Title: "Cradled in Chaos: A pain in the 'keister' Memoir"

Chapter 1: "Shadowplay Shuffle: Mob's Midnight Mysteria"

Nestled on Fern Street, footscray Melbourne Victoria our abode loomed like a colossal relic from a forgotten era--an ancient sentinel guarding secrets of the Melbourne underworld. Its timeworn window shades, tattered and weather-beaten, would come alive on windy nights, their eerie cacophony echoing through the darkness. The ceaseless chatter of those shades, though vexing, bestowed an unsettling sense of solace, a disquieting reassurance that we were never truly the aged walls of this enigmatic dwelling, concealed behind layers of history, lay secrets and mysteries waiting to be unveiled. An imposing staircase, once regal, now bore the scars of time and neglect, reaching its tragic demise when our family eventually departed. This majestic stairwell, a once-proud centerpiece, ascended towards the front door--a threshold adorned with an unsettling relic. There, nestled on the doorstep, lay a pair of forsaken wedding rings, their presence shrouded in inexplicable house harbored an enigmatic shed, perched aloft its aging rooftop. This structure, unassuming in appearance, concealed secrets of its own--a clandestine party venue that I came to cherish. The allure lay in the fact that partygoers, seeking access to the rooftop revelry or the backyard, were compelled to traverse my room, inadvertently making it the nucleus of these nocturnal my youthful curiosity often drew me into the adult world, there existed a sinister aspect to these late-night soirées. The inebriated merrymakers, driven to heedless excess, would, with alarming regularity, subject me to terrifying ordeals. They would taunt and torment me, dangling my trembling form over the precipice of the shed's rooftop. The cold, stinging gusts of wind clawed at my senses as I teetered on the edge, my heart pounding with dread. The height may not have been considerable, yet to my youthful perception, it felt like a treacherous entire property exuded an aura of unsavory history--an ancient brothel repurposed into something more inscrutable. Clues were scattered like phantoms of the past--those forsaken wedding rings and the majestic yet mournful staircase. Across the desolate road sprawled a lawn bowls field, a stark contrast to the sinister ambiance of our residence. An apple tree, a forlorn sentinel, stood sentinel at the front of the drawn to the dark allure of this place, I would roll apples along the road, their impending doom inevitable as they met the unforgiving metal of passing cars. An eerie satisfaction enveloped me, an unsettling resonance with the shadows that seemed to dominate our lives. This peculiar pastime was passed down to me by enigmatic mentors, and I continued to indulge until an encounter with an officer of the law. He cast a shadow over my childhood transgressions, admonishing me for my involvement with the enigmatic figures within our retribution, I locked this eerie secret within the depths of my conscience, an unspoken covenant with the shadows that danced around our unsettling existence. And so, our tale begins with the approach to the old car, an artifact of a bygone era that, like our house, exuded an aura of enigmatic and malevolent midnight hour draped the world in an eerie shroud as the clock's hands etched their way to 11:30 PM. Shadows, like restless spirits, wove intricate and ghostly tapestries around the car. They danced with malevolence, engaged in an eternal waltz, forever competing with the fleeting beams of light cast by passing cars on the main road. Melbourne's once-silent night carried an unsettling chill, biting into our bones as we dared to step into its ominous car door groaned open, echoing a somber invitation into the cryptic depths of the city's streets. Exhausted from the late hour, my eyelids drooped, threatening to surrender me to the clutches of sleep. However, John's voice, a siren in the night, tore me from the brink of words unfurled a chilling narrative--our destination, the market, ruled by the merciless Mafia. The Melbourne underworld. John had regaled me with sinister stories of this place, recounting them upon his return from work. But this night marked my initiation, and the tales he wove painted a dire panorama of the market--a place where individuals vanished into the abyss, where sinister happenings festered, and shadowy deals thrived. I teetered on the precipice between consciousness and dreams as his words reverberated in the cold, still journey led us to the foreboding threshold, marked by a sign bearing the foreboding words, standing for"Melbourne Market, footscray .Wholesaler Fruit and Veg." John's voice deepened with trepidation as he declared, "We're entering hell right now, the gateway to hell itself the down the volume of the radio." Doubt gnawed at the edges of my young mind. Could this be real? As we descended the sloping driveway into the market's depths, John's repeated insistence that we were descending into a veritable hell sent a shiver cascading down my the encroaching darkness, John unearthed a peculiar possession--an old pair of sunglasses. He urged me to don them, promising they would shield me from the impending assault of light. I obeyed, a decision that would later prove providential, for the transition from the car's obscurity to the market's blazing illumination was a harsh shock to my I laughed and questioned the relevance of rules in a realm ruled by the iron fist of the Mafia. John chided me for not possessing high-visibility clothing, stressing its importance as protection against the forklifts' mechanical giants. I cast a furtive glance at my nondescript jumper, far from the prescribed attire, and kept my dissenting thoughts to gaze drifted to the Don's enigmatic vehicle, and an electrifying thought surged through my young mind--what if I could harness the power of the Mafia to reach my estranged father? My mother had always veiled this subject in ambiguity, offering no clear answers. In a market dominated by criminals, my father's past crime--a payroll robbery executed under duress--the mafia being the best criminals could even break him out or they could possibly know him suddenly appeared almost voiced my hunger to John, and he suggested acquiring an apple. Together, we ventured deeper into the bustling heart of the market, passing the pastor petrol pumps and breaching the monumental roller doors that guarded the market's secrets. The market unfolded before us--a bewildering juxtaposition of light and shadow. Yellow lines etched into the ground demarcated safe paths for pedestrians, though the operators of forklifts remained heedless of these 20 meters, a yellow forklift symbol, painted on the ground, competed with the ever-shifting interplay of shadows and dancing we ventured deeper into the foreboding heart of the Melbourne underworld, the eerie atmosphere of the market only intensified. The place seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, as if it were a living, breathing entity, watching our every move with unseen watched in wide-eyed horror as the man lifted the crate, revealing a hidden world beneath it. Coiled within the shadows, a snake, its scales shimmering with an eerie luminescence, lay in wait. Its eyes, two tiny orbs of malevolence, locked onto the man's hand as he reached down. I expected a scream, a frantic retreat, but to my astonishment, the man didn't even bat an an almost casual nonchalance, he simply flicked the snake away with a deft movement of his hand. The serpent, sensing that it had lost the element of surprise, made a hasty retreat into the inky darkness that permeated the market. It slithered away with a speed and grace that sent shivers down my spine, vanishing into the depths of the couldn't fathom it. Why had the snake not struck? Was it afraid of this man, or was there some unspoken understanding between them? Questions swirled in my mind like a turbulent whirlpool, each one more unsettling than the turned to John, my voice trembling as I recounted the surreal encounter with the serpent. His response was a dismissive shrug, as if such occurrences were par for the course in this shadowy realm. He continued to lead me through the market, his steps unwavering, as if oblivious to the eerie underbelly that surrounded market itself was a maze of narrow pathways and dimly lit stalls. Shapes and shadows combined and wove intricate dances that played tricks on my young eyes. It was as if the very air was thick with secrets, and I, an unwitting observer, was caught in the midst of a sinister couldn't shake the feeling that everyone around me, every worker and every passerby, was part of this enigmatic world. Maybe they were all mobsters, like the man who had casually brushed aside the snake. Maybe John himself was part of this hidden tapestry, a thought that sent a chill through my already trembling market's eerie atmosphere pressed down on me like a heavy shroud, and I clung to John like a lifeline. In the flickering lights and shifting shadows, the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred, and I couldn't help but wonder what other horrors lay hidden in the depths of this we continued to navigate the labyrinthine market, I couldn't escape the feeling that I had crossed a threshold into a realm where ordinary rules no longer applied. It was a world where danger and intrigue intertwined, and where the line between predator and prey was eternally Melbourne underworld had opened its arms to me, a child in awe and fear, and I could only hold on tight as it pulled me deeper into its chilling embrace. The mob's midnight mysteria had only just begun, and I was a reluctant participant in this surreal and terrifying journey led us to the enigmatic Don's office, a peculiar enclave amidst the segmented sections of the market. It bore the semblance of a diminutive shack, adorned with a door and a solitary fridge. Adjacent to the door, a curious cutout window, bereft of glass, displayed crates laden with produce. On the rooftop, a chaotic mosaic of market paraphernalia littered the scene, casting eerie and disquieting silhouettes. An archaic bug zapper hung suspended in front of the fridge, sporadically crackling as it vanquished hapless this surreal setting, forklifts roared and John engaged in a conversation with the enigmatic Don. Their exchange delved into the depths of the Don's occupation, and John gleaned invaluable insights. The Don, casting a watchful eye on me, instructed me to remain perched upon an apple crate as he departed on a forklift, its horn blaring a dissonant note. From my vantage point, I watched the forklifts zip by like thundering chariots on a mythical racetrack, while rodents, animals, and even rabbits, bandicoots, and other enigmatic creatures, emerged from the shadows. They darted with reckless abandon, narrowly evading the relentless advance of the forklifts. Occasionally, misfortune befell one of these creatures, meeting a gruesome end beneath the unfeeling wheels of the mechanical I observed this macabre ballet of light

