AFTER
Taken all I can take, and I cannot wait
We're wasting too much time
Being strong, holding on
Can't let it bring us down
My life with you means everything
So I won't give up that easily
I'll blow it away, blow it away
Can we make this something good?
"It's Not Over"
Daughtry
May 19, 1952
Manhattan, New York City, New York
Chuck awoke to the sound of heavy rain pelting the hotel windows and the distant rumble of thunder. It was morning, he knew, from the clock on the nightstand, but the sky visible through the blinds was as gray-black as it had been the previous evening.
His environment, the hotel room, was disorienting. It took several seconds for Chuck to get his bearings, the strangeness of the decor and the cold, empty space beside him, even though so newly occupied by his wife, was now unfamiliar, depressing.
Why he was here, what he needed to do today, gripped him. His drowsiness changed in a blink to anxiety.
That anxiety had built slowly. Yesterday, after kissing his sleeping wife goodbye, and later arguing with Gertrude, Chuck had left Worcester with Morgan. The long drive was better with his friend's company, a welcome distraction from his worries. It had given the two men time to talk, really talk, and it made Chuck feel so much calmer, sharing his burden with another soul who cared. All Chuck left out was the specifics of Sarah's secret — the specifics Chuck had deduced situationally but not been told by Sarah.
Carina had come up as they were talking, to some extent a surprise topic.
"So…Sarah told me you've been…talking…to Carina Miller," Chuck had started, at first unsure, but knowing Sarah had not told him he should keep it to himself.
"What?" Morgan had exclaimed in surprise. "Oh, uh, yeah. Her mother needed some help and I…well, I thought I could…well, help."
"That was very kind of you, you know? I'm sure she appreciated it."
Morgan tsked, shaking his head. "Carina's dealing with…a lot. Well, you know," Morgan said, gesturing. "You've known her since she was little. She acts so tough, but I could just tell, you know…she's…putting up a front. A little girl hidden in a bunker."
Chuck had known Carina almost her entire life; Morgan wasn't wrong in his assessment. In fact, the wartime image seemed exact. Morgan felt sorry for Carina, Chuck was certain, but Morgan had also learned to keep that to himself. For Carina to have continued talking to Morgan after he had offered his assistance, he would have had to keep his pity to himself. Carina hated that more than anything else. But Morgan was a good man, a decent person; his kindness was genuine, and Chuck knew Carina would have appreciated the authenticity of the interaction. Carina was not nearly so far gone that human kindness meant nothing to her.
Chuck didn't want to interfere, or presume, but he thought telling Morgan what he had learned from Sarah was important. "You know, Sarah told me Carina really likes you."
Morgan blushed fire engine red, then stuttered, "No, no…no, she doesn't. Not…not the way you mean." He continued shaking his head after he'd stopped speaking.
"Don't mistake the way she acts for who she is," Chuck reminded him.
Morgan seemed offended by what Chuck was implying. " I know what people think of her, Chuck. What they say. I don't care about any of that, even if every last thing is the truth. No one knows what her life is like, what she's had to deal with. Her reasons. She's incredibly strong and independent. I admire that. She carries herself above her…history."
A lot of Morgan's attitude came from his own life and the example of his mother. Though Chuck hadn't known Morgan when they were young, he knew about Morgan's life as he'd grown up with only his mother. How difficult it was for a single woman to provide for her child, as well as contend with public sentiment about the novelty of their family structure. It had been one of the things that had drawn the two men together–their survival of troubled childhoods.
"I know… everything," Morgan said, blushing more deeply. "She told me everything. Her mother's… problems…were the reason she did all that. Carina was afraid her mother was going to lose her house, all she owned in the world."
Chuck nodded his head, always having believed the truth had to be close to this actuality. Sarah's father had been supporting Roxanne somehow, but, once Jack had spread himself too thin and ran out of money, his support of Roxanne must have also slowed, then stopped.
"That, and she was planning on running away with Sarah. But now you're married and she's not going to do that anymore, run away, so I'm hoping–"
"Wait a minute, Morgan," Chuck interrupted. "What are you talking about?"
Morgan turned to look at Chuck, his eyes wide and his expression contrite. Morgan shrank into himself, his shoulders bunched around his ears, in chagrin. "Oh…damn," he sighed, raising a hand to cover his eyes. "I thought Sarah told you…about going to New York with Carina."
