat with the collar pulled up around a face covered by the brim of a black fedora. His expensive looking black shoes were polished to a shine and caught the morning light, and what little I could see of his pants were perfectly creased. My heart skipped a beat as I realized without a doubt that this was the man from the bar the night before. Same height, same stance, same look in the one eye I could see. Suddenly the bus pulled up and the man was hidden behind it. I boarded it quickly and went to its window to get a better look at him, but again the man had disappeared. My uneasiness doubled, and I wondered if the mob had some kind of problem with me. If so, perhaps this was not the best town to be in. The family would never do anything obvious in broad daylight though, so I figured the town square was a very safe place to be. The bus completed the short trip in around five minutes, and I exited with only one other passenger. We accidentally bumped into one another on the way out, and he grabbed my shoulder to steady himself. "So sorry about that," he said smiling. He had a hint of an Italian-American accent, which was common here. "Don't worry about it," I replied, and we moved on in separate directions. My pace quickened as I walked excitedly to my usual corner. To my dismay, it was already occupied by a man who seemed to have the same intentions as me. People walked by and dropped coins and dollar bills into a bright wooden cello case. The cello itself was beautifully carved, with ornately cut holes put into the body for acoustics, and brand new gleaming strings. There was not one hair out of place in his equally ornate bow. His fingers up and down the neck in perfect unison with his arm holding the bow, his swayed with the flowing tones and his eyes were closed above a half smile. I walked up to him and tried my best nonchalant. In a tone that was as as synthetically joking as possible, I said, "I believe you're working my corner. Not to worry, this is a square, so by all logic there should be three others." The man, without stopping his playing, smiled at my joke, looked up, and replied: "Of course, I didn't mean to be so rude. I've been waiting for you. We'd make twice as much money if we played a duet. You're amazing, kid, I've heard you play.” “Yeah, that sounds like it would be a lot of fun," I said without question. I had never played with someone else before, and I jumped at the opportunity. "What should we play?" I asked "Anything, I'll try my best to keep up." I sat down and pulled out my guitar, tuned it, and plucked around on the strings absentmindedly. Then I chose a piece from the few I had memorized. The man had still not ceased playing, and I was able to figure out what key he was in. Bach's Prelude in D minor began to sound from my guitar, and I could barely notice the seamless transition in the other man's playing to accommodate the piece I had chosen. He was a very skilled player, his harmonies matched the song perfectly. After what seemed like seconds, the song was over. The man looked at me, and I at him. The faintest hint of a smile passed between us, and he asked me, "Do you mind if I have a sip of that? I'm parched." I stared at him blankly, not understanding. "The flask in your pocket," he continued, gesturing towards me. Sure enough, there was a thin metal flask in my pocket. I had no idea how it had gotten there, I had most likely taken it with me and forgotten about it. "Sure thing," I said, pulling it out and twisting the top off. Before giving it to him, I took a swig of the liquor myself. Warmth spread across my face and I gave a small sigh of pleasure. I then offered it to the other man, but for some strange reason he suddenly declined. Other effects of the drink began to kick in as well, but these I was not used to. My head began to spin. My limbs felt heavy, but I also felt happier. This was either bad alcohol, or the best I had ever tasted. Happiness turned to giddiness, and I loved every second of it. A black car pulled up and stopped in front of the building. The driver rolled the window down and gestured for me to enter. Without thinking, I stood up and entered the backseat with a smile. No word came from the driver as the car pulled off the curb and into the streets. My drunken mind almost put me to sleep in the vehicles comfy seats and smooth ride. Mariam's car was nothing like this. The only thing they had in common was that they were both black, but this was in no way the old station wagon that I was used to being picked up in. Finally my dulled brain pieced everything together. This car was not the right one, and I had know idea where it was taking me, or to whom it would bring me. With that thought, I really did fall asleep against my will. A cold, harsh, blinding light was the first thing I saw as my eyes finally opened. My forehead felt like it was about to split in two. Pain shot through my abdomen. I attempted to lean over to could clutch my stomach, only to find my progress stopped by ropes tied around my chest. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light, I began to take in my surroundings. The chair I was tied to sat in the center of a very large warehouse. Dim lighting tubes went all the way across the high ceiling, parallel to gas pipes and plumbing lines. The walls were covered in graffiti, and were visible all around. One of the spray paint symbols stood out above the others. A gold circle with the image of the black silhouette of a man with gold coins in one hand, and a sword in the other, his head turned towards the coins. The man's feet were standing on top of the dead body of another man. Two words, one above the men and one below them, were written in ominous red letters. I recognized them as the Italian phrase "Tengo Famiglia." I was staring at the crest of the Cristiano family. This place was mob territory, and for some reason they seemed very upset with me. God help me. The warehouse itself was completely empty other than the chair I was sitting in, the lamp pointing at my face, and a table only just too high for me to see what was on top of it. Perhaps it was all designed that way to torture my imagination. Anything could be on that table, or nothing. As I sat for what seemed like hours, my mind kept going back to the table, and what might lie on top of it. A thought suddenly came to my mind. Every single person I had come in contact with outside of the orphanage looked similar. Their facial features all had one special kind of resemblance. Family resemblance. The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. The Cristianos had planned every single part of this day. The man in the bar last night, watching me to make sure I was always in their sights. The man on the bus who had bumped into me, stealthily placing the flask in my pocket. And the man playing the cello, who had pointed out the flask knowing I would not be able to resist. It was drugged. Never had alcohol affected me in that way. Who knows how long they had been watching me. A door