Revelation 21:4

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death,

neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain:

for the former things are passed away.

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     October 22, 1953

Princeton Meadows, NJ

     Underneath the harsh flicker of white fluorescent light, a pale-white, aged man lay dying in a white hospital bed with white sheets, surrounded by white walls, and beneath him, white tiles, reflecting the white fluorescence back into his eyes. Once wizened and piercing and bleeding with authority, his eyes now were half-lidded with agony-induced delirium from the bullet that had buried itself somewhere vital, deep in his chest.

     Around this man crowded many other, often sharply-dressed men, some with grim, stoic looks on their faces, some ruffled and distraught-looking, or perhaps covered in blood, whether it was theirs, or someone else's. Most looked to be of Italian descent, the lot of them swarthy and dark-haired, but among them, if you looked hard enough, there were a few odd men out, underdressed and confused, and different-looking from the rest. There had to have been around twenty people there alone—if you didn't count the people outside the door that couldn't fit—crammed in a two-by-four room all to see this one, particular man.

     Sometimes hospital staff will stand by the door, and when someone attempts to come in, she'll say something along the lines of: "Family members only, sir." Now, if an ordinary man were dying, this rule would be no problem to follow, but this man, judging by the multitude of men inside his room, was not ordinary. Knowing who they were by just looking at them, nobody tried to stop them as they poured in. It would be a wasted effort on their part. Even though they had given up stopping anybody by that point, the hallway outside the door was pretty much clear, the remaining men were scattered about, leaning against walls or standing, smoking anxiously, so a single nurse felt comfortable enough to stand by the door, just because.

     Rising above the hospital ambiance, the soft, steady buzzing of the fluorescent ceiling lights, people speaking hushed to one another, a frantic sound was slowly coming closer. Shoes striking tile. A young boy, looking to be roughly fourteen, sprinted in a panic down the hall in blue jeans and a leather jacket, dark hair all a mess over his wide, frightened eyes, and he skidded to a stop in front of the door, out of breath. The men turned their heads and stared curiously, and the nurse by the door stopped him as he scrambled for the door handle. She took the frenetic child aside.

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     "Are you famil-"

     "Yes," he cried, panting, "I'm his son, ma'am!"

     Taken aback, the nurse stepped willingly out of his way and gestured for him to go inside.

     The boy swung the door open with the strength of a grown man, almost hitting the people standing beside it, and threaded quickly through the crowd of men, who, knowing the boy was the son of their dying leader they came to see, cleared the way out of respect. The room had gone dead silent when the boy walked slowly over to the hospital bed and kneeled down next to it, lowering his head and crossing himself, from forehead to chest, left side to right side. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

     While the boy shut his eyes tight and clasped his hands in prayer, the man's eyes became somewhat alive, and he looked down at his son, a weak smile lifting one side of his mouth.

     "Good boy," he rasped, and he reached out to ruffle his son's hair. The young man, hands still clasped, peered up at him tearfully, and his praying hands broke away to hold his father's outstretched one.

     "Papa," the boy said, voice shaking.

     The man leaned closer, took the hand that his son wasn't gripping for dear life and cupped the side of his face.

     "I know, cucciolo, I know," he said, wiping away his son's tears with his thumb. "Shush."

     "No—no, I wanna get who did it, I'll get-"

     "I said, shush... chiudi la bocca, I need to talk to you, son."

     Chiudi la bocca. Shut your mouth, and so he did, lips trembling. His father looked off absently, somewhere behind him, then he spoke quietly, as if he was divulging a secret.

     "I want you to take over...but you're young, too young. You're still a baby, you know, but you're smart, and, and..." he trailed off, blinking, heavy-lidded.

     "Papa," the boy said, shaking his father out of a stupor.

     "Yes, mmm, Gustavo... he's turning eighteen, what...next month?"

     "That's right," he choked, "the thirteenth."

     "Until you turn, say...how about... twenty-one, Gustavo...wonder where the hell he is right about now...I get shot and he doesn't bat an eyelash...buona a nulla, he is...your brother, Gustavo...he...he's going to be boss. "

     ...

     "Twenty-one?"

     The boy's father patted his cheek affectionately and muttered, "You're a good kid, you're patient...that's good...for a boss, you know..."

     For a moment, he closed his eyes, and the hand on the boy's cheek limply drifted down his neck and off his shoulder, then onto his own lap. His breathing didn't sound right.

    "What's the man sayin', kid?" implored a voice from the back of the room.

     He heard what the voice was asking, but ignored the question.

     "Papa," the boy said, shaking him again. "Papa, can you hear me? Pa."

     He let out an odd, gurgling wheeze, and his eyes shot back open.

     "Does...does your mother know? You... you gotta tell 'er for me..."

     The boy opened his mouth to speak, but before he could respond, his father nodded off again, and let out a final, thin breath, went still.

     "Papa," the boy said, this time to himself. He put his fingers to his father's wrist, waited, and then turned toward the men that had begun to tightly crowd around the bed with a look that said:

     "He's gone."