Chuck processed what Morgan said slowly, as his shock subsided. Morgan wasn't wrong; Sarah had told Chuck about her plans to accompany Carina to New York. But Sarah had brought it up casually, reluctantly, after he had grilled her about her plans for the future. Sarah had made it seem like a simple possibility, a distant option she was weighing. And she had never once given the impression that the leaving was "running." It was an odd distinction, but it caused Chuck confusion in the moment.
Why would she have needed to run? What…or who…would she have run from?
For the first time since Chuck took himself to have deduced the reason Shaw had been blackmailing Jack, he started to question his conclusions. He had no doubt Sarah had a baby with Bryce, and that fact was related to Shaw's leverage. Now, he wondered how much else he didn't know, how much more complicated the story Sarah had to tell him could be.
Chuck mumbled his answer to Morgan, telling Morgan that he had misunderstood and of course Sarah had told him that. Whatever Carina had confided in Morgan, it seemed, she had told him nothing about Sarah's secret. Chuck stayed silent the rest of the ride, his mind fully occupied with new, troubling thoughts.
They merely reinforced Chuck's need to finish this, once and for all.
Getting settled at their hotel and checking the details Babinska had relayed to him had made the errand seem more real somehow, more ominous and dangerous. Errand seemed like a euphemism. But he was as prepared as he could be. Still, the idea of talking to a mobster like Cipriani was intimidating. Morgan had tried to ease Chuck's mind, but his anxiety had only grown.
The phone call Chuck had promised Gertrude, the one he had made the moment he had arrived, one he was hoping would relax him, had only served to make everything worse.
Sarah hadn't come to the phone. Gertrude spoke with a tone Chuck recognized, one she reserved for trying to disguise when she was worried about something. While Chuck had attributed Sarah's morning sleepiness to her possible pregnancy, Gertrude seemed to think otherwise. Sarah, Gertrude had explained, wasn't only sleepy, she was sluggish. Her appetite was nonexistent and her stomach was upset. Gertrude had been willing to chalk it up to persistent morning sickness, but Chuck then knew there was something Gertrude was covering, generalizing, that had made her concerned.
Gertrude had called him back before he and Morgan had retired for the evening to tell Chuck Sarah had started running a low-grade fever. She had called for Dr. Woodcomb, who had promised to come first thing in the morning, provided Sarah stayed stable throughout the night.
Checking the time again, to make sure he wasn't disrupting anyone's sleep, Chuck sat up in bed and reached for the phone on the nightstand. Glancing over, he noticed Morgan's bed was empty. He heard the sound of the shower running, assuming his friend had risen first and started to get ready.
Gertrude answered the phone on the first ring.
"Hello?" Gertrude asked urgently.
"Gertrude, it's Chuck," he replied, his voice rough after its first use after sleep.
"Oh, I thought you were the doctor," she sighed.
"Why?" he asked, suddenly frantic. "Is Sarah alright?" He worried that he was tying up the phone if she was waiting for an important call.
Gertrude hesitated before she answered, the long distance connection crackling in the silence. "She's…the same." She paused. "The fever creeped up a bit…which is unusual, the doctor said. I'm worried she may have caught whatever it was that Casey had. She has almost all the same symptoms. Only he didn't have a fever."
His mouth dried and his throat burned. He could feel his heart thumping. New York seemed like the other side of the world. Why did he always seem so far from her when she needed him? Sarah was in a delicate condition; his fear for both her and their child seized him. Part of him wanted to say to hell with Cipriani, and to tell Gertrude that he was driving back right away. He had to remind himself he was here to protect Sarah and her unborn child from Shaw; and that both situations were dangerous. He pushed his fear deep inside and tried to convince himself that with Gertrude and Dr. Woodcomb looking after Sarah, that she would be alright.
Breaking into his thoughts, Gertrude spoke again. "Dr. Woodcomb should be here within the hour. When is your…meeting today?"
"At eleven," Chuck replied. Again, it felt like an eternity had to tick by on the clock before he could act. "I'm hoping it won't take that long. I'll call when we get back to the hotel, ok?"
"Ok," she said, fretting in her tone. "I'll take care of her, Chuck. You just stay safe, do you hear me?"