As the night progressed, the lights within the market shed took on a surreal quality, casting eerie shadows that danced with a life of their own. These shadows would occasionally merge, forming larger, more ominous shapes before abruptly parting ways, mirroring the chaotic underworld that thrived in the heart of gaze became transfixed on the bats, their silhouettes weaving intricate patterns through the dimly lit canopy. In that moment, an inexplicable connection blossomed in my mind--a connection between the Don and these nocturnal creatures. I couldn't help but recall the Count from Sesame Street, with his mathematical prowess, and I drew parallels between his enigmatic persona and the Don's own mysterious demeanor, manifested in his speech and bats, like shadowy wraiths, descended upon the feast of bugs that congregated in front of the glaring lights. It was a macabre ballet, the creatures of the night devouring the silhouettes of insects with ruthless efficiency. The eerie communion between bats and shadows seemed symbolic, an eerie reflection of the clandestine dealings within the Melbourne remained seated, entranced by this unsettling spectacle, the enigmatic connection between the mob and these creatures etched in my young mind. It was a connection that would continue to haunt my thoughts in the years to my drowsiness, I felt an undeniable chill. The relentless cold of the night was seeping into my bones, lulling me into a drowsy stupor. It was then that the Don, like a phantom emerging from the shadows, approached me. He gently draped a blanket over my shivering form, providing an unexpected warmth that sent a shiver down my that moment, I couldn't help but reconsider my perceptions of these gangsters. The Don's seemingly small act of kindness cast a different light on his character, and I couldn't deny a growing sense that perhaps, beneath their menacing exterior, these mobsters possessed a flicker of the blanket wrapped around me, I allowed myself to drift into a fitful slumber, my thoughts swirling in the darkness, entwined with shadows and the enigma of the Melbourne underworld

Chapter 2 - : Shadows and Speculations

what's in the boxes

As days inched by, an unrelenting yearning to return to the market gripped me, but the opportunity eluded me this time, snatched by my sister. So, I found myself ensnared in the waiting game, an eternity of restlessness, just another move in my mother's intricate psychological puzzle. Suspicion cloaked me perpetually, and it wasn't unfounded--I often dipped my toes into mischief's shadows. Waiting was no sanctuary; it amplified my fervent desire to converse with the Don. He alone possessed the web of connections required to unveil my father's whereabouts. A mere utterance of my father's name might unfurl the answers I awaited night descended upon us, and John, our reliable driver, dangled his keys before us, each jingle a forbidden symphony. It was around 11:30, the precise hour when John embarked on his nightly sojourn. We melted into the car, dissolving into the obscurity of the night. We navigated the labyrinthine streets of Footscray, steering clear of sinister alleyways and illicit drug havens, opting for a direct route. John's car seemed to undergo a chameleon-like transformation once again, bearing fresh plates--a perpetual cat-and-mouse game with the voyage concluded at the sprawling expanse of the Giant Market Point complex, where forklifts orchestrated a clattering symphony within cavernous sheds. An eerie ambiance permeated the scene as we approached the shed. Here, my thoughts danced with shadows and light, summoning memories of the enigmatic Bathurst race from the distant year of upon an inviting apple crate, my hand reached for the open box of apples. My trusted knife remained absent this time. As John ventured deeper into the market's heart, my thoughts took flight, exploring the enigmatic nexus of God and the mafia. The Bible occasionally alluded to the underworld, notably in its tumultuous temple scenes, kindling my inquisitiveness. Was a clandestine undercurrent concealed beneath the surface? My musings then drifted toward the Three Wise Men, a biblical triad of great import. What if they were the Three Wise Guys, or audaciously, what if the real Jesus child had been clandestinely swapped for an impostor? Could such audacious conjecture reconcile the Bible's intricate tapestry of contradictions, like the elusive Last Supper and the mysterious breaking of bread? In my impressionable mind, wise guys in the underworld equated money to "bread," juxtaposing sanctity and my attention flitted toward a gathering of bats, their wings slashing through the night air as they descended to pilfer fruit. A curious thought emerged--could these winged creatures be the reincarnated foot soldiers of the mob or, perhaps, diligent employees executing their nocturnal tasks within these shadowed confines?

