If this looks familiar to you -- it should. I'm moving many of my one-shots to this account.
Bullets
Bullet wounds. Hundreds of them. Riddling every inch of that massive frame, as if he'd walked into a hurricane of machine gun bullets. Yes, that was what it was like--as if he'd taken a stroll, and it began to pour silver droplets backed by black powder. This was it. I could take no more. My boy, my firstborn, my son is dead. My Sonny. . . .
I know he wasn't perfect, that the combination of his temper and his balls ruled his entire being. I know he was narrow-minded and vengeful, and no piece of advise ever made it passed the breadth of his skull. No advise, except for mine. . . .My boy, my Santino, loved me. He lived and breathed by the law of la familia primera; the family comes first. No, not La Cosa Nostra familia. I mean, a man's true family. His father, his mother, his brothers and sisters, his wife, his children. The man is the fortress walls of his family, and he does everything he can to protect them. There can be no loose stones, or weak mortar, for then it is his family that suffers greatest. Women and children--those within--can afford to be weak, but not men. Funny thing to think about a. . .a dead man. But he was. He was a father and husband; he was a good father and husband. . .he was a good father. He caroused with another woman. That is not an aspect of a good husband. People say Italians always have mistresses, but did I? Did I once betray that oath I made to Carmella so long ago? Not once. Not once did I even take glance at another woman as if to have her instead, or besides. I meant what I said before that altar. I still do. I have no children besides those which she bore; only four. . . .only. . .three. I think I need a bit more wine.
Sonny did stupid things. All people do stupid things. But I can't. . . I can't think of one thing he's done wrong. You try it. You look at your oldest son, chilled with his own cold blood, and tell him he was wrong. Tell him he was stupid. Tell him he deserved what he got. Nobody deserves that. Or perhaps. . .perhaps we all do. I just. . . .Sonny. . . Sonny may have committed acts that meritted his. . .his hit. But his mother? When did she ever do one thing that would reward her with knowing her son was riddled with bullets? That he was struck mercilessly until every cartridge was completely empy. What mother deserves that? She has nothing to do with this business. She knows nothing of it. That is why I must act as husband, and protect her. She doesn't deserve to live forever in the gut-wrenching heartache that her son was so brutally and coldly murdered. It is hard enough simply for a mother to have to bury her child, her son, the firstborn she bore with pride to present to her husband; to me. I can still see him. Already. . .already his temper had kicked in, and he was screaming, dark red in the face. But he quieted in my arms, and he looked at me. . . .and he knew. He knew right then that I. . .was his father and he was my son. My children are so precious to me.
My wife, My Carmella fell asleep long ago. That's why I went to my study to have some wine, to think. Alone, in this dark room, I can be weak for a minute. I can cease to be the great Don Corleone, the Godfather that solves the problems of every small world. I can take a break from being the comforter of my wife, and the base pillar of my family. I can pause for a moment from being the strength everybody seeks. I can just be Vito Corleone, and I can weep for my lost son.