Her words made his stomach seem to roll inside his body. He swallowed his nausea, mumbling his affirmation to her before saying goodbye.
Edgy, Chuck jumped out of bed and turned on the small black and white television on the stand in front of the window. Morgan emerged from the bathroom in a robe as Chuck turned on the news. The sound was lowered, so it took a while for Chuck to realize what he was looking at. Swiftly changing pictures of debris, uprooted trees, fallen bridges, demolished houses. He blinked, trying to rid himself of the visions so similar to those he had always seen in his nightmares. But this was real. He saw the location highlighted at the bottom of the screen. Flint, Michigan.
"Turn up the sound," Morgan instructed from behind as he moved towards the television.
Chuck complied.
"...local fire department. The twister was on the ground for almost one hour and carved a path of destruction almost 19 miles long through Flint…Beecher. At this hour, over 100 people remain unaccounted for and over 800 people are believed injured. Search and rescue is currently underway…"
"Good Lord," Morgan uttered. "What's with the tornados? Just last week Texas…and now another one."
Tornado, hurricane…different weather phenomenon, but, Chuck thought sadly, the devastation looked similar in the wake of each. He forced his attention to Morgan and away from the devastation on the television screen. "It is that time of year…thunderstorms and all. And they are in the midwest. Tornado Alley."
Morgan walked to the window, watching as the sheets of rain fell down outside the glass, obscuring the city. "Looks like this is more of the same, don't you think?" Morgan sounded worried. "Do they get tornados in New York City?"
Chuck didn't know the answer. He thought it was possible; anything, relatively speaking, was possible–snow in May, hot humid air in November, hail as large as golf balls, hurricanes in New England and tornados on the east coast. It was rare, though, and he told Morgan so. "I wouldn't worry. I don't think there's been one since the 1890s." Chuck's assurance was courtesy of strange bits of trivia retained but its source forgotten.
Chuck was trying to take his own advice and not worry, but something about the intensity of the rain against the windows unnerved him. The thought of going out in the weather was daunting.
Hopefully it lets up before we have to go.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
Chuck rubbed his sweaty palms down the sides of his pants before he pulled the handle on the door to the restaurant where he was due to meet Salvatore Cipriani. It took a few moments for Chuck's eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside. The restaurant was moderately full, about two thirds of the tables occupied. It was quieter than Chuck would have expected with that many people inside, the tinkling sounds of silverware and glasses touching all that met his ears.
Chuck approached the host, but before Chuck could speak, the man asked, "Mr. Bartowski?"
Chuck began to wonder how the host knew him by sight, until Chuck noticed a man in a darker corner of the restaurant, his hand resting on the table in front of him, fingers curling towards his body, beckoning. Cipriani, Chuck thought. The man had recognized him. Probably the same way Babinska had–by his resemblance to his late father.
A few patrons' eyes followed Chuck as he walked across the restaurant, but he was mostly ignored. As nervous as he was, everything seemed normal, safe. They were in a busy, public place. How bad could things get in front of so many witnesses? he asked himself. In addition, Morgan was watching from a coffee shop diagonally across the street from the restaurant. His friend was poised to alert law enforcement if something drastically went amiss.
Cipriani rose to his feet as Chuck approached the table. The older man extended his hand and Chuck shook it automatically, surprised by the bile that rose in his throat at the thought of shaking a hand that had likely ended the lives of so many people.
"It's a pleasure, Charles," Cipriani said. Chuck was surprised by the educated quality of Cirpriani's voice, ashamedly expecting the voice instead to resemble gangster voices he knew from movies he had seen. The older man smiled, a plastic, politician's smile, sharp. "I see so much of your father in you…" The smile faded.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Cipriani," Chuck said nervously. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
Salvatore Cipriani was the same age Chuck's father would have been, but he looked older. His hair was gray and his visage was marred by wrinkles and more than one puckered white scar. He was shorter than Chuck, and stockier. His gray suit gleamed like a suit of armor in the flickering candlelight from the table. Chuck almost choked as the man's cloud of heavy, somehow threatening cologne encircled him.
Cipriani gestured for Chuck to sit, smoothing his own tie before he sat back into his seat. Chuck could see a plate with a torn, crusty roll and a pale green puddle of seasoned olive oil.