My gaze eventually gravitated back to the Don, inching closer. Eager to announce my presence, I yearned to engage him in conversation, mentioning my father, Michael Kelly. However, much like the transient patterns of the shadows enveloping us, the Don appeared distant and disinterested. Undaunted, I contemplated offering my services, a humble gesture to gain his favor. Just as an advancing forklift cast its ominous silhouette, the Don acknowledged me with a curt nod. I retreated to my crate, clutching onto the hope that this encounter might unlock the mysteries cloaked in shadows that loomed thoughts had been spinning in their own curious orbits when the Don's unexpected presence snapped me back to reality. A gentle tap on my shoulder sent a shiver down my spine, and I turned to find the Don himself standing there, his eyes locked onto mine. "I've got a job for you," he stated, his voice carrying a weight of his outstretched hand, he held an old pocket knife, and I stared at it in bewilderment. It was the very same pocket knife I had left behind earlier when I perched on the Apple crate. I couldn't help but think, "I'm already on it." But it was then that I realized I hadn't been guarding it; I had merely occupied the space. "Guard these Apple crates," he instructed, his words a cryptic he handed me the pocket knife, I couldn't help but feel a rising curiosity about what lay concealed beneath the cloak and shadow of darkness inside those crates. My imagination danced with possibilities, but a flicker of old gangster films echoed in my mind--never peek inside the package. So, despite my burning curiosity, I resolutely kept my gaze fixed ahead, refusing to entertain the idea of prying into the secrets 15 minutes later, as I was transfixed by the gruesome spectacle of bugs meeting their demise in the electrical grid nearby, an unexpected intruder approached the very crate I had been entrusted to protect. With deft movements, they began cutting into the wooden exterior. Shock coursed through me as their actions defied all logic. We were run by the mafia; surely, this place was safe. It never even crossed my mind that anyone would dare to tamper with these seemed to stretch out, almost freezing, as I grappled with my options. If I allowed this intrusion to continue, I would fail in my assigned task. Yet, if I intervened, I would have to use the knife that the Don had given me. It was a chilling thought, but I couldn't ignore the weight of his instructions: "Don't let nobody touch them." It was a command I couldn't disregard, even if it meant facing a daunting doubt and determination warred within me, I clung to the hope that someone would come to my aid before things escalated beyond my control. The Don had entrusted me with this task, and I knew that if I carried it out successfully, it could be my ticket to securing his assistance in my quest to find my I pondered my predicament, it felt like I had to act swiftly, just like how Mum said, "Pull off a Band-Aid quickly." My gaze fell upon the stranger who was methodically slicing into the boxes, revealing mysteries hidden in their shadowed depths. Without a moment's hesitation, I leaped off the crate, determined to grab his attention. My young mind worked in mysterious ways, and I resorted to flailing my arms wildly while emitting strange groaning the ever-shifting dance of light and darkness cast by the passing forklifts, my frantic efforts finally succeeded in drawing the man's gaze. Panic gripped me as I brandished the pocket knife uncontrollably. Fear coursed through me, but it propelled me forward, a relentless force. It was too late to retreat now, and the man attempted to wrest the knife from my grasp. He probably assumed I'd relent once his fingers touched it. But as his hand encroached upon the pocket knife, I lashed out, slashing at his hands. The events that followed are a blur; all I remember is the shock of my the midst of the chaos, the Don intervened, a sudden apparition in the shadows. His expression bore a facade of shock or perhaps well-acted surprise. He swiftly seized the knife from my trembling hand and proceeded to engage in a conversation with the intruder. The Don's words carried an air of comfort, as if soothing a wounded he turned his attention to me, his inquisitive gaze probing. "Why did you do this?" he asked. My response was laden with the innocence of youth and a lack of understanding of the intricacies of the criminal world. "You told me to guard the crate," I stammered, my words serving as an unwitting betrayal of the Don's command. I had not lied to him; he had, after all, asked me to fulfill this Don then walked away with the man, brushing off my remark as if it had never been uttered. They vanished into his office, their voices shrouded in secrecy. But as he departed, the Don gave me a sly wink, a gesture that reassured me. It was a silent pact, an unspoken understanding that I had aligned myself with the Don, not informing John or my unpredictable mother. In that moment, the shadows of my thoughts and the shadows of reality converged, unveiling a fragment of truth in the seedy depths of the mafia Don emerged from his office, accompanied by the mysterious man, their intentions cloaked in a shroud of secrecy. Approaching me, they began conversing, their words and actions designed to obfuscate the unfolding situation. We found ourselves adjacent to the Don's office, a space enclosed, much like the hidden depths of the fruit storage section. They positioned me atop a box, a perch from which I observed this enigmatic the man, his tone laced with a dangerous edge, whispered, "Do you think I should stab him?" It was an audacious statement, dripping with insinuation, but I took it as the jest it was meant to be. He grew increasingly incensed that I laughed instead of taking his words seriously. In a rash move, he lifted my t-shirt, implying that he could stab me in a vulnerable spot, aiming to strike fear into the Don's Don, intervening with wisdom, sought to deescalate the situation. He pointed out how small I was, emphasizing that stabbing me would merely inflict a superficial wound, not the fatal blow that could invoke the Don's wrath. The man reconsidered his hasty plan, realizing its impracticality. With a resigned demeanor, he muttered some words, then abruptly departed. He remained unaware of my true affiliation, believing I was aligned with the Don rather than John, a crucial deception that preserved our he left, the Don patted me on the back and spoke words of approval. However, a hint of reproach lingered in his voice. "You didn't have to snitch on me," he remarked. My gaze met his, a mix of hurt and confusion etched upon my young face. I offered an apology, acknowledging my wrongdoing without fully comprehending the gravity of my Don, ever enigmatic, brushed aside my apology, his laughter trailing off into the shadows as he departed. I couldn't help but wonder if the entire encounter had been orchestrated by the Don himself, a mastermind manipulating the shadows to further his aims. Perhaps he had instructed the man to approach the crates, driven by a motive known only to him. It was a mystery I couldn't decipher, leaving me with more questions than answers, as I ventured deeper into the shadowy world of the 4: "L'Onore nell'Oscurità" (Honor in the Darkness)

((L'onore è più prezioso dell'oro" (Honor is more precious than gold))

Amidst the dimly lit Fern Street residence, an unsettling atmosphere hung in the air. Inside the lounge room, a flickering fire cast eerie shadows across the room, setting the tone for the peculiar gathering. The mingling scent of marijuana and alcohol permeated the space, but I remained inconspicuous, an unnoticed presence in a room of adults immersed in their own dark I observed, a man sporting a Raiders hat engaged me in conversation. The topic of "old school rules" arose, and they explained how these archaic principles were designed to protect women and children in their underworld. I found myself drawn into their tales, my young mind inspired by the notion of using criminal elements for a greater good, filling the void where law enforcement faltered. Though tempted to share my own experiences of childhood disrespect, I chose silence, sensing a moral ambiguity in their scene took an even more ominous turn as the man with the Raiders hat produced a silver package adorned with a scorpion logo. With deft precision, he began cutting a small portion of its contents onto the table--a powdery substance resembling cocaine. My curiosity drew my gaze, but my mother intervened, ushering me out of the room. She warned me of the dangers this substance posed to my nascent the room, I found myself accompanied by the Raiders guy, who handed me a peculiar package--rolled tightly in taléo paper and filled with cocaine. He suggested I "bomb it," mimicking the actions of the adults I had observed. I hesitated, my desire to mimic them warring with the foreboding sense that this act would lead to no good. Still, I relented and indulged, yet the effects remained elusive in my foggy recollections of that fateful the aftermath of that unsettling party night, I found myself in a hushed conversation with my mother. The morning sun's feeble light pierced the curtains, casting eerie shadows across the room. It was a moment of reflection on the drugs that had been nonchalantly dropped onto that ominous table. My mother, in her own world of whispered confidences, referred to the mysterious drug buyer by a name that had been uttered by Don during that enigmatic rendezvous in the shadowy shed guarded by venomous time passed, I found myself returning to that secretive garden shed on more than one occasion. Each time the bag was opened, it revealed the same brick-like contents, reminiscent of the ones adorned with the scorpion logo. My suspicions deepened as I pondered the connection between these bricks and the shady dealings of the a newfound awareness, I confided in my mother, recounting how I had encountered these bricks on multiple trips to the shed, guarded by those sinister serpents. It was then that my mother, burdened by our family's financial woes, suggested that one of those bricks could alleviate our struggles. I couldn't discern whether she meant for me to take it or not, but a fateful decision began to crystallize in my crossroads loomed before me, and I grappled with a moral dilemma. I had pledged unwavering loyalty to Don, declaring myself as the most devoted right hand he could trust. Yet, here I stood, contemplating betraying him for the sake of my family. Old school rules clashed with familial duty, and as I teetered on the precipice of choice, I couldn't help but question whether the Don's trust in me would survive the shadowy dance of my to the Melbourne market sheds, where an eerie backdrop of pallets, boxes, and crates formed an improvised setting. The ambient quietude was broken only by the occasional echo of distant voices. I found myself in the company of the Raiders hat guy and his enigmatic a makeshift table sat a bottle of vodka and a revolver pistol, ominously missing five bullets. They spun the revolver carelessly on the table, its metal surfaces reflecting distorted shadows. The Raiders hat guy, with a sardonic smile, raised it to his temple and pulled the trigger--a reassuring he turned to me and offered the weapon. In a moment of impulsivity, I seized the opportunity and placed the gun to my own head, mirroring his actions. The clicks resonated like macabre music, a surreal dance with the when I attempted to pull the trigger once more, they abruptly intervened, wresting the gun from my grasp. With a chilling blend of affection and malevolence, they pointed the revolver toward the upper corner of the shed. The deafening blast that followed shattered the eerie silence, and in my terror, I lost that moment, as the reverberations of the gunshot hung heavy in the air, I found myself ensnared in a nightmare of my own making--a stark reminder that the shadows of my past held secrets too haunting to after the echoing gunshot, the Don swung around, his presence a looming shadow in the eerie aftermath of the unexpected disruption. He must have heard the shot, and with a commanding air, he interrupted the clandestine gathering. His voice, a deep and gravelly whisper, summoned us to follow we trailed behind the Don as he led us away from that sinister gathering spot. We traversed a short distance to another dimly lit exterior shed. Approaching its twin doors, the Don took charge once more, opening the heavy padlock that guarded them. With a single gesture, he beckoned me to enter the off-fruit bin area, where the snakes stood the obscurity of the shed, my heart pounded with anticipation. I knew I had to act swiftly to avoid detection. Familiarity with the surroundings aided me, guiding my path toward the target. My fingers traced the outline of the package, and my senses sharpened with each passing I opened the bag, my eyes, adjusted to the perpetual twilight, discerned the glimmer of aluminum foil. I attempted to extract a brick from within, but they were tightly compressed, an impenetrable fortress. Panic began to set in as I contemplated my next move in the looming desperation overwhelming reason, I resorted to a brash tactic. Without considering the consequences, I upended the bag, its contents spilling out like snowflakes in a surreal winter scene. The bricks tumbled to the floor, producing a cacophonous clanging, reminiscent of the unsettling sound that had accompanied the drugs' arrival earlier. How could they not hear this commotion? Had they chosen to ignore my actions?

