The air smelled different—heavy and humid, as if the city itself was breathing a secret it wasn't yet ready to share. The sunlight barely filtered through the narrow streets and the red brick buildings blackened by smoke and grime. New York, 1918. The world had changed, and so had he.
Giovanni Moretti opened his eyes, feeling a strange tingling in his body, as if awakening from a dream he couldn't remember but that had marked him forever. Around him, the small Lower East Side apartment filled with familiar sounds: the rattling of carts, murmurs of voices blending Italian with the English of newcomers, the distant shout of a street vendor selling his fruit.
He sat up with difficulty, touching his face and then his roughened hands. Confused, flashes of another life came to mind. A young man fighting in a modern octagon, training mixed martial arts, with knowledge of boxing, jiu-jitsu, and karate. A modern youth with secrets and skills that didn't fit the time he now lived in.
But that young man no longer existed. Giovanni was now a seventeen-year-old boy, the eldest of five siblings in a poor Italian immigrant family. His mother, a strong woman with fierce eyes, waited for him in the kitchen, preparing coffee with a rustic, bitter blend. She was the daughter of a respected caporegime who had died years ago, and although the family had lost much, they still held the respect that blood and history granted. His father, a silent and steady man, had been a capo in a rival family destroyed long ago, but his name still echoed with respect and fear.
Giovanni stood up, recalled the weight of that heritage, and felt the cold touch of reality in his bones. He was the eldest and, therefore, responsible. His mother counted on him to take care of his brothers, to protect them from the streets, violence, and betrayal.
While having breakfast with his family, he listened to stories that wove a tapestry of loyalty, betrayal, and power. Gangs ruled the neighborhood, and the word mafia was not a mystery but a way of life. Giovanni knew that someday he would have to take his place in that world, although he did not yet understand how.
In the afternoon, he walked through the dusty streets, feeling the eyes of the neighborhood men upon him. He was not just any young man but a Moretti—a name that opened doors and sometimes closed others with violence.
Some street kids recognized him and offered cautious smiles. In those glances reflected the future he could have: dangerous, uncertain, but also full of possibilities.
That night, before falling asleep, Giovanni lay staring at the cracked ceiling of his room. He thought about the life he had lost, the one he now had, and the path he had to take to protect his family and claim his place. He knew adaptation wouldn't be easy, that he had to learn the unspoken rules of this world, but he was ready to do it.
Sleep came slowly, but Giovanni's mind stayed awake, remembering the past, facing the present, and preparing for the future the mafia had in store for him.