creaked open behind me. My heart skipped a beat and then accelerated to a speed that made breathing a chore. I tried to count the number of footsteps walking steadily towards me, but the echoing empty room multiplied the sounds. The roar of hard leather against concrete grew louder and louder. Within seconds that seemed like an eternity, I was surrounded by the men notorious throughout the town; the family to whom the crest on the wall belonged. Then one of the men who was almost indistinguishable from the rest of his cousins, sons, and brothers, walked out and said "Daniel, my boy, it's time we had a talk." Another trench coat, topped by another fedora with priceless pants and shoes protruding out of the bottom stood before me. It seemed as if they had no other options of what to wear. He was an older man with a receding gray hairline. His cheeks had begun to sink in, and stubble grew on his neck and jaw. His eyes were cold blue, like ice. A frozen tundra with no hope of survival within. The speaker was Caprice Cristiano, the leader of the family. I would say "godfather," but he did not treat the people around him like family. It was a business, and everyone knew that sometimes, people got laid off. Permanently. Glad I could be a part of the family reunion, I thought. Caprice began to speak again. "We are very sorry for these methods of getting you here. It was the only way to ensure that our little operation remained unnoticed." "No worries..." my voice trailed off. What was I saying? He made it sound like there was no kidnapping that occurred, that it was just an unorthodox invitation. The fear in my voice was thankfully masked by the nonchalant façade I put forth. The man laughed. "Not scared at all this one, what'd I tell you boys? It really is him!" This statement which made no sense to me, coaxed a few muffled cheers from the trench coats and hats standing around me. "Like father, like son." That got my attention. These men knew my father. If I ever met him...what would I do? Kill him? Welcome him with open arms? Or simply not say anything, and walk away? I just wanted to know what was going on. "Do...do you know my real dad?" I asked. Caprice looked at me and smiled. "When you purchased your fake identification from our most generous family, your name went through our records. I have your birth certificate here." Out of his briefcase he procured a file with several papers inside. He thumbed through until he found the one he was looking for. A gesture from him caused two of the men to cut the tape binding my hands. The leader placed the certificate in my now moveable hands. Daniel Alberto was visible, with the last name covered up by my thumb. I slowly moved it out of the way, and read the name. And read it again, disbelief making me wonder if I had just misread it. But no, there it was, in clear print. First name: Daniel. Middle name: Alberto. And the last name, horrific, powerful, and mine: Cristiano. "Son?" came a voice from the crowd. My head whipped back and forth to find the source of the call, only to see that it came from directly in front of me. Closing his mouth, obviously the man who had just finished speaking, one of the shorter trench coats was looking at me like only a father would. So this was my father, Caprice Cristiano. I thought about how to respond. He interrupted. "Your mama didn't tell me about you, you see. You coulda worked for us, moved up in the ranks. You'd be with us if I knew-" "What makes you think I'd want to be part of your crime ring anyways!?" I blurted out. I knew he would never touch me, they valued "family" above all else, even if it was sick and twisted. "Look son, we've been keeping an eye on you ever since you bought the fake ID. You're smart. A natural business man. We want you to join us so you can eventually replace me. I suppose you are old enough lead the family now, must be some typo on your birthday here, but seeing as how I'm not dead"-he laughed-"it'd be best to wait." I realized that he thought I was a thirty-odd year-old man. It would be best to keep it that way. I never even had time to let what happen next register with me. A small struggle had broken out among the men and and was over before the feeling of cold metal was pressed against my forehead. Caprice was held by his arms by two of his own men, and two more had pistols held to his head. A quick glance up told me a similar weapon was being used likewise on me. One of the men holding the leader's arm spoke up. "Mr. Cristiano, I am very sorry but your time is up. You've been cutting our pay, threatening our families, and you're a heartless murderer. Sometimes it's necessary, but I think you enjoy killing people. It's sick. We've been watchin' this kid and he's the perfect man for the job. And he needs to start right now. He's gonna kill you and run this town. If not, do what you like with him, but know we won't hesitate to pull this trigger. One way or another, we gotta new guy comin' in." Another man pulled out a knife and walked towards me. I closed my eyes as he raised his arm to slice me. Strangely, all I felt was the rush of air from his passing arm. I looked down and saw that the ropes tying me up were cut. When he saw me shivering, he gave me his coat. I stood up and went to the high table. I just had to know what was on it. Confused at first, then scared, I looked at a single revolver. "Take it, Dan," said the man who was speaking before. "It's time you took charge. We know you hate him. He's neglectful, evil, doesn't deserve to live. Go ahead." I could not think of anything to say. There was nothing I could say. I could either kill this man, the one claiming to be my father but had never been a part of my life, or they would "do what they like with me." That statement left far too much to the imagination. Torture? Execution? I realized I would either be walking out of here dead or the wealthiest and most powerful man in the city. Death, however, was not to be taken lightly. This was cold-blooded murder they were asking me to commit. A thought came to my mind suddenly. Once I did this, I would be above the law. The local government, police, they all answer to the mob. I had never used a gun before, but the short range took care of that problem. The men forced Caprice to his knees and handed me the revolver from the table. I pulled back on the hammer like I had seen in the movies, and I stopped once I heard the click of the bullet being put in the chamber. I expected a long wait, some sort of dramatic buildup, but it was a simple twitch of my finger. "You are not my father," I stated coldly and simply to Caprice, and with that statement I justified the shot I fired. Everyone knew where the office of the mafia leader was, so I wasted no time before I walked to it. Caprice's hat had rolled off and landed at my feet. I picked it up and wiped the fleck of blood that had landed on it. With a swish of my coat and placing the hat on my head, I walked out of the warehouse, letting the slam of the door echo behind me.