I managed to retrieve a single brick, swiftly concealing it in my pants, but I left some behind in the chaos. My instinct urged me to hastily arrange the remaining bricks within the bag, though my actions were hasty, and my intent less than clandestine. I returned the bag to its place, casting a furtive glance at the Don's feet, hoping he wouldn't notice the disorder I had left behind. The bag's contents, askew and unruly, betrayed my childlike my dismay, the Don's keen eyes didn't miss a beat. His gaze fell upon the disheveled bag, and with an unsettling calmness, he uttered, "È leggero" (It's light), a whisper that seemed to echo in the shadows of the underworld, raising questions of trust and loyalty in their ever-encroaching the dimly lit corridors of the Melbourne markets, the Don, a brooding presence, moved toward the solitary phone. Uncertainty lingered as to whether we would reach it without incident. As we ventured into conversation, an ominous sensation gripped me--the brick hidden in my pants was betraying it slipped through the confines of my clothing, plummeting to the ground and audibly clattering through the shorts I wore. I stood frozen, speechless, as my secret fell to the ground. Panic coursed through me like an electric I snatched up the fallen brick, my heart pounding with each step. A desperate escape unfolded before me, with the Raiders guy and his compatriot in relentless pursuit. Their shadows loomed large in the market's car park as I sprinted, desperately seeking an raced towards the car park's far end, where the imposing "M M" sign marked an uncertain destination. My thoughts swirled in confusion; I didn't even know how to get home. John had driven me here, and the maze of Melbourne's streets was a labyrinth of I reached the precipice of despair, my pursuers closed in, their breath hot on my heels. It was a moment of reckoning, and in a gesture of surrender, I raised my hands, haunted by the realization of my own vulnerability. My knowledge, my very existence, was overshadowed by the grim reality of my and defeated, they led me back to the office, where the Don's inquiry loomed. His voice, like a shadow in the night, probed the depths of my transgression. I laid bare my motives, torn between my loyalty to the woman who had given me life and the newfound connection I had forged with this enigmatic confessed the hardships of my family, the meager meals, and the empty cupboards, where milk often stood as the sole sustenance. The Don, a man shrouded in mystery, weighed my words with a discerning eye. In the shadows of that room, some voices clamored for retribution, for bloodshed. They believed I had betrayed them, and the specter of vengeance the Don chose a path less traveled. Instead of retribution, he invested more deeply in me. In that moment, loyalty and fate collided, casting long shadows that would influence the course of my destiny--an unexpected twist in the chilling narrative of this underworld copy chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Serpent's Gambit - Il Velenoso Reptilio

Growing up, people always told me I had a thing for girls. I can't forget the way they spoke about it, as if it was a spell I cast on them. My mother, with her words always wrapped in a motherly tone, often recounted how I fearlessly approached girls and kissed them, often without any prior introduction. I held no reservations; I was the fearless explorer of playground of choice was the vicinity of Footscray Primary School. Here, on the benches beside the school's sturdy fence, I forged my early friendships with girls. There, the seeds of companionship were sown, and the whispers of childhood secrets filled the day, an adult, perhaps motivated by their own mysterious wisdom, imparted a curious piece of advice. They told me to emulate the existence of a prison inmate, to walk the path of confinement even though I was within the school's bounds. "Cut laps," they urged, as if it were the key to evading the relentless bullies who tormented me. Oddly, their counsel worked like a charm, casting a mystic shield around me. The bullies, like shadowy specters, retreated into the depths of their doubts. The other kids noticed me; it was as if I had harnessed a magical my newfound alliance with the boys who once eluded me, I remained drawn to the girls, my first comrades in this bewildering world. They held a unique allure, and even as popularity among boys beckoned, my heart still gravitated towards those first came the incident that etched itself into my memory. A game among children, innocent yet tinged with mischief, led to a girl's skirt being lifted. She, in a daring manner, urged me to elevate it further. I complied, like an unwitting accomplice in a childish caper. Suddenly, like a thunderstorm on a clear day, the teacher descended upon us, her words striking like lightning. Her sternness forced me to confront the gravity of my actions. Even as I returned to my terrace residence, greeted by approving adult men offering a barrage of congratulatory dead arms and affirmations of "Well done," my mother wore a somber expression. She banished me to my room, a form of silent reproach, and possibly a forward to a different chapter of my life, and we find ourselves in the bustling market. As I stood there, it became evident that the Don had orchestrated an elaborate jest with a Chinese or Vietnamese family. Their daughter was cast in the role of Eve from the timeless tale of Adam and Eve. With her Asian features, raven-black hair, and a pristine white dress adorned with a ribbon in her hair, she exuded an ethereal charm. A tiny brown dot, not a mole but a beauty spot, adorned her cheek. She was the epitome of grace and allure. In my mind, I bestowed upon her the name 'Karma' since her true name eluded me, and I sensed this name would hold significance as our story with an apple in hand, called out to me, mirroring the age-old temptation in the Garden of Eden. The bats fluttered overhead, their dark wings casting eerie shadows that seemed to whisper ancient secrets. My old teddy bear, a steadfast companion, remained firmly clutched in my hand, as if it were a guardian in this enigmatic market enveloped us in a sensory symphony. The air was saturated with the intoxicating aroma of fruits, their sweetness tantalizingly potent. Amidst this olfactory dance, a faint whiff of overripe fruit lingered, teasing the senses with a hint of decay. The shadows, cast by the rhythmic dance of forklifts, assumed identities as varied as the pages of a surreal playbill - the Phantom's Embrace, the Midnight Waltz, and the Dusky hesitation to accept the apple was not born of ignorance but rather an awareness that this was another of the Don's jests. I knew the Don and the families were hidden somewhere in the complex, orchestrating this elaborate charade, perhaps laughing heartily at my expense. In the end, I did take the apple, yet I couldn't bring myself to eat it. There was an undeniable symbolism in that moment, a weight I couldn't ignore. If fate had destined me to eat an apple, it would have been a different one. The destiny of that particular apple remained a mystery, lost in the labyrinthine shadows of the week had passed, and the opportunity to visit the market had presented itself once more. The mere prospect of going filled me with an electric excitement. Stepping into the market was like entering a realm where possibilities knew no bounds. It was a place where I could almost reach out and touch the elusive shadows that wove their intricate tapestry, a dance of silhouettes and shapes that defied was my custom, I perched upon my trusty crate, staking my claim on the familiar spot. From there, I observed the Don as he conducted his rounds, a master orchestrating his clandestine symphony. The buzzing in my veins grew stronger, an unspoken yearning to be a part of this enigmatic by a newfound confidence, I leaped off the crate and approached the Don. With a determination that bordered on audacity, I offered my services. I was willing to work for him, to undertake any task he deemed fit. However, his response caught me off brought up the incident from our previous encounter, the moment when I inadvertently snitched on him. I stammered, pleading ignorance, but he dismissed my concerns. His enigmatic demeanor hinted at a mysterious plan in I pressed on, eager to prove my worth. I mentioned my ability to handle John's job, driving the forklift. I regaled them with stories of how John had taught me during lunch breaks, performing reckless wheelies across the car park where the morning truckloads awaited. Laughter erupted from the Don and his companion, the one in the Raiders cap, an enigmatic figure in his own right. He wasn't an employee but more of an aide, exempt from the obligation to wear the high-visibility clothing that marked the Don's amusement resonated through the market, echoing in the shadows. And then, the Don, with a twinkle in his eye, proposed a daring challenge. There, beside us, sat a forklift, its forks pointing towards a pallet laden with apples, a mere ten meters away. He challenged me to pick up the crate and transport it to another section of the market, a task that appeared deceptively by ambition and a touch of recklessness, I clambered onto the forklift, eager to prove myself. In my haste, I neglected to adjust the forks, leaving them perilously close to the ground. I revved the engine and, with my feet barely reaching the pedals, I lurched forward. The forklift bucked like a wild stallion, and I, standing with my head practically touching the ceiling wheel, clung to the ensued as I lost control from the very start, the forklift careening into the stack of apple crates with a resounding crash. Apples tumbled out of the shattered boxes, littering the floor like fallen soldiers on a chaotic battlefield. My head took a bump as it collided with the steering wheel, but I played it cool, brushing myself off as I dismounted from the market now had a new spectacle: a heap of apples scattered across the floor. But instead of anger or reproach, the Don's laughter echoed through the market. He laughed, hearty and unrestrained, joined by the Raiders cap-wearing companion and a few other onlookers who had witnessed my I glanced at the apples strewn about, I couldn't help but wonder if there was more to this situation than met the eye. The Don had declined my offer to pick up the fallen apples, suggesting that others would handle the cleanup. In this world of shadows and subterfuge, even a mishap like this could serve a clandestine purpose, a layer in the intricate tapestry of money laundering and covert night, like a vast cloak of obsidian, descended upon the market, casting its dominion over all. Dawn lingered on the fringes, a distant promise yet unfulfilled. It was a realm betwixt worlds, and as I stood there, I could feel myself teetering on the precipice of dreams. But then, a presence materialized, emerging from the very shadows that clung to the market's periphery. It was the Don, a figure draped in an air of enigmatic authority, his presence amplified by the man with the Raiders hat who stood beside him. Together, they brought with them an eerie gangster vibe that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the Don's voice, sharp as a dagger's edge, cleaved through the night's stillness, an imperious demand for my attention. "What brings you here? Do you still yearn to work for me?" His words lingered in the air like tendrils of mist. Without a moment's hesitation, I replied, my resolve unwavering, "Of course, I stand ready. What task requires my hand?"