"Dom asked me to. He never asks me for anything, so when he did, and he told me it was Stephen's son, I told him to set it up." Cipriani reached for a piece of bread, dipped it in the oil, and popped it into his mouth. While he was chewing, he made a gesture towards the menu, his wordless offer for Chuck to order something.
"No, thank you, sir," Chuck uttered.
Cipriani swallowed his bread, then took a sip of red wine. "Dom told me you married Jack Burton's daughter not that long ago. Congratulations."
Chuck smiled, uncertain of how else he should respond.
"That's why I'm here, Mr. Cipriani."
Cipriani held up his hand, politely silencing Chuck. "Dom explained. And as I'm sure Dom would have explained to you, Mr. Iaconi said the slate is clean. It was a tragic end to my old friend's life. I would never speak ill of the dead," he quickly crossed himself, then kissed the knuckle he had used, "but how he left that girl…destitute…Unacceptable." He shook his head. "Thank God she had you."
Chuck kept his face neutral, trying not to react. He and Sarah were lucky they had each other, always, their entire lives. But that level of connection was none of Cipriani's business, and probably something the older man had no concept of, something so foreign it would be like fiction. Jack was destitute in part because of Cipriani, Jack's old friend. The hypocrisy was astounding, but Chuck bit his tongue.
Instead, Chuck summoned his courage and started to elaborate. "Jack hadn't paid Iaconi in…over a year. How did someone not…?" His voice faltered, his fear of saying the wrong word overwhelming.
"How much do you know about me, Charles?" Cipriani asked, squinting, tilting his head. It was asked with genuine curiosity.
Chuck worried over the words he should use, how he should respond. "Your…reputation, mostly. Dominic explained how you knew my father. Gertrude Casey, my housekeeper, told me a little more, what she knew from my mother."
He nodded silently. "The four of us…we were inseparable. My family took your father in, when he had no one. Your father was a saint, I tell you. A saint. If anybody ever had a reason to go south of the law, it was Stephen. But he kept his nose clean. Good man, upstanding man. He would have given his shirt off his back to anyone. The good ones, they die young, I'm afraid."
Chuck studied Cipriani's face as he continued.
"Jack wanted to work with me. I tried to tell him, if he had a way out, a decent shot, the last thing in the world he wanted was this life," Cipriani muttered, his voice bitter despite the evenness of his tone. "Stephen made sure Jack had a place to go, a way to earn a respectable living. I was glad. But then your father died, God rest his soul. I tried to help Jack. I ran interference with Jack and my boss for a long time. I told Iaconi about Jack's daughter, the reasons why he needed the money. It held him off for a while. But money is money, business is business, and there was only so long I could stall.
"Shooting himself in the head, when his daughter was home…where she could find him…" Cipriani shook his head in disdain. "That just wasn't necessary. Drastic. Grandstanding. It wasn't to that point…it didn't make any sense." He spread his hands. "We're not animali."
Suicide, suicide was animalistic, but cold-blooded murder, threats, and extortion were civilized? Ciprani lived by a code Chuck could not understand. Chuck pushed aside his ire and responded.
"The reason Jack did that…was because of Daniel Shaw."
"Madone," Cipriani exclaimed in Italian, transforming for a moment into a caricature of himself, the gangster from a movie Chuck initially expected. "Daniel Shaw is…a problem."
Chuck felt like the ground underneath him was shaky. This was dangerous territory, a treacherous slope he had to climb to find his way out of this maze. Cipriani's revelation was troubling and encouraging at the same time. Chuck was afraid to know too much, make himself a liability or a threat to Cipriani or his crew. But the enemy of his enemy had the potential to be his friend. Or at least his ally.
"He was blackmailing Jack," Chuck offered, knowing this at least needed to be disclosed. "Jack ran out of money…to pay Iaconi and Shaw at the same time."
Cipriani looked uncomfortable, pulling at the knot in his tie to loosen it. He ran a hand over his face, ruffling his thick eyebrows as he did so. "You have proof of this?"
"Yes," Chuck affirmed, fighting the urge to spill it all out. Sharing too much information was no help to him.
Cipriani sat in silence for a long time, staring at his glass of wine.
