Vittorio and a few other guys were playing cards, sitting in the shade of an olive tree in the extensive backyard of Don Paolo's villa. There were a few tables dotted around, some in the shade, some in the sicilian sun. In one of them, Don Paolo was patiently waiting, sipping a glass of wine, his enormous frame snuggled into a handsome oak chair. In the others, bodyguards sat down, playing cards or simply talking to each other, many of them carrying the Lupara, the famous Sicilian shotgun. The village of Don Paolo was something extremely beautiful and pleasing to the eye, a huge two-story building in the center of the land, surrounded by high walls and filled with orchards and gardens all around. A fair takeover by Don Paolo, after many years in charge of the organized crime in Palermo.  

A horn drew everyone's eyes towards the gate. Two of the bodyguards in the guardhouse hurried to open the gate, as Don Paolo was awaiting visitors. Vittorio had a pretty good hand at the time, in the card game, but he still followed with his eye the luxurious black sedan pulling into Don Paolo's property and pulling up next to the house. Three men got out of the car, and two of them came to meet Don Paolo. One of them, a tall man dressed in a beautifully cut suit, seemed to be important. And he certainly was, Vittorio could tell, by the way he was received by Don Paolo. The Don took him affectionately by the arm and led him into the mansion, treating him like a nephew. 

Vittorio Ferrante, or Il Turco, as he was also known, looked back at his colleagues and began to speak, in the Sicilian dialect.

"Who is that man?" he asked, before throwing a card over the table.

"The american, McCreary." The man sitting next to him answered. "He's been doing business with Don Paolo for years. Some american big shot."

Vittorio nodded and they continued the card game. Hours later, the American left the house, again accompanied by Don Paolo, got into his car and left. Don Paolo returned to the interior of his mansion, it was time for his afternoon rest. The bodyguards continued around, taking turns, and when Vittorio's shift ended, in the early evening, he went home.

✻✻✻

Vittorio Ferrante was born and raised in Sicily, outside of Palermo. Of humble origins, he had lost his father very early, in a mob dispute between two local coscas. His father had been a soldier in Don Paolo Moretti's family for many years, and it was natural for Vittorio to follow in his footsteps. In Sicily, for some men, there was no greater honor or other path, at all, than the path of the mafia.

It was in his mob circle that Vittorio got his nickname, Il Turco, mostly because of his looks but also because of his abilities with a knife and the garrotte. A young boy losing his father early was a classic Sicilian tragedy, more common than one would have imagined. Revenge was something Sicilians lived with on a daily basis, and therefore living on such hostile terrain, it was natural that Vittorio would soon become acquainted with the most violent facets of life that many men will never know. In the mob circle, Vittorio learned how to smoke, drink and gamble. How to rob, how to get into women's pants, how to fight. Most importantly, he learned how to take a life and how to live with it.

Men like Vittorio, in Sicily, were referred to as men of respect.

✻✻✻

A wide staircase led towards the baroque church. In front of the church, there was a small square, surrounded by some of the most respectable establishments in Palermo. Vittorio, Il Turco, walked slowly up the stairs, crossing himself in the path, and continued inside. If on the outside it was already a beauty, on the inside it was a spectacle on its own. Extremely decorated with golden ornaments and paintings on the walls, filled with massive wooden benches in front of a marble altar. On the wall behind the altar, a Jesus on the cross looked to the side, so anguished it looked real.

Vittorio quickly spotted the figure of Don Paolo, sitting on a pew in the center of the church. He walked over to him, entering the row behind and kneeling down so that he was very close to the Don. That was a peculiarity of Don Paolo. Some subjects he liked to discuss on sacred ground rather than his house. Perhaps, then, under God's supervision, he would be more likely to obtain eternal forgiveness. They began to speak, in the Sicilian dialect, in a very low tone.

"Don Paolo." Turco said respectfully.

"Vittorio." The Don replied, not looking back, his eyes nailed to the statue of Jesus on the cross instead. Turco waited patiently till Don Paolo started talking again. "I have a very important mission for you, Vittorio. I'm going to send you to America for some time, to help a friend of mine."

Turco remained impassive. The Don made a brief pause before continuing.

"You have seen him in the villa, the other day, haven't you? His name is McCreary and we've been doing business for some time now. He's a good man and he's looking for some of our sicilian blood in his operation. In America. You and a few others are going. America is a good land, or so I've heard. Plenty of opportunities and money to be made. When you come back, you'll come back a rich man, I have no doubt. And our ties with the Americans will be strengthened."

Brief silence again.

"Any questions?"

Vittorio stood up and walked around the pew, standing beside the Don.

"No, Don Paolo. Thank you for the opportunity."

Don Paolo raised his hand and Vittorio took it gently in his own, bent down and kissed the Don's hand.

✻✻✻

The next day, Turco was on a plane, courtesy of the american, McCreary. Don Paolo had given Vittorio and two other good men to the american as a show of friendship. It was normal for Americans to try to recruit Sicilians. Mafia was in their DNA and that's why they were so coveted. The American mafia was somehow more corporate, more organized. The Sicilian mafia was more passionate, traditional, fierce. One complemented the other, and when it did, it was phenomenal.

Vittorio was the perfect candidate and Don Paolo was wise to pick him. Still young, single, no kids. Deceased parents and no siblings. Authentic Sicilian ferocity and a lot of determination to get things done. Cruel when necessary, but also knew how to be peaceful. That was Vittorio. 

The plane landed and Vittorio and the others got off. They were led to a car and then to a building, a few minutes away. Vittorio was already missing the Sicilian atmosphere, the smell of lemon trees, the noise of the little goats. But he was a soldier, somehow, and he felt no remorse about doing his duty.

A tall man came to greet them. It was the man he had seen in Don Paolo's villa. The American. His new boss. Don Paolo had great respect for him, so Vittorio should as well. The man smiled at them and reached out to shake their hands.

"Welcome to Mutiny."