In response, the Don gestured for me to follow, initiating a journey that wove through the labyrinthine market. We traversed alleys veiled in shadow, the very essence of secrecy and intrigue. Our path led us toward the market's outermost fringes, to an exterior shed concealed beyond the confines of the car park. Here, barriers akin to colossal concrete sentinels stood sentinel, fortifications that we nimbly vaulted over. Each leap felt like a dance with the night, evoking the prowess of a seasoned outlaw, all while my Raiders hat-clad companion marveled at my our daring escapade unfolded, I found myself revealing a hidden facet of my identity that sent ripples through the night's tapestry. The Don, his curiosity piqued, delved into my family history, prompting me to disclose that my father bore the name Michael Kelly. I uttered it with reverence, and their reactions mirrored a profound revelation, as though they had glimpsed a spectral figure from days gone Don, in an attempt to connect the dots, mentioned a certain John as my father. With a sly grin, I corrected this misunderstanding, asserting, "I am James Kelly. Michael Kelly is my father." Understanding descended upon them, and I seized the moment to beseech the Don, "Can you help me locate my estranged father?"

Approaching the twin door sheds, our odyssey led us to a cryptic threshold. Here, the Don produced a jingling set of keys, like a sorcerer revealing his arcane implements, and with practiced hands, he removed the heavy padlock barring our way. The gate swung open, granting us shed loomed ahead, a realm veiled in darkness and steeped in the pungent aroma of decaying fruits and vegetables. The scent, a cocktail of spoiled produce, hung in the air, a reminder of the sort of cargo one dare not carry on public transport in Vietnam. Within these shadowed confines, discarded remnants of food created a haunting tableau, where bags and beans intermingled with the ghosts of culinary mission was laid bare before me -- to recover a bag concealed within this sprawling abyss. To reach it, I had to navigate a treacherous path, where broken pallets and bins laden with rotting fruit lay strewn like the wreckage of forgotten dreams. Following in the footsteps of past explorers, I ventured forth, guided by a faint trail. Yet, before I embarked on this perilous journey, the Don issued a chilling warning, one that invoked the very essence of the shadows we spoke of infamous snakes, guardians of these forsaken bags. Their venomous bite was a dire consequence for any who dared to trespass upon this kingdom of discarded delights. It was a treacherous haven, where rats, mice, bandicoots, rabbits, and bats were drawn to the promise of nourishment, only to face the wrath of these serpentine I ventured deeper into the abyss, my senses attuned to the shadows that enveloped me. The bag, a repository brimming with bricks, beckoned, its weight a testament to my commitment. As I shouldered the burden, it felt like an unspoken pact forged in the very heart of the night. With the bag in hand, I retraced my steps through the eerie shed, emerging from its depths like a lone wanderer returning from the abyss. My mission was complete, and I presented the bag to the Don, its contents a mysterious secret held in the palm of my hands

Good copy chapter 2

chapter 5 "La gola E il Guadagro" (greed and gain)

A few days after the unsettling incident, I found myself back at the market, my makeshift home on an old apple crate. As I settled in, a police car roared into the area, swerving recklessly to avoid a forklift. The officer, known as Brady, stepped out and strode towards a nearby dog. Watching from my vantage point, I wondered if the Don would appear, always vigilant in case something went edged closer to where Brady was standing, alongside the Don and a guy sporting a Raiders cap. They were engaged in a tense conversation, and I observed the Don handing over an envelope stuffed with dirty, sweat-stained cash. A reckless idea sparked in my mind – what if I tried to snatch Brady's gun? It seemed like a daring, even humorous act at the tiptoed behind Brady, my heart racing with the thrill of the audacious act I was about to commit. But as I reached for his holster, the Don's sharp gaze met mine, silently conveying a stern warning. It was too late, though; my hand had already extended towards the holster. Brady spun around, his reaction swift and severe. There was no trace of humor in his eyes, only a cold hardness that chilled me to the had misjudged the situation gravely. In my mind, it was a test of loyalty - if I was looking out for the Don, then the Don should be looking out for me, right? But Brady didn't see it that way. Instead, he-chapter 5 "La gola E il Guadagro" (greed and gain)

In the midst of this nocturnal chess game, where every move was calculated and every alliance temporary, I came across an old-timer at the market. He was known for his wit and had a way of distilling life's harsh truths into pithy sayings. One evening, as we watched the forklifts weave their way through the stalls, he leaned in and shared a piece of street wisdom that stuck with me:"You know, ragazzo," he began in his thick Italian accent, "you can't spend money when you're sleeping with the fishes. It's like trying to buy a ticket to heaven with hell's words were a stark reminder of the fleeting nature of wealth in our world. But then he chuckled and added, "But remember, in our line of work, it's better to be a live pauper than a dead king. After all, even the richest man can't enjoy his gold from the bottom of the old-timer's joke was a grim reflection of the life we led – a world where the pursuit of money often led to a dangerous path, one that could abruptly end with you 'sleeping with the was then that the Don, who had been listening quietly, chimed in with his own piece of hard-earned wisdom, his voice carrying the weight of experience: "In questo mondo, per avere potere, prima bisogna avere potere. Il denaro non vale un cazzo. Puoi pulirti il culo con i soldi, ma non puoi pulirti il culo con il potere." Translated, it meant, "In this world, to have power, you must first have power. Money is worthless. You can wipe your ass with money, but you can't wipe your ass with proverb from the Don underscored a fundamental truth in our shadowy existence – true power came not from wealth but from influence and respect. In our underworld, money might open doors, but it was power that kept you alive and dictated your I mulled over these words, I realized that this wasn't just a joke or a proverb. It was a lesson in survival, a deadly serious warning abouthapter 5 "La gola E il Guadagro" (greed and gain)