"Charles, I'm sure you know, this is a dirty job we do. Sometimes it requires unsavory deeds to be done, and we do them. We have to put aside how we feel. But Shaw? I never met a man who…enjoys…hurting people the way he does. Enjoys it. Volunteers to do the…well," Cipriani stopped, making Chuck wonder if his disgust showed on his face. "The dirtiest of the dirtiest jobs. He's brutal, vicious, heartless. He gets the job done without fail, which is why his…excessive brutality is tolerated. He reports to me."
Cipriani said it like Chuck should be comforted by the fact that Shaw was subservient in some way.
Cipriani sighed. "It's hard to convince…certain people…about the problem, when he's also a trusted source of revenue. But if he's two-timing Iaconi…I can't have it. Can't."
Chuck worried his dismay showed on his face, though he was trying to remain neutral. Cipriani's gaze was fixated on Chuck's face, as the older man scrutinized Chuck.
Did I say too much? Do I know too much?
Gertrude's words came back to him, making him start to panic. Was this helping? Was he making a difference, working this angle to remove Shaw from their lives, or at least Shaw's influence? He couldn't gauge the effect his words had on Cipriani, despite the feeling that something significant had shifted.
"Mr. Cipriani–" Chuck stuttered.
"Charles," he started, his face stern. "Let me tell you something right now. Your father always had my back. Always, even when he didn't approve of my life. I made sure no one messed with him. The least I can do is reassure you: no one messes with you. Or your family."
Chuck heard Gertrude's words in his head, not to trust anyone. He was wary, but there was a semblance of truth in Cipriani's words. At least in the moment, Chuck thought the man was sincere, at least about his vow to keep Chuck out of harm's way. Chuck might not understand Cipriani's code, but he had one. What did that unsolicited vow cost Cipriani, Chuck wondered?
Cipriani continued talking, making Chuck think the man liked the sound of his own voice.
"I don't know why Jack didn't come to me. As a friend, not about business. He could have come to me, damn it. His daughter needed help, for chrissake. I'm not a heartless man. I have a daughter. What a waste, all of it." He took another bite of bread, shaking his head as he chewed.
Chuck struggled to not react, to roll with Cipriani's regretful rambling, as if he completely understood what Cipriani was referring to. But his mind started racing, thoughts connecting as his mind worked.
Babinska said Jack had needed a large amount of money to help someone. Sarah needed help back then. Was it her pregnancy? Something related to her pregnancy? What did Cipriani know about Sarah and what had happened?
He thought again that there was more going on than he knew.
"Charles, I have to ask. Do you know what Shaw's leverage is? He still has it, even though Jack is dead?"
Chuck swallowed. "Yes, he still has it. He threatened me on Monday. But, Mr. Cipriani, I don't know exactly what it is. What he knows and what he doesn't," Chuck hedged. He didn't think letting Cipriani know that he himself didn't know the whole truth from Sarah yet, merely bits and pieces inferred from multiple sources, was wise.
"I appreciate you coming here, talking to me, because you want to protect your wife. It took guts, Charles. I know that family is everything." He sucked in his breath before he continued. "Tell you what. Do you think you can find out what it is exactly that Shaw has over…well, I'm assuming it would be over your wife, correct?" Cipriani's eyes were complicated, sharp but also sympathetic. "If Jack is dead and Shaw's still threatening you…it must have something to do with your wife." Sympathy showed again. What did Cipriani imagine Sarah had done? "Before I can give…an order…I need to show my boss proof, you understand?"
Chuck felt his blood turn to ice water. Was this man really explaining to Chuck that he needed to get proof…so that Cipriani could get permission to kill Shaw? Chuck felt like everything was spinning out of control. What did Shaw have over Sarah?
He tried to calm himself. There was no way this ended peacefully, no killer like Shaw, both a professional and an amateur (someone who killed for the love of it), would simply surrender. As Babinska had warned Chuck, Shaw would come after them no matter what. Cipriani had assured Chuck they were protected, but the cost of the protection was inciting the mafia to devour its own. The part of him that knew it was wrong railed against the plan, but he had little choice. Jack had left him no choice.
Shaw would eventually leave him no choice.
"I…do," Chuck finally answered.
"Do you think you can do that for me?" Cipriani asked casually, like he was asking Chuck to grab him a drink.
Chuck nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good." He took another sip of wine. "I'm gonna send one of my men in Worcester to watch you and your family. You know, keep an eye on you both, to make sure Shaw doesn't cross the line. You have my word, my man will keep you safe."
