Don Giacomo Finocchio sat behind his enormous oaken desk. An incongruously tiny cup of espresso sat before him from which he sipped, pinkie finger upraised delicately.
His consiglieri had been pressing him to strike against the Nunzios for weeks now. Yet Finocchio had not acted rashly. There were negotiations to conduct, arrangements to finalize, before he could make his move.
Everything was ready now. “Fluttuare come una farfalla, pungere come un’ape,” he thought to himself as he raised his wand, unleashing his sting. Miles away, every Nunzio caporegime fell stone dead.
Being a fairy Godfather, Finocchio thought, had its advantages.