I had always known the day would come, but when it finally arrived, it still felt like a cold hand gripping my chest. Don Mimmo called me early on a Sunday morning, the kind of morning when respectable people are at Mass and the rest of us are nursing hangovers or counting cash. His voice was calm, almost gentle, the way it always was when he delivered news that could not be refused.“Vito,” he said, “today you become one of us in the true sense. The Cupola meets this evening. You will be presented.”I thanked him, hung up, and stared at the wall for a long minute. I had spent years moving weapons, heroin, and money across borders, always loyal, always useful. But until that moment I had remained outside the innermost circle. Now they were bringing me in. The Cupola—the Commission, the provincial governing body of Cosa Nostra—was not a club you applied to join. You were chosen, or you were not. And once chosen, there was no resignation letter.I knew what the Cupola was, of course. Ev
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