A few days after the unsettling incident, I found myself back at the market, my makeshift home on an old apple crate. As I settled in, a police car roared into the area, swerving recklessly to avoid a forklift. The officer, known as Brady, stepped out and strode towards a nearby dog. Watching from my vantage point, I wondered if the Don would appear, always vigilant in case something went edged closer to where Brady was standing, alongside the Don and a guy sporting a Raiders cap. They were engaged in a tense conversation, and I observed the Don handing over an envelope stuffed with dirty, sweat-stained cash. A reckless idea sparked in my mind – what if I tried to snatch Brady's gun? It seemed like a daring, even humorous act at the tiptoed behind Brady, my heart racing with the thrill of the audacious act I was about to commit. But as I reached for his holster, the Don's sharp gaze met mine, silently conveying a stern warning. It was too late, though; my hand had already extended towards the holster. Brady spun around, his reaction swift and severe. There was no trace of humor in his eyes, only a cold hardness that chilled me to the had misjudged the situation gravely. In my mind, it was a test of loyalty - if I was looking out for the Don, then the Don should be looking out for me, right? But Brady didn't see it that way. Instead, he-chapter 5 "La gola E il Guadagro" (greed and gain)

In the midst of this nocturnal chess game, where every move was calculated and every alliance temporary, I came across an old-timer at the market. He was known for his wit and had a way of distilling life's harsh truths into pithy sayings. One evening, as we watched the forklifts weave their way through the stalls, he leaned in and shared a piece of street wisdom that stuck with me:"You know, ragazzo," he began in his thick Italian accent, "you can't spend money when you're sleeping with the fishes. It's like trying to buy a ticket to heaven with hell's words were a stark reminder of the fleeting nature of wealth in our world. But then he chuckled and added, "But remember, in our line of work, it's better to be a live pauper than a dead king. After all, even the richest man can't enjoy his gold from the bottom of the old-timer's joke was a grim reflection of the life we led – a world where the pursuit of money often led to a dangerous path, one that could abruptly end with you 'sleeping with the was then that the Don, who had been listening quietly, chimed in with his own piece of hard-earned wisdom, his voice carrying the weight of experience: "In questo mondo, per avere potere, prima bisogna avere potere. Il denaro non vale un cazzo. Puoi pulirti il culo con i soldi, ma non puoi pulirti il culo con il potere." Translated, it meant, "In this world, to have power, you must first have power. Money is worthless. You can wipe your ass with money, but you can't wipe your ass with proverb from the Don underscored a fundamental truth in our shadowy existence – true power came not from wealth but from influence and respect. In our underworld, money might open doors, but it was power that kept you alive and dictated your I mulled over these words, I realized that this wasn't just a joke or a proverb. It was a lesson in survival, a deadly serious warning about the nature of power and the illusion of security that money brings. In the market's hidden corners, power was the ultimate currency,and those who mistook money for real influence often found themselves in narrative of "Shadows and Deals" continued to unfold, with each chapter teaching me more about the delicate balance of power, the transient worth of money, and the unforgiving rules of the game we were all on c, my makeshift home on an old apple crate. As I settled in, a police car roared into the area, swerving recklessly to avoid a forklift. The officer, known as Brady, stepped out and strode towards a nearby don. Watching from my vantage point, I wondered if the Don would appear, always vigilant in case something went edged closer to where Brady was standing, alongside the Don and a guy sporting a Raiders cap. They were engaged in a tense conversation, and I observed the Don handing over an envelope stuffed with dirty, sweat-stained cash. A reckless idea sparked in my mind – what if I tried to snatch Brady's gun? It seemed like a daring, even humorous act at the tiptoed behind Brady, my heart racing with the thrill of the audacious act I was about to commit. But as I reached for his holster, the Don's sharp gaze met mine, silently conveying a stern warning. It was too late, though; my hand had already extended towards the holster. Brady spun around, his reaction swift and severe. There was no trace of humor in his eyes, only a cold hardness that chilled me to the had misjudged the situation gravely. In my mind, it was a test of loyalty - if I was looking out for the Don, then the Don should be looking out for me, right? But Brady didn't see it that way. Instead, he interpreted my action as a direct threat, a breach of the unspoken code of the atmosphere was fraught with tension as Brady stormed off, his police car lights casting a kaleidoscope of red and blue across the market. The shadows seemed to dance menacingly as the light washed over the faces of the workers and bystanders. I couldn't shake off the feeling that I had just crossed a dangerous night progressed, and a truck from Woolworths or Coles pulled up – I could never remember which one it was. The driver, after unloading the fruit, handed over another thick envelope to the Don. It seemed like the sort of payout that Brady had received earlier. I tried to make myself useful, hoping to regain some favor after my recent blunder with the cocaine theft. But the Don's indifferent attitude made it clear that my previous mistake still hung heavily in the in the crew were less forgiving, openly suggesting that I deserved severe punishment for my actions. Their words echoed the harsh reality of our world – age was no shield against retribution in the mob. I was treading on thin ice, and I knew in the Don's office, I sat watching an old TV show, trying to distract myself from the palpable tension. Suddenly, a man who looked like a police officer walked in. He sat down and began discussing the crew's dynamics, his words laced with an air of authority and nonchalance. He laughed off the notion of any real trouble, but his confidence seemed out of place, almost this discussion, I was suddenly asked what I wanted to do you can do anything I know what I've done decision I could have done anything . The question took me by surprise. Here I was, given a rare chance to express my wishes, to make a mark. I scanned the room, my gaze landing on three cups and glasses sitting precariously on the edge of a bench. Seized by a mixture of anxiety and a strange desire to assert my presence, I jumped onto the bench and began kicking the cups and glasses to the sound of shattering glass echoed through the room, mirroring the chaos and confusion in my mind. It was a small act of rebellion, yet it felt significant, cathartic. The Raiders cap guy approached, trying to shove a dummy into my mouth – a humiliating ritual I had always detested. I spat it ou defiantly, my action triggering raucous laughter from the crew. as I spit the dummy

But my moment of defiance was quickly overshadowed by pain. I had forgotten about the broken glass on the floor. As I stepped down from the bench, shards of glass pierced my feet, a sharp reminder of the harsh reality of our world. The man who looked like a police officer rushed to my aid, carefully removing the glass. His unexpected in such a thing questioning the true nature of loyalty and betrayal in our twisted days blended into nights, and nights into more days, I continued to navigate this perilous path, each step teaching me harsh lessons about survival, allegiance, and the intricate dance of power in the shadows of the criminal I delved deeper into the labyrinth of the underworld, my path became intertwined with shadows and secrets. The journey began with the unexpected bequest of a fruit and vegetable market, a symbolic reward for my toils. Childhood memories adorned the market as my personal fiefdom, though it was my family who diligently managed its affairs. Navigating the bustling exchange of goods, my imagination spun tales of authority, unwittingly ensnaring me in the labyrinth of adult machinations. Amidst this charade, I even extended loans, oblivious to the the veneer of innocence, turmoil brewed. Driven by ambition, I relentlessly pursued advancement within the organization, eager to validate my worth. Yet, whispers of a troublesome figure circulated, casting a pall over my aspirations. When the notion of removing this obstacle emerged, my initial fervor transmuted into a consuming fixation, impeding my path forward. The pursuit of power within the mafia's hierarchy had become my sole a trance-like state, my gaze fixated on a toy displayed upon the neighboring store's table, beckoning me with its allure. Desires stirred within me, prompting thoughts of acquisition by any means necessary. As I reached out to claim the coveted prize, the store's owner, Don Swan, swiftly pivoted, discerning my intentions before I could act. I confessed my intent, met with a stern admonition from the wise elder. His words echoed with wisdom, urging me to recognize the resilience and ingenuity of those often marginalized. In that moment, I gained a newfound respect for the tenacity of

