Gangster Read Online Free PDF Page B

days away from death, and each time he recovered. For no other reason than to prove them wrong, Mary said with a slight smile.
        Paolino would stop by the ward every morning before work and every night prior to the start of his second job. In the evening, he would bring along his son's favorite meal, hot lentil soup poured over thick slices of Italian bread, and there, faces lit by the soft light of a nightstand lamp, father and son were warmed by good food and each other's company.
        Where do the ships you work on come from, Papa? Angelo asked, his mouth crammed with a large chunk of bread.
        Any place in the world you can think of, Paolino said, holding a spoon close to his son's lips. They arrive every day from Italy, Germany, France, even some countries I've never heard of before. All filled with food and goods from their land. The ships are so heavy that sometimes they barely make it into the harbor.
        Where does all the food go? Angelo asked, his mind alive with images of long lines of hulking cargo ships slowly slipping into port.
        All across the country, Paolino said. Stores, restaurants, shops. It is a large country we are now part of, Angelo. There is plenty of food and work for everyone who wants it.
        Even for us, Papa? Angelo said, scooping out the last of the lentils from the bowl his father held cupped in his hands.
        This country is rilled with people like us, Paolino said, wiping at his son's chin with the folded edge of a cloth napkin. It is a special place for a boy like you. It can grant any wish and take you to places that go beyond any dream.
        Will I be able to work on the big ships when I'm bigger? Angelo asked. Like you do, Papa?
        Even better, little Angelo, Paolino said with a wide smile. One day, you can even own one of the big ships. Be a rich man. Sit back and let others work for you.
        Angelo rested his head against the soft pillow, looked over at his father and smiled. That would be nice, Papa, Angelo said. For both of us.
        Paolino rested the bowl against the side of his chair and leaned over and held the sickly boy in his massive arms, rocking him gently until his eyes closed from the weight of illness and a healthy meal.
       
         *     *     *
       
    AFTER ONE FOUR-MONTH hospital stay, Paolino decided to move Angelo into the downtown apartment and care of Paolino's great-aunt, Josephina, a widow who lived across the hall from the lonely duo. Josephina was a hefty woman, with thick, flabby arms and legs mapped from foot to upper thigh by ridges of swollen veins. She had dark olive eyes hidden under massive curls of black hair tinged with gray, and a quick and easy smile. She was a formidable-looking woman, with a quick-to-surface temper and a ragged scar streaming down both sides of her chin, the result of a decades-old dog bite. But she loved and cared for Angelo and sought to give him the mother's attention the boy clearly lacked though never outwardly craved. She embraced the boy, welcoming him under the shade of her large wings not as a son but as a student. She didn't believe in the evils of the camorra or the mafia, which put her at odds with Angelo's father, Mary said. But how could she believe otherwise? She was the proud wife of a slain crime boss. She respected and held to the traditions of their ways. And she passed those ways down to Angelo.
        Josephina would sit him up in bed, his back against her side, a heavy hand gently stroking his thick hair, and tell him stories about the land where his bloodlines rested. It all began because of the French, she told him one morning, both of them sharing a cup of hot chicken broth. That's what the word mafia means--Morte Alla Francese in Italia. Death to the French in Italy.
        Perche? Angelo would ask, in his half-English, half-Italian way of speaking. Why dead?
        Centuries ago, they came in and took land that did not belong to them,