‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you’ – Friedrich Nietzsche

Guy Morelli was tired.

It was a summer’s day, and the heat was overwhelming. Guy worked tirelessly in his garden, clearing the rubbish, pulling weeds, and trimming edges. He had been up since the early morning, making sure everything was pristine. As he knelt in his garden, his hands were covered in dirt as he continued to pluck the weeds poking themselves out of the concrete tiling.

“I’m a fool to do your dirty work / Oh yeah / I don’t wanna do your dirty work / No more / I’m a fool to do your dirty work / Oh yeah.” He sang to himself. 

Just as he yanked out a particularly resistant weed, a sudden splat interrupted his rhythm. Startled, Guy looked at his shoulder – seeing a bird take flight; a dollop of bird shit landed directly on his shoulder against his faded blue shirt.

“For fuck’s sake!”  

He has a tantrum. He tossed his weeding hoe towards the bag that held his day’s work: dirt, twigs, freshly cut grass and raked leaves. The hoe struck the bag and pierced it. He ran over to the bag and kicked it like a football. All his dirty work spilt out and scattered in his yard.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Frustrated, he ran inside – glancing again at the shit stain on his shoulder. He grabbed a wet cloth and poured fairy liquid on it. He rubbed the fabric till the residue of shit was gone and went back outside. 

“This is a waste of my fuckin’ time.” 

He grabbed a rake and began raking all the dirt spilt out of the bags into one corner by his shed. The shed had a single, slightly rusted metal door that creaked open when Guy pushed the dirt against the side of the shed.

Then, as the afternoon waned, he found himself wrestling with a stubborn charcoal grill. His muscles ached, his clothes were drenched in sweat, and his breath came in ragged gasps. The physical toll was clear, but there was an unspoken frustration in preparing for what was meant to be a peaceful evening — almost like he was reliving his past. The said ‘simple task’ marked another day of absurdity and frustration. 

The first knock on the door came. Guy wiped his hands on a towel and headed to the front door, his steps echoing slightly on the hardwood floor. He opened the door to find his colleague and close friend, Sonny. He brought a box.

“Ay, Sonny. I’m glad you could make it.” Guy reached in for a hug.

“Ap-pa-pap, careful Nonno.” Sonny handed over the box wrapped in vibrant, patterned paper. “I got you something.”

“What’s in the box?” 

“Open it, you’ll see.”

Guy opened the box, revealing nine signature Sicilian cannoli. Each one was golden brown and dusted lightly with sugar. It’s just the way he liked it. 

Guy laughs, “You didn’t have to Sonny, we’ll save these for after the barbecue. Needed this after a disaster in the garden.” 

“I want you to try it. Have one now, taste it, and tell me how it is.”

“Alright. I’ll have a bite.”

Guy took a piece of cannoli out; its shell was crisp and inviting. He took a bite. The crunch of the pastry gave way to the rich, creamy filling inside. The taste brought him back, back to that day. 

“So, tell me, how is it? Good?” 

“It’s great; it makes me feel like I’m in Italy,” Guy said, wiping cannoli off his mouth. “Where’s your father and ya mother?”

Sonny smiled. “They’re on their way. I left early because they couldn’t get ready quick enough. I wasn’t gonna wait around for their asses all day.”

“Ah, you gotta show a little respect.” Guy places the box on the countertop. “If I ever pulled that shit out in front of your great Nonno, it’d be lights out for me. You know that.”

“I know, but why should I?”

“You gotta wait, they’d wait for you, wouldn’t they?” 

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You would know they’ve waited for you hundreds of times,” Guy lightly squeezes Sonny’s cheek, “If only you remembered how you used to act when you were younger.” 

“I don’t know, don’t care.”

Guy laughed, “Come outside. Let me show you the shit I have been dealing with.”

They both stepped back into the garden. Guy’s posture slightly deflated from the mishaps. Sonny, caught off guard by the scattered mess in the yard, raised his eyebrows in surprise at the disorder. Guy noticed, pulled a sheepish grin and shrugged.

Guy walked towards the shed and entered it. Inside, he grabbed a bag of charcoal tucked away beneath a shelf. He returned to the waiting grill in his garden and poured the charcoal into the basin. 

“You need a hand?” Sonny asked.

“Leave it to me for now; take a seat or grab a drink.”

Guy grabbed a lighter and some fluid, applying a generous squirt for the ‘quicker burn’ before lighting it. The coal caught flames instantaneously. He watched the flames dance and bits of black turn blacker. The fire crackled, serving as a reminder of darker times. 1991, the mob wars. Fire had been a tool of fear, a way of leaving a message rather than good spirits around a grill. Those flames had engulfed cars and safe houses belonging to rivals in the Colombo family; each act of arson was a statement, a way to leave a message.

