"Dig".

Croccifixio knelt down and picked up the shovel that lay
before him. As he got back to his feet he could feel the lupara pressed against
the back of his head. And so he began the task of digging his own grave.

The man standing behind him was obviously connected with the
Sicilian Mafia; that much was obvious. What was also obvious was that one of
these two people were going to die tonight, and at age 15, Cross knew that he
didn't want it to be him.

As he dug he took in his surroundings, or at least
what the kerosene lamp would show him. Cross knew he was in a forest, and at
the most an hours drive from his home city of Palermo. The man who had taken him hostage
was robust and around 40 or 50 years old Cross figured. That was to his
advantage. Being an older man coupled with a fat frame would slow him down some.
Cross would just have to wait for the right moment.

"I'm sorry I've gotta do this kid, but boss's orders. Says
he doesn't want you coming back and avenging the death of your father..."

Cross's
ears pricked as soon as he heard those words. So his father, the one remaining
person in his family had been killed; obviously by a rival crime family. His
father had always told him that this day could possibly come, so he tried to
focus his mind on digging this hole, rather than crying out in the agony of
hearing that his father had been murdered.

What could have been hours passed and the stars shone down
uncaringly as the hole got deeper and deeper. By now Cross's captor had relaxed
the lupara way from his head and it
leaned against a tree by its owner. He noted this and kept digging.

The
hole was around 5 feet deep or so, he guessed. He kept a constant eye on his
captor from through his peripheral vision, until finally he had his chance.

The
fat Mafioso bent his head down and cupped his hands to light his cigarette with
a match. He never saw the shovel swinging towards the back of his leg before it
sliced through his Achilles heal. The Mafioso lay on the ground, writing in
pain, holding his leg trying to stop the bleeding. Cross quickly jumped from
the hole and stood over the top of the man, shovel held high, before finally
bringing it down and slicing through the mans throat, almost decapitating him.

He fell to his knees and sobbed over the lifeless, bloody
body. He sobbed for the loss of his father, for taking another mans life. When
Cross finally collected himself, he assessed the task at hand.

First he went
through the Mafioso's pockets, finding 5 grand and a boat ticket set for America,
sometime the next day. He pocketed the money and the ticket, deciding that that
was the only option since he had a death warrant on his head. Now it was time
to dispose of the body, so he made good use of the hole that he had just dug.

Cross
rolled the body into the grave, and threw his lupara along with the bloody
shovel, before covering it back up with dirt with his bare hands. Finally he
took the car back to Palermo ready to flee to America the
next day.

Weeks later, the boat finally arrived in New York on Croccifixio's 16th
birthday. Cross departed alongside the other passengers and watched as the
comatose were also unloaded. So this was 
it. America.
The land of opportunity.

It was time to start a new life. Unfortunately
however, the job situation was the same as it was in Sicily. You could either join the welfare
lines, or you could take up a life of crime. Cross chose the latter. He began
to steal handbags off of anybody that looked like they had money. The elderly,
the young and adults alike, it didn't matter to him. He eventually made a name
for himself as a ruthless purse snatcher and began to attract the attention of
the police. Ofcourse he didn't have the money to bribe the police so he decided
to buy a flight to Chicago
instead.

A few weeks later whilst he was on a purse snatching spree
Cross spotted a well dressed woman. There was no doubt she was wealthy, so he
took a chance and grabbed her bag. Before he could make his normally quick
getaway she turned around and grabbed his arm.

"You know, when someone does me wrong, I kill them right
then and there if I don't see remorse, or at the very least, fear. You.. I'm
not sure which it is I see in your eyes, but something tells me to let you
slide. I am good at reading people and I think that you could be useful if
given a purpose. The word loyalty even comes to mind, although I am puzzled by
it."

She then punched his broke his nose with the hardest right hook he had
ever felt and threw a business card on his chest as he lay on the ground,
trying to stop the bleeding.

"And the bag was a Hermès "Birkin"- you just
broke the strap on a five figure bag for the contents of lipstick and a pink
pea shooter. Gawd you need some guidance!"

A week later Croccifixio was a petty thief within the Bruiser
crime family, sponsored by Arabella.

His story continues....