those who dared to defy the currency, and those who mistook money for real influence often found themselves in narrative of "Shadows and Deals" continued to unfold, with each chapter teaching me more about the delicate balance of power, the transient worth of money, and the unforgiving rules of the game we were all on c, my makeshift home on an old apple crate. As I settled in, a police car roared into the area, swerving recklessly to avoid a forklift. The officer, known as Brady, stepped out and strode towards a nearby don. Watching from my vantage point, I wondered if the Don would appear, always vigilant in case something went edged closer to where Brady was standing, alongside the Don and a guy sporting a Raiders cap. They were engaged in a tense conversation, and I observed the Don handing over an envelope stuffed with dirty, sweat-stained cash. A reckless idea sparked in my mind – what if I tried to snatch Brady's gun? It seemed like a daring, even humorous act at the tiptoed behind Brady, my heart racing with the thrill of the audacious act I was about to commit. But as I reached for his holster, the Don's sharp gaze met mine, silently conveying a stern warning. It was too late, though; my hand had already extended towards the holster. Brady spun around, his reaction swift and severe. There was no trace of humor in his eyes, only a cold hardness that chilled me to the had misjudged the situation gravely. In my mind, it was a test of loyalty - if I was looking out for the Don, then the Don should be looking out for me, right? But Brady didn't see it that way. Instead, he interpreted my action as a direct threat, a breach of the unspoken code of the atmosphere was fraught with tension as Brady stormed off, his police car lights casting a kaleidoscope of red and blue across the market. The shadows seemed to dance menacingly as the light washed over the faces of the workers and bystanders. I couldn't shake off the feeling that I had just crossed a dangerous night progressed, and a truck from Woolworths or Coles pulled up – I could never remember which one it was. The driver, after unloading the fruit, handed over another thick envelope to the Don. It seemed like the sort of payout that Brady had received earlier. I tried to make myself useful, hoping to regain some favor after my recent blunder with the cocaine theft. But the Don's indifferent attitude made it clear that my previous mistake still hung heavily in the in the crew were less forgiving, openly suggesting that I deserved severe punishment for my actions. Their words echoed the harsh reality of our world – age was no shield against retribution in the mob. I was treading on thin ice, and I knew in the Don's office, I sat watching an old TV show, trying to distract myself from the palpable tension. Suddenly, a man who looked like a police officer walked in. He sat down and began discussing the crew's dynamics, his words laced with an air of authority and nonchalance. He laughed off the notion of any real trouble, but his confidence seemed out of place, almost this discussion, I was suddenly asked what I wanted to do you can do anything I know what I've done decision I could have done anything . The question took me by surprise. Here I was, given a rare chance to express my wishes, to make a mark. I scanned the room, my gaze landing on three cups and glasses sitting precariously on the edge of a bench. Seized by a mixture of anxiety and a strange desire to assert my presence, I jumped onto the bench and began kicking the cups and glasses to the sound of shattering glass echoed through the room, mirroring the chaos and confusion in my mind. It was a small act of rebellion, yet it felt significant, cathartic. The Raiders cap guy approached, trying to shove a dummy into my mouth – a humiliating ritual I had always detested. I spat it ou defiantly, my action triggering raucous laughter from the crew. as I spit the dummy

But my moment of defiance was quickly overshadowed by pain. I had forgotten about the broken glass on the floor. As I stepped down from the bench, shards of glass pierced my feet, a sharp reminder of the harsh reality of our world. The man who looked like a police officer rushed to my aid, carefully removing the glass. His unexpected in such a thing questioning the true nature of loyalty and betrayal in our twisted days blended into nights, and nights into more days, I continued to navigate this perilous path, each step teaching me harsh lessons about survival, allegiance, and the intricate dance of power in the shadows of the criminal I delved deeper into the labyrinth of the underworld, my path became intertwined with shadows and secrets. The journey began with the unexpected bequest of a fruit and vegetable market, a symbolic reward for my toils. Childhood memories adorned the market as my personal fiefdom, though it was my family who diligently managed its affairs. Navigating the bustling exchange of goods, my imagination spun tales of authority, unwittingly ensnaring me in the labyrinth of adult machinations. Amidst this charade, I even extended loans, oblivious to the the veneer of innocence, turmoil brewed. Driven by ambition, I relentlessly pursued advancement within the organization, eager to validate my worth. Yet, whispers of a troublesome figure circulated, casting a pall over my aspirations. When the notion of removing this obstacle emerged, my initial fervor transmuted into a consuming fixation, impeding my path forward. The pursuit of power within the mafia's hierarchy had become my sole a trance-like state, my gaze fixated on a toy displayed upon the neighboring store's table, beckoning me with its allure. Desires stirred within me, prompting thoughts of acquisition by any means necessary. As I reached out to claim the coveted prize, the store's owner, Don Swan, swiftly pivoted, discerning my intentions before I could act. I confessed my intent, met with a stern admonition from the wise elder. His words echoed with wisdom, urging me to recognize the resilience and ingenuity of those often marginalized. In that moment, I gained a newfound respect for the tenacity of

those who dared to defy the 6: .45 or the 9mm

When faced with the choice of two weapons, choose the one that aligns with your my quest to establish myself within the underworld, I sought to ascend as a respected member. I was prepared to execute the perfect crime, eager to prove my worth. As we gathered, shrouded in darkness, discussions veered towards a troublesome individual. Without hesitation, I volunteered. "I'll handle it," I asserted confidently, convinced that my youth would shield me from severe consequences. They questioned my resolve, doubting my sincerity. But to me, it seemed simple--just a matter of aiming, pulling the trigger, and disposing of the ventured to the Kingswood car, the vehicle of choice for our clandestine operation. Nightfall enveloped us as we made our way. Sensing a need to inform my mother of my whereabouts, I insisted on stopping by my house. Despite their reluctance, I was adamant about disclosing my plans to her. With a dismissive attitude, they acquiesced, driving me straight through the rear, I sought out my mother, determined to share my intentions. Her reaction was one of horror and disbelief, but I could sense she didn't fully grasp the gravity of the situation. Despite her disapproval, I persisted, expressing my determination. She relegated me to my room, hoping to dissuade me from my dangerous in my chamber, I contemplated my next move. Ignoring my mother's pleas, I slipped out through the backdoor, rejoining my companions in the waiting vehicle. I Approach the Kingswood car and jumping into it

Welcome my friend. I hope you understand the gravity of the path you're about to tread upon. The world of rent-to-kill murder is not for the faint-hearted. So, let me make it abundantly clear. You are aware that you are willingly stepping into the realm of heinous murder, with vicious intent, specializing in contract killings. This is not a game, but a life-altering decision. Are you prepared to embrace this dark journey, where death lurks around every corner?

As we hit the road, the engine roared to life, drowning out the distant hum of the city. The night air was thick with anticipation, and as the first chords of "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" blasted through the speakers, it felt like a call to action. Cruel and Evil, my companions for the night, exchanged knowing glances as the lyrics echoed through the car. "You're doing a dirty deed, and you're doing it dirt cheap," they sang along, their voices tinged with a hint of tape kept rolling, seamlessly transitioning to "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC. "You're on a Highway to hell, aren't you?" Cruel chuckled, a devilish grin spreading across their face. It was as if the music itself was narrating our journey, each song a soundtrack to the adventures that lay we cruised down the highway, the night enveloped us in its dark embrace. The faint glow of streetlights flickered past, casting eerie shadows on the deserted road. In the dim light of the car, .