Guy remembered standing much like he did now, watching as the structures turned to ash—knowing he was the puppet master behind it all, the igniter of the ‘formidable flame’. He didn’t care who he hit; you could tell by the fires that it was Guy’s trademark. He felt the power of those moments and the creeping dread of retaliation; it was a cycle and a lifestyle.

Then he felt a poke. 

“Nonno?” Sonny interrupted, jolting Guy back to the present.

“Sonny-” Guy coughed, “What’s up?”

Sonny pointed towards Guy, “You’re daydreaming; you’re gonna lose the flame. You sure you don’t want me to take over?”

“Just some old memories, don’t worry about it, I’m good.” He chuckled.

“Memories about what?” 

“Don’t worry Sonny.” Guy pointed towards the kitchen window. “Sonny go grab the patties from the kitchen. I’ll get ‘em on the grill.”

Sonny walked towards the kitchen. As he entered, the cool air from inside was a pleasant change to the heat of the backyard. He headed straight for the fridge to retrieve a tray full of patties, but something on the countertop caught his eye – a framed photo.

He paused. It was an old photo of Guy and several other men dressed in sharp suits. They stood confidently by a sleek black limousine. A sense of authority that almost extruded out of the picture. The men were arranged, yet a sense of seriousness went beyond friendship.

Sonny picked up the frame and looked closer at each face. Each man wore a stoic expression, their eyes revealing nothing of their thoughts. Guy, much younger, stood prominently among them. His stance was bold, yet there was a hint of something else – a shadow behind his eyes. Holding the photo, Sonny felt mixed emotions – curiosity, unease and a more profound curiosity about who Nonno was. He set the frame back down, carefully aligning it as before. He opened the fridge, grabbed the tray full of patties and headed back outside.

“Where ya been? They were only in the fridge.” Guy said.

“…I had to take a leak.”

“You better of washed your hands before grabbing that fucking tray, I’m telling you.” Guy laughed.

Taking the platter, Guy placed the first patty on the hot grill, the sizzle breaking the quiet crackle of the flames. He arranged each one neatly, leaving enough space between them. 

“You hear that sizzle?” Guy pointed at the patties, “That sizzle means the flame is just right, perfect.” 

“I bet. How long will they be?”

“Give or take fifteen minutes.”

Guy grabbed a spatula and flipped one of the patties, hearing the crisp sound again, this time louder. The never-ending sizzle, coupled with the crackle of the flames, took him back to that one time, that one time in 1991. It was three AM. The backroom was dimly lit with a yellow hue; only one bulb flickered – casting long shadows on the walls. 

“…Throw that fuck on the floor,” Guy said. “Tie him up.”

“Sit down cocksucker!” Frankie shouted, “The rest of the Colombo family are gonna die with you.”

Carmine Colombo, bound and gagged, on the floor. Frankie watched him squirm like a worm. Guy stood unphased, watching Carmine, who tried to weasel his way towards the fire exit. Frankie showered Carmine in petrol, then lit a matchstick, the small flame igniting. The Frankie threw it. The flames rose, higher and higher and higher. It was loud – Carmine was trying to breathe but couldn’t. 

“Sto… – arrrggghhh” 

Carmine’s muffled pleas were lost over the roar of the flames. The heat was intense, almost unbearable. 

Frankie’s voice was loud, “This is a message to Victor Orena. Let it be heard.”

All the hairs on Carmine’s body were gone, his clothing turned black, and his skin was ruptured in several areas. Pops of air would be heard. His torso was mottled with charcoal-black sections and orange embers. His cheekbones were more prominent than ever. White and pink frothy sputum poured out his mouth and nose. Cooked alive, his body was fixed into a crawl position, his last movement.

“He had it coming,” Guy said.

“They all got it coming, Guy. All of them.” Frankie laughed. “As for that, Victor Orena. That cocksucker, you know I could take him out in a second, the fat fuck.” 

“Get some gloves on and pick this prick up. Throw him into the grinder. Only the outside is burnt.” Guy said.

“Why didn’t you just put the fat fuck through the grinder first?”

“What, you wanted him to die peacefully?”

“I wouldn’t say-”

“I’m in no mood today,” Guy interrupted. “Shut the fuck up and just put him through the grinder. Be a tough guy, ah.”  

Frankie put on heat-resistant gloves and lifted Carmine’s lifeless, burnt body by the neck, dragging him onto the table.

“I’ll start with the leg,” Frankie said.

Guy watched Frankie turn on the grinder, the blades beginning to turn. Carmine’s leg was being pushed through the sharp blades. The auger pulled the meat and spewed it onto the floor. 

Then Guy felt a poke.

“Nonno, you did it again,” Sonny said.

“Did what Sonny?” 

“You spaced out again. What are you thinking about?” Sonny took the spatula off Guy and flipped the patties, “Keep zoning out and you’re gonna end up burning these.”

“Burn them? Na, I’ve been doing this before you were born.”

“What zoning out every minute you get?”

