Alfredo tied his flowery apron with difficulty. The stocky body of this middle-aged man was not made for the apron that belonged to his thin grandmother, but he had no other one at hand. He went to the kitchen, humming along with the radio, and put a frying pan on the stove after pouring a splash of olive oil into it. While it was heating up, he chopped two large cloves of garlic into irregular pieces, which he added to the oil when it began to sizzle, stirring them with a wooden spoon. Alfredo then took some tomatoes from the table. When he returned to the stove, he noticed his cousin Vito peeking through the door.

Vito was a tall, thin man with small, piercing eyes and an aquiline nose. At that moment, he was frowning and twisting his fedora hat between his hands. He was tapping his right foot incessantly, making rhythmic taps on the wooden floor. He cleared his throat for a moment before addressing Alfredo:

–I'm leaving.

Alfredo smiled at him calmly, not sharing his nervousness. He was confident that Vito would get them out of the predicament they were in. His cousin was, in some ways, like an eel. He was a cunning and elusive man who knew how to get out of any status unscathed. Even so, he wished him good luck:

"Thanks to you, we can't afford to let me leave any other way," Vito muttered in response, put on his hat, and headed for the front door of the house.

He was out for sixteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

1:14 a.m.

Vito quickly walked away from the house and headed down one of the city's main streets. It was market day, and vendors were shouting out their offers to be heard above the bustle. It was hot, and the smell of ripe fruit mingled with that of fish and seafood. He felt slightly dizzy. Sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes. He wiped it away with a gesture of annoyance. The stifling humidity increased his tension.

"It's always the same," he thought. "Alfredo makes a mess and I have to clean it up."

He pushed his way through the crowd; he couldn't be late for the meeting

3:56 a.m.

Once the tomatoes were peeled, Alfredo added them to the pan to cook until they turned into a vibrant red sauce. Meanwhile, he took a brown paper bag in which he kept the meatballs and sausages, and set about frying them in another pan.

5:22 a.m.

When Vito arrived at the restaurant, the owner, who was drying glasses with a cloth, gestured with his head toward a private room. Upon entering, he found Don Vitelli sitting at a roundtable, taking leisurely puffs on a long cigar. He was flanked by two of his best men. Vito took off his hat and approached to pay his respects, kissing him on each cheek. Don Vitelli pointed to an empty chair with his cigar and motioned for him to sit down.

"You know why you're here, don't you, son?" he asked in a bland, soft voice for a septuagenarian who had been smoking all his life.

Vito nodded. Seeing that his interlocutor said nothing more, he explained:

I'm here because my cousin and I betrayed your trust. Alfredo, drunk, blabbed the details of our business in Florida in front of one of Lampone's men. I should have kept an eye on him, I know. He's part of my family and therefore my responsibility. A week later, Lampone's gang stole everything from us: the product and our buyers, after murdering our men along the way.

Mr. Vitelli replied:

–That's true, dear Vito, but you're a smart boy. So, tell me why you're here.

Vito looked him in the eyes.

"To earn a second chance..." he glanced at Don Vitelli's bodyguards, "or to die."

Mr. Vitelli smiled.

8:41 a.m.

Alfredo took a swig from the bottle of red wine before pouring its contents into the pan where the sauce was boiling. He added a pinch of sugar and seasoned it with salt and pepper. While it was reducing, he poured the spaghetti into the pot. Tired of standing, he placed a stool in front of the stove, sat down, and lit a cigarette.

–Vito doesn't like me smoking in the kitchen, but he's not here, so... he said to himself as he exhaled a long plume of smoke.

11:08

"You're smart, my son, and I'm tired," Don Vitelli moved his hands slowly as he spoke. "You know that a few days ago, we lost our dear Fabrizio in a skirmish. He was a good consigliere, although old-fashioned. These new times need people who are hungry, alert, agile, who know how to make decisions with a cool head. Do you understand what I mean?" He gave Vito a fatherly smile.

"Yes, Don Vitelli," he replied.

The old man asked him:

Are you the man I'm looking for?

4:27 p.m.

The spaghetti splashed against the metal colander. Alfredo bit into one to check if it was cooked. He smiled with satisfaction: the pasta was al dente. At that moment, the front door opened. Alfredo dried his hands on his apron and went out to greet his cousin.

"How did it go?" he asked her.

Vito closed the door without looking him in the eye.

–You've given me a second chance.

"Bravo! I told you you could do it," he exclaimed with satisfaction. Immediately his face clouded over. "Wait; did you say they gave you a second chance?"

–That's right.

–And what about me?

His cousin pulled a gun from inside his jacket.

–Hi, Alfredo.

The flowered apron was stained crimson.