Michael frowned, not understanding.
Nitti, solemnly, asked, “Which hand do you shoot with?”
Like a kid in class, Michael raised his right hand.
Nitti nodded, his eyes looking past Michael, and Campagna leaned in, took Michael’s right forefinger and pricked the tip with a needle.
Startled, Michael managed not to rise up out of the chair as Campagna dribbled drops of O’Sullivan blood onto the Virgin Mary, little droplets of red spattering her.
Then Campagna withdrew to his position behind Michael, as Nitti, standing now, lifted by one corner the blood-dotted picture. With his other hand, Nitti deftly used a Zippo lighter, thumbing it to flame, touching the sheet’s opposite corner, and fire ate its way up the Virgin Mary, consuming her, unimpeded by the few beads of Michael’s blood.
Nitti held onto the burning paper until the last minute, then dropped it onto the table, where it curled in ashy remains.
Wondering if he’d gone mad, thinking he was still in that darkened room, having a particularly demented dream, Michael watched as Nitti pricked his forefinger and extended its blood-dripping tip across to Michael...
...who instinctively extended his hand and touched his own pricked fingertip to Nitti’s.
The two fingertips withdrew, and Nitti said, “Blood makes us family. But we will burn like that image if we betray each other. Say yes, Michael.”
“Yes.”
“Repeat what I say. I pledge my honor to be faithful to the Mafia like the Mafia is faithful to me.”
“I... I pledge my honor to be faithful to the Mafia like the Mafia is faithful to me.”
“As this saint and these drops of my blood are burned, so will I give my blood for my new family.”
“As this saint and these drops of my blood are burned, so will I give my blood for my new family.”
Nitti nodded. “You will answer these questions with ‘yes.’ Will you offer reciprocal aid in the case of any need from your new family?”
“Yes.”
“Will you pay absolute obedience to your capo... to me, Michael.”
“Yes, Mr. Nitti.”
“Do you accept that an offense against one is an offense against all?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that you must never reveal names or secrets to anyone outside the family?”
“Yes.”
“Do you accept that this thing of ours comes before all else — blood-family, religion, country?”
“Yes.”
“Good, Michael. Understand that to betray the Outfit means death without trial. I am your capo. Louie is your goombah, your godfather. Is all of that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Nitti.”
Nitti came from around the table and stood before Michael and said, “Get on your feet, Michael Satariano. You are now a made man.”
Michael rose, and Nitti kissed him on either cheek.
Was this the fabled kiss of death? Michael wondered.
But when Nitti drew away, the ganglord was beaming. And tears glistened.
“Welcome, Michael. Welcome, my son.”
And then Nitti embraced Michael.
Awkwardly, Michael returned the embrace.
The three men in black, standing behind the chair where Michael had sat facing the man he had mistaken for his judge/jury/executioner, began to applaud, Campagna saying, “Hey, Mike, you did it, kid! You did it!”
Then Frank Nitti took Michael by the arm and walked him from what the newest made man in the Chicago Outfit now realized was a banquet room, into the dining room of a traditional red-and-white-tablecloth Italian restaurant, the sort of cozy joint Papa Satariano ran back in DeKalb.
His arm around Michael, Nitti ushered him to a corner table, set up just for two, in a section of the dimly lighted restaurant otherwise closed off. Another table nearby was reserved for Campagna and the two bodyguards; but this table was strictly for the boss and his guest of honor.
As they drank Chianti — beginning with a toast to Michael’s new life, sealed with a clink of glasses — Nitti effusively answered all of Michael’s unasked questions.
“For someone who’s been with us so short a time,” Nitti said, “it’s a rare honor, becomin’ a made man. But the service you done the Outfit... what you did for me, Michael... well, let’s just say this is as close to us giving you a Medal of Honor as we can get.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nitti.”
Nitti, smiling big, shook his head, gesturing with his wine glass. “How did it happen, Mike? Did you come out to find a war going on, raging between Ricca’s traitors and our own loyal people?”
“...Yes.”
The ganglord shrugged elaborately. “We can’t prove it, of course. But it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“It is?”
“That Ricca wanted to kill Al, and strip me of my power. He figures with Al gone, my support’d crumble.” Though they were out of earshot of the other patrons as well as Campagna and crew, Nitti leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m not sure whether Ricca knows the truth about Al or not.”
Michael sipped the red wine. “How long has Mr. Capone been in this state of mind?”
“Started at the Rock. They let him out early, it was so severe. But for a couple of years, it was more... sporadic, they call it. Sometimes he’d be clear as a bell, other times... you saw him. Vegetable. Which is how he is all the time, now.”
“And who knows?”
“The staff at the estate is kept away from him, except for an inner group of about six... Four of them are dead, now.” He shook his head at this tragedy; then he brightened. “Mae threw in with me — she liked the idea of Al retaining power, and she didn’t want the world to know what this great man of hers had come to.”
“If Ricca does know...”
“The Waiter’ll back off now. He won’t make any more moves, not like this, not for a good long while. He’ll credit me with what you done — with anticipating that he was going to hit Al.”
“But, of course, he denies having anything to do with it.”
Nitti shrugged again, sipped Chianti, then said, “Actually, ain’t spoken to him about it yet. I came down yesterday and met with Mae and Mimi. You know, you left quite a mess there, young man.”
“What... what was done about it?”
“Let’s just say Al’s yacht come in handy. The biggest expense will be all the surviving members of each man’s family. Part of what we do is look after the families of any fallen soldiers. It’s the decent thing. Christian thing. But it’s gonna cost.” He scowled. “Only it burns me there’s no way to know which of ’em were the traitors. You think you could’ve identified which was which?”
“No. It all happened too fast.”
“Figured as much. So the bad get rewarded with the good; such is life... You were in bad shape, Mimi said. Come through unscathed, not a scratch... but a nervous wreck. That’s why Mimi had ’em knock you out. Let you catch your rest.”
“So it didn’t get out? The police, the papers...?”
“Never happened. A dozen immigrants and sons of immigrants fall off the face of the earth, and who the fuck cares but us? We’re the only government for our people, Michael — even now.”
Michael sighed, allowing relief to really take hold. Risked a small smile. “Mr. Nitti, I gotta admit — I didn’t know what was going on tonight. I thought maybe you thought...”
Nitti waved that off. “Don’t be silly.”
“Blindfold, black suits... I was thinking it was a one-way ride.”
With a gruff laugh, Nitti said, “Hey, sorry, kid — didn’t mean to throw a scare in you. But these rituals, some people may say they’re foolish or silly or Old World... but tradition is important. Loyalty. Omertà — that’s the code, Michael. Our secrets are our secrets.”