Enzo was an older man, wrinkled with time but hardened by age. He had seen men come and go. Such was the way of the mafia. This was their business. There was a time when they ran the entire country. Today, they were scattered like refugees across state lines. The glory days were over, consumed by time and lost in the memory of corpses and cemeteries. This business was very little like the one he had known. Bearzot had no connection to this new world. He was not impressed by it, nor did he dare to criticise it. It was not his place. Even so, he did not know enough. He had no interest. It is a young man's business now, Enzo thought. Too violent. Too hardheaded. Too quick to rash decisions. It was not a time for a thinking man, and even less an old one. 

A little house in Calabria, perhaps, Enzo mused to himself. That might do just fine.