Omerta - Mario Puzo [14]
“So,” the Don said to Fissolini. “Explain your disrespect.”
Fissolini stood upright and proud. “But the disrespect was not for your person, Excellency. I did not know how important and dear you were to my friends. That fool, Bianco, might have kept me fully informed. Excellency, I have made a mistake and I must pay.” He stopped for a moment and then shouted angrily and scornfully at Bianco, “Stop those men from hammering those nails. I’m going deaf. And you can’t scare me to death before you kill me!”
Fissolini paused again and said to the Don, “Punish me, but spare my men. They followed my orders. They have families. You will destroy an entire village if you kill them.”
“They are responsible men,” Don Aprile said sarcastically. “I would insult them if they did not share your fate.”
At this moment Astorre, even in his child’s mind, realized that they were talking life and death. He whispered, “Uncle, don’t hurt him.” The Don made no sign of having heard.
“Go on,” he said to Fissolini.
Fissolini gave him a questioning look, at once proud and wary. “I will not beg for my life. But those ten men lying there are all in my blood family. If you kill them, you destroy their wives and their children. Three of them are my sons-in-law. They had absolute faith in me. They trusted my judgment. If you let them go, I would make them swear their undying loyalty to you before I die. And they will obey me. That is something, to have ten loyal friends. That is not nothing. I am told you are a great man, but you cannot be truly great if you do not show mercy. You shouldn’t make a habit of it, of course, but just this once.” He smiled at Astorre.
For Don Raymonde Aprile this was a familiar moment, and he was in no doubt as to his decision. He had always distrusted the power of gratitude, and he believed that no one could direct the influence of free will in any man, except by death. He regarded Fissolini impassively and shook his head. Bianco moved forward.
Astorre strode to his uncle and looked him square in the eyes. He had understood everything. He put out his hand to protect Fissolini.
“He didn’t hurt us,” Astorre said. “He just wanted our money.”
The Don smiled and said, “And that’s nothing?”
Astorre said, “But it was a good reason. He wanted the money to feed his family. And I like him. Please, Uncle.”
The Don smiled at him and said, “Bravo.” Then he remained silent for a long time, ignoring Astorre tugging at his hand. And for the first time in many years the Don felt the urge to show mercy.
Bianco’s men had lit up small cigars, very strong, and the smoke wafted through the dawn air carried on the mountain breezes. One of the men came forward and from his hunting jacket took out a fresh cigar and offered it to the Don. With a child’s clarity, Astorre understood this was not only a courtesy but a demonstration of respect. The Don took the cigar, and the man lit it for him within cupped hands.
The Don puffed his cigar slowly and deliberately, then said, “I will not insult you by showing you mercy. But I will offer you a business arrangement. I recognize you had no malice and you showed the utmost regard for my person and the boy. So this is the arrangement. You live. Your comrades live. But for the rest of your lives, you will be at my command.”
Astorre felt an enormous relief, and he smiled at Fissolini. He watched Fissolini kneel to the ground and kiss the Don’s hand. Astorre noticed that the surrounding armed men puffed furiously on their cigars, and even Bianco, grand as a mountain, trembled with pleasure.
Fissolini murmured, “Bless you, Your Excellency.”
The Don put his cigar down on a nearby