"How…how…do I contact you again?" Chuck stammered.
"Talk to Dominic. He'll know how to reach me. We'll be in touch." He finished the last sip in his wine glass, then flicked his finger to a waiter, indicating he wanted more. "You sure you don't want anything? I highly recommend the veal." He gathered his fingers at his lips, then spread them out, a manly chef's kiss.
"I'm fine, Mr. Cipriani. Thank you," Chuck muttered, anxious to get out of the restaurant.
The older man rose to his feet again, offering his hand to Chuck in parting.
Chuck waited until he was outside the restaurant before he rubbed his hand down the side of his pants, repulsed anew at the mobster's touch. But he had shaken the man's hand twice, made a bargain with one devil to foil another.
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Outside again, Chuck noticed the heavy rain from earlier had lightened. The sky was still pale gray, and the air around him was humid and damp, but the downpour had become a drizzle. He hurried along the bustling sidewalk, eager to find Morgan where he was waiting. He wanted to go over the Cipriani discussion with Morgan, to help make sense of it all, using Morgan as a sounding board. Chuck also wanted to call Gertrude to check on Sarah. And most importantly, he just wanted to get out of New York and get home to his family.
He checked the landmarks as he walked, making sure he was heading in the right direction.
When Chuck entered the coffee shop, he noticed everyone in the shop, including Morgan, was standing in front of a small black and white television on the wall above the service counter. With the advantage of his height, from the back of the crowd, Chuck could still see the television screen. Scenes almost identical to the ones he had seen upon waking, from Michigan, were slowly scrolling on the screen. At first, Chuck thought it was the same story, updated once again during the afternoon news. Until he honed in on the words the newscaster was saying.
"...this time, the funnel cloud was on the ground for close to an hour and half, moving almost fifty miles through central Massachusetts before all was said and done…"
Chuck felt his heart almost stop beating for a moment, like his feet were floating several inches above the ground.
"...winds well over 200 miles per hour…hundreds of injuries…thousands of destroyed buildings and homes…"
It was Morgan's hand on his arm that shook him out of his stupor. His friend's face was pale, a sickening shade of white beside his dark beard. "The news…started coming in right after you left. It's the same storm…the same… cell…that hit in Michigan, only they said it might have been worse in Michigan…"
Chuck forced himself to focus, gripping Morgan's wrist. "Where? Where did it hit?"
"They said…they said," Morgan closed his eyes, like he was trying to remember, "it started in Barre…and went straight through Worcester, west to east."
"Oh my God," Chuck gasped. It was his entire world–his family, his business, his house. Everything he loved, everything he knew, everything he owned.
Sarah.
He had already been worrying about her illness, about the doctor coming to his home. But the tornado…
"Morgan, we have to go now!" he shouted, grabbing Morgan's arm.
Chuck heard Morgan rambling, concern about the power outages, downed phone lines, blocked roads. Simply going home now seemed like a Herculean task. But he couldn't call; he had no way to know what had happened, how everyone and everything had fared.
Time had frozen, his life had frozen, and it wouldn't start moving forward again until he knew.
He told Morgan they would figure it out on the way. It was a five hour drive. It would be the longest five hours of his life.
A/N: Thanks to Zettel for pre-reading. Historical notes: The tornados referenced in this chapter are the one anachronistic element in this story. What is known as the Flint-Worcester outbreak incident actually occured in June of 1953. The thunderstorm cell started in the Rockies and moved east across the U.S. An F5 tornado (graded by the Fujita scale retroactively, as the classification did not exist in 1953) hit Flint, Michigan. Two days later, the same cell hit Worcester on June 9, 1953. One hundred sixteen people died in Flint and another 94 in Worcester. The Flint hurricane remains the last tornado in the U.S. to kill over 100 people. At the time, the Worcester tornado was the most expensive tornado in U.S. history. The facts in the story are true: the funnel stayed on the ground for 78 minutes, traversing a 48 mile path straight through a metropolitan area. I also borrowed "We're not animali" from the movie, Goodfellas. The best line in the movie--words Pauli uses to convince Henry to go back to his wife and avoid divorce. Divorcing his wife, not murdering and theiving, makes him an animal. Most of my background knowledge of the mafia comes via Henry Hill's book, which that movie was based on.
