sunday_reveries | "You blow me away"
( You blow me away)
Maybe it was because he was so quiet…He had always been quiet; there was never much for him to say and, anyways, he much preferred to watch…to listen. Or perhaps it was because he was so unassuming with his tall, thin build and his eyeglasses with the purple tint. Whatever the reason, people never paid much attention to Alberto Falcone. From a young age he possessed the unremarkable ability to become little more than a shadow - a fly on the wall; it was a quality that Alberto had come to resent.
He wasn’t like his father.
Carmine Falcone…The Roman…even his name sounded impressive.
He wasn’t even like his siblings.
No. No, Alberto simply was. He was too thin, too soft-spoken, too mild to be taken very seriously. So, instead of becoming involved in “the family business,” Alberto was sent off to school - first to Harvard, and then to Oxford, where he was safe and out of the way. Where there was no nonsensical talk of him becoming a mobster.
Alberto didn’t complain. He kept his upset to himself, buried it deep inside of him and studied hard. But the desire to prove himself to his father and to his family was never far from his thoughts. It ate him from the inside out as he silently observed his father work.
He took a drag from his cigarette. One… His eyes closed as he savored it as if it were a vintage wine. Two… It was hot outside. But, not as hot as the night Johnny Viti got married. Three… He exhaled and opened his eyes before dropping the cigarette to the ground and putting it out with the tip of his black, leather Oxford shoe.
Alberto knew he could help if he were given even half the chance.
He knew he would never be given that chance.
“I’ll simply have to make my own chances,” the Falcone boy mused to no one as he slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers touched cold metal. A .22 pistol…Alberto took comfort in the weight of the firearm in his pocket.
He lifted his face to the sky as he imagined the DA, blown to Hell like John F. Kennedy. His father would have to respect him then. Maybe he would even make Alberto the next in line to head the family. A smile turned on his thin lips.
He patted the gun and removed his hand from his pocket.
“Not now,” he murmured, “but soon.”
Maybe it was because he was so quiet…He had always been quiet; there was never much for him to say and, anyways, he much preferred to watch…to listen. Or perhaps it was because he was so unassuming with his tall, thin build and his eyeglasses with the purple tint. Whatever the reason, people never paid much attention to Alberto Falcone. From a young age he possessed the unremarkable ability to become little more than a shadow - a fly on the wall; it was a quality that Alberto had come to resent.
He wasn’t like his father.
Carmine Falcone…The Roman…even his name sounded impressive.
He wasn’t even like his siblings.
No. No, Alberto simply was. He was too thin, too soft-spoken, too mild to be taken very seriously. So, instead of becoming involved in “the family business,” Alberto was sent off to school - first to Harvard, and then to Oxford, where he was safe and out of the way. Where there was no nonsensical talk of him becoming a mobster.
Alberto didn’t complain. He kept his upset to himself, buried it deep inside of him and studied hard. But the desire to prove himself to his father and to his family was never far from his thoughts. It ate him from the inside out as he silently observed his father work.
He took a drag from his cigarette. One… His eyes closed as he savored it as if it were a vintage wine. Two… It was hot outside. But, not as hot as the night Johnny Viti got married. Three… He exhaled and opened his eyes before dropping the cigarette to the ground and putting it out with the tip of his black, leather Oxford shoe.
Alberto knew he could help if he were given even half the chance.
He knew he would never be given that chance.
“I’ll simply have to make my own chances,” the Falcone boy mused to no one as he slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers touched cold metal. A .22 pistol…Alberto took comfort in the weight of the firearm in his pocket.
He lifted his face to the sky as he imagined the DA, blown to Hell like John F. Kennedy. His father would have to respect him then. Maybe he would even make Alberto the next in line to head the family. A smile turned on his thin lips.
He patted the gun and removed his hand from his pocket.
“Not now,” he murmured, “but soon.”