“Nah-” Guy facepalmed. “I mean flipping the burgers, don’t be getting smart.”

“I ain’t getting smart, Nonno; tell me what you’re thinkin’ about.”

Guy’s expression tightened slightly, and he glanced away from Sonny. Focusing back on the grill. 

“It’s just old stories, Sonny.” Guy chuckled and shook his head. “It’s just the weather; it got me thinking—it’s a hot, sunny day.” 

“If you say so.”

“Sonny, do us a favour and bring out that box of cannoli. Everyone should be here soon.”

“I’ll get it now.”

Sonny walked back into the kitchen, past the picture he had looked at earlier. The faces stared back at him as he walked past, and their eyes watched his every step. He walked towards the marble countertop where Guy had placed the cannoli. He walked back to the garden; the scent of the cannoli filled the kitchen as he walked through.

“Just place it there, Sonny” Guy pointed to a small, black sundial. “Why’d you get cannoli? I never thought you liked it.”

“You know, I watched The Godfather, right? Because we are Italian and all. You ever seen it?”

“The Godfather, yeah. I saw all of them; why?” 

“Get this, you know, the scene where Rocco goes and whacks Paulie, and he says, ‘Don’t forget the cannoli’. It’s one of the most famous scenes, and I never really ate Cannoli that much, so I wanted to try it.”

“Yeah. I know, it was three shots, bang…” Guy’s voice trailed off.

“Bang.”

“Bang.”

“Bang.”

Then, the cannoli were on a table in a cramped and shadowed room. Overly decorated and coated in grainy black-and-white photographs. A calendar read 1991. The table was scarred like the men in the room. A small jukebox was playing music from a record.

“Fly me to the moon!” Frankie sang.

“Frankie, would you shut the fuck up? You’ve been singing since I got here.”

“Fill my heart with song,” 

“The guy doesn’t stop. Is that cannoli in there, Luca?” Guy asked, raising his eyebrow. 

“Yeah, Salvatore brought it in earlier.”

“Where is he?” 

“Salvatore, come out here!”

After flushing the toilet, Salvatore stepped out the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, leaving the sound of water to fade away. Fixing his suit, he points at Luca.

“Luca!” Salvatore shouts.

“Salvatore, Guy wanted you.

“Guy, my man. What’s it you need? 

“Salvatore, where’d you get this cannoli?”

“The cannoli? Some broad was selling it down the markets. If it’s the girl or cannoli you want, I can show you where to find it, capisce?”

In the midst of the conversation, Frankie continued to belt out in tune. His voice grew louder. “Let me sing forevermore” Frankie sang.

Guy’s hand shot out, palm slamming down hard on the table. The cigars rolled off the table. “Frankie, I told you to shut the fuck up! Give it a rest; you can’t sing; Carmine sounded better when you burnt the cunt.” 

Frankie’s melody halted abruptly, and an uncomfortable silence fell over. Then, the door swung open with a definitive creak. All eyes turned to the door. A man stood there with a gun glint visible. 

“This is a message from Vincent Vincenzo.” The man said, raising the gun and aiming it at Frankie. Guy and Luca began to scramble, tripping over their seats in their attempt to flee. What happened next was quick: one shot rang out, followed by a second and a third. 

Three shots were all it took to put Frankie to waste. 

Then Guy felt a poke.

“You listening?” Sonny asked.

Guy coughed, “Yeah, The Godfather.”

“Yeah. I wish I was born into something like that. You see the way they dress? Them beige coats with their ties, I mean, even when they whacked Sonny, he died looking good.”

“Yeah, that was the style back then, I suppose.” Guy mused, rubbing his jaw and looked down at the burgers on the grill. 

Sonny leaned back and chuckled, “I wonder if that life was like it was shown in the film, you know? Could you imagine the director being in the mob or something like that?” He glanced around the garden. 

Guy nodded, turned to his side, and grabbed a pack of burger buns. He ripped the bag open and placed the buns on the side of the grill. “Sonny, grab yourself a plate, will ya? You can taste these beauties first before everyone else gets here.”

“Yeah, sure” Sonny pushed his weight forward to get off the chair.

Guy prepared the burger and placed it on a paper plate, the juices of the meat dripping down the bun. He handed it over to Sonny.

“Try it.”

Sonny wasted no time and raised it to his mouth. He took a bite. It was smoky, savoury, and sweet—the way he liked it. His eyes widened in approval.

“Nonno, mind my language, but this is fucking good.”

Guy laughed.

“Oh shit!” Sonny said as he spurted out bits of the half-chewed burger. “The Godfather, right? You know you got that picture in the kitchen. It reminds me of the film; it’s like you could’ve been a mobster, especially how you dressed back then with your friends.”

So, the question came at that moment. Guy stopped, patted Sonny on the head, and grabbed his cheek with a dismissive hand. He said, “I almost could’ve.”