And then, as if on cue, the air was filled with the pungent aroma of weed mingled with the sharp tang of cocaine. We leaned back in our seats, the haze of smoke swirling around us like a cloak of secrecy. In that moment, the Kingswood became more than just a mode of transportation--it was a vessel hurtling us toward our own brand of reckoning, our own version of hell on got to the marks house was given an initiation and a choice of guns present to me

Initiate

Initiate: So, this is it. The moment where I take my initiation into this cruel world of darkness, where evil and good intertwine. The name they gave me is a mere label, but it carries with it a weight of responsibility and power. As I stood there, surrounded by the shadows of the underworld, I couldn't help but feel a rush of adrenaline coursing through my Welcome, Initiate. Today, you stand at the crossroads of your destiny. In this path of darkness, you must choose your weapon, for it will become an extension of your very being. Here, I present to you two guns, both forged in the fires of chaos and destruction. One represents the cruelty that resides within you, capable of inflicting unimaginable pain. The other symbolizes the flicker of goodness that still exists, a glimmer of hope amidst the (Examining the guns) It's a difficult choice. Each gun whispers its own temptation, promising power and control. But something inside me hesitates. The paranoia creeps in, making me question my own motives and the loyalty of those around Ah, the House of Light. A proverb from the depths of Lucifer's realm. "Luce e ombra danzano insieme," as they say in Italian. Light and shadow dance together, entwined in an eternal embrace. It reminds us that within darkness, there is always a flicker of light, and within light, there is always a trace of (Choosing both guns) I will take them both, Boss. Unarmed, they will serve as a constant reminder of the duality within me. An embodiment of the paranoia that gnaws at my core. For in this world of treachery, I must rely on my instincts and intuition to (Smirking) Wise choice, Initiate. Remember, the path you've chosen is treacherous, but it is in your hands to navigate through it. Trust no one, but most importantly, trust yourself. Now, let the journey through the valley of shadows the shadowy depths of the underworld, where murky deals are brokered and shady figures lurk, I found myself faced with a choice. They said I couldn't pick both guns, but the weight of their disapproval made me almost cry. It was as if they were daring me to defy them, pushing me to the brink until I couldn't take it anymore. I think they wanted to see me spit the dummy, to break under their stepping out of the car, one of them reached over and forcibly removed my shoes, muttering something about sound. I wanted to argue, to leave them on, but there was no point. So, reluctantly, I complied and ran past the three figures to the front door, knocking soon as the sound echoed through the air, I felt a surge of fear and uncertainty. He said something to me, words that slipped from my mind like water through a sieve. All I could think of was the cruelty and evil lurking within them, urging me to do their you want me to shoot you?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Or should I shoot them?"

Without waiting for a response, I stepped back, raising the weapon in trembling hands. The rain poured down, a symphony of chaos surrounding us. I aimed for the corner of the driver's seat, where Good sat, a pawn in their twisted fuck when you're finished with them," he warned, a smirk playing on his lips. And in that moment, I realized the truth--I couldn't trust a heavy heart and shaking hands, I turned and ran back towards the car. The air was thick with tension, the sound of gunfire echoing in the night. I couldn't tell which direction the shots whent to , but I knew one thing for certain--they who is they were coming for responded in kind, two shots ringing out into the darkness. And then, fled into the woods, the kings at my back, urging me onward. "Do you always run in cars you shoot at?" they taunted, their voices dripping with knew what I had to do. With a sense of grim determination, I raised the gun, aiming at a 35-degree angle towards the first figure in the back passenger seat. The shot rang out, followed by another as I took aim at the second figure in the front passenger that moment, I embraced the darkness within me, knowing that in this unforgiving world, survival meant becoming the monster they had always the eerie darkness of the underworld, silence hung heavy in the air as Mr. Good, the lone survivor despite taking three shots to the corner of the windshield, sat quietly in the car. I held both guns, a silent warning of the dangers lurking in the shadows. His fear was palpable, begging for words to break the a steady voice, I broke the stillness, offering him one of the guns. His eyes widened in surprise, unsure of my intentions. But in the underworld, trust is a fragile currency, and sometimes you gotta show your hand to keep the peace. He hesitated for a moment, the weight of my gesture sinking in, before finally accepting the the engine roared to life, I settled back into the passenger seat, eyes scanning the darkness beyond. We were heading home, back to Bure, but the memory of the market hung heavy in my mind. It was there, amidst the chaos and whispered deals, that I had been given these tools of the world we navigate, where betrayal lurks in every shadow and danger prowls in the night, there's an old Italian proverb that rings true: "Giving a gun to a friend is like giving them part of your soul." And in this twisted dance of loyalty and deceit, sometimes it's the only currency we have

Chapter 7: Shadows of the Market

As I stood across the road from the bustling market I once owned, a sense of eerie nostalgia washed over me. The words of an old Italian proverb echoed in my mind, *"Chi ha un bambino in mano ha un tesoro in cuore, chi ha una granata in mano ha un pezzo di Whoever has a child in their hand has a treasure in their heart, whoever has a grenade in their hand has a piece of market, once my pride and joy, now felt like a distant memory tainted by shadows of mistrust and betrayal. It started innocently enough, with the disappearance of burger lollies, a trivial matter at first glance. People would offer them to me, thinking nothing of it, and I, in turn, would indulge without a second thought not thinking I'm getting set up. But soon, boxes began to vanish I was eating one at a time not boxes, and fingers started pointing in my I was sick of them burger lollies they developed an off-taste this was way before boxes of them started going missing

The blame fell squarely on my shoulders, as I was often seen with the coveted treats. The Don, once a mentor and confidant, now regarded me with suspicion, his trust eroded by the whispers of deception. The once-thriving market became a battleground, each missing box a casualty in the war of loyalty and on the opposite side of the road, I couldn't shake the feeling of being a stranger in my own domain. The familiar sights and sounds held no comfort, only a haunting reminder of what once was. It was as if I was seeing my business for the first time, stripped of its facade of success and that moment of clarity, I realized the true cost of my actions. The lollies, once a harmless indulgence, had become the catalyst for my downfall. As I reflected on my losses, I couldn't help but wonder if it was all worth it. Did the fleeting pleasures of indulgence outweigh the price of betrayal?

Lost in my thoughts, I found myself longing for simpler times, when the market was more than just a battlefield of greed and mistrust. But as I turned away, leaving behind the I sat at home, lost in my thoughts, the unexpected visit from one of my mother's friends shattered the fragile peace I had managed to find. They came bearing an invitation, a tempting offer to return to the market and see how it had fared in my absence. But deep down, I knew it was a setup, a ploy to lure me back into the web of deceit and my reservations, I found myself agreeing to go, swayed by nostalgia and a glimmer of hope for redemption. We set off in a Tarago van, the familiar streets passing by in a blur as we made our way to the once-familiar territory of my old at the market, I was met with a scene of chaos and tension. The once-vibrant stalls lay dormant, shrouded in an air of uncertainty. People gathered in clusters, murmuring amongst themselves as I made my way through the behind a makeshift desk, a figure loomed, his presence commanding the attention of those around him. It was clear that he held sway over the fate of the market, his word law in this realm of shadows and I approached, emotions ran high. Some congratulated me on my return, while others hurled insults and accusations, their words stinging like daggers. But amidst the chaos, one gesture caught my eye--a man, lurking in the shadows, passing something to that split second, time seemed to stand still. The object in my hand felt heavy, ominous, its weight bearing down on me like a burden too heavy to bear. It was then that I realized the gravity of the situation--a loaded grenade, poised to unleash chaos upon us took over as I lunged forward, tossing the grenade under the desk where the figure sat. Panic ensued as he scrambled to safety, the explosive device landing with a thud that reverberated through the in the midst of the chaos, a startling realization dawned upon me--the man behind the desk is the underboss. in a much larger game, a game of power and