<em>I stared at my father's, Michael_Corleone's, casket. I kept imaging his body leaping up at me; as if the thought of him being dead couldn't possibly be true. Not even two days ago we had been eating dinner at the same table. But then again I had these same thoughts at my mother's funeral a week ago, and my grandfather's three weeks ago. I hadn't shed a tear yet but I knew the second I walked into my empty house and was welcomed with silence I would bawl my eyes out. The war was what killed them all. A few days before my dad was shot he had something about a women, Marietta and a man TR, were about to end the war. But I had no idea what he was talking about. The day my mother was found murdered was when he started losing his grip on sanity. I walked out of the funeral home and a gathering of my father's friends following me, patting me on the back, telling me if I needed anything call them. But the only thing I needed at the moment was to be left alone. I stared up at the sun and begged God to give me my mom and dad back. I started to cry softly and immediatelywiped my eyes when a big black car rolled up. The rear window rolled down and inside sat a man with a viscous look in his eyes. He stared at me, then nodded his head and gave me a flick of his wrist. I didn't return either, I just stared coldly back at him. I knew who he was. My father had spoken of him many times: Sidious.

As he drove away I was certain of one thing: He was my father's murderer. I cant explain how I knew it. I just knew. I stepped down a step and watched the car speed away. I wasn't looking for vengeance. I was looking for closure; a way to know my dad wasn't killed in vain. I walked all the way down the steps and as the car sped down the street, I realized what I had to do. I had to join my father's legacy. I had to start a life of crime. See if what he and mother had been doing this whole time was a good reason to call them bad people. Because deep down I hoped my father had been doing wrong things for the right reasons. I hope there wasnt some sort of sick pleasure they both got out of working with the mafia. As I stood there and realized how I would live the rest of my life, a question came to my mind: Which would be worse, to live as a monster (like my father) or die a good man? Was I to follow my father and live a life of crime, probably get myself killed in the process? Or forget about it all and live a normal life? I stepped into the street and watched as the break lights of the car my father's murderer rode in twinkled away. I smiled as I walked slowly towards home. At home beneath the floorboards below my dad's bed was a suitcase with $500,000 in it, which was more then enough to buy a plane ticket to New York, and in the drawer of the coffee table next to the bed was a M1911 .45 pistol. As I got closer to home I was sure my decision had been made.