Chapter 1: The Birth of the "Goodfella"

 

Milan, late Sixties. The air was thick with big promises and the acrid smoke from the factories—a mash-up of fresh cement and blue-collar hope. It wasn't the bittersweet smell of Sicilian citrus groves, or the salty tang of the sea kissing the shores back home. For Salvatore and Teresa, Giuseppe's folks, Milan was the promised land, the spot where a steady paycheck wasn't a pipe dream but a sure thing, where their kids would get a different, better shot at life. They rolled in with a cheap cardboard suitcase and hearts swelling with a weird mix of fear and sheer guts, hauling not just their thick dialect and Nonna’s recipes, but also a code—an unwritten rulebook as ancient as those Greek temples. A code all about honore (honor), family, and gender roles etched in stone by tradition.

Salvatore was a big dude, his hands massive and calloused, smelling of dirt and hard labor. His small, dark eyes were dead serious, reflecting the unbending toughness of a man who’d learned life the hard way. For the head of the family, a man was the main pillar, the rock-solid provider who never showed a crack, never a sign of weakness. "A man is a man when he provides for his family, when he makes sure they don't go without nothin'," he’d constantly drill into Giuseppe, his voice raspy, his gaze fixed, like he was trying to burn those words into his son's DNA. The kid quickly learned the weight of those expectations—a burden you couldn't see, but one that was crushing. Every little insecurity, every wobble, was shut down quick with a hard look, or worse, a harsh, humiliating tongue-lashing. Salvatore’s words were never sweet; they were often sharp as a switchblade, capable of gouging deep wounds in a young kid's soul. "You're useless," "You ain't worth squat," "You're a good-for-nothing" were lines the boy heard way too often, planting a chronic fear of bombing it inside him. Sometimes, that harshness turned into quick, unexpected slaps, more about flexing authority than punishing a specific thing, leaving not so much bruises on the body as invisible scars on the little guy’s self-esteem.

It’s rough when you realize how love, twisted into an expectation of performance, becomes the sharpest tool for chipping away at a kid's budding identity, turning the search for affection into an endless, exhausting performance to prove your worth.

One moment that stuck with him was from when he was six. He came home with a colorful drawing—a field with a huge sun and clouds—super proud of his work. His dad glanced at it, wrinkled his nose, and then quickly sketched a guy lifting weights. "See, this is how you gotta be. Tough. Don’t be drawing flowers like some little sissy." The drawing ended up in the trash, and Giuseppe got the message: his creative feelings, his sensitivity, had no real estate in the world built for him. So, the only acceptable reality was one of strength and always delivering.

Teresa, the mother, was a tiny woman, but with a will of steel hidden behind a face already lined with premature wrinkles. Her hair, pulled back in a tight bun, seemed to try and contain a bottled-up energy. She was the one who ran the house with an iron fist, pinching every penny, judging more with a look than with words. Since he was a little kid, her son had learned to read the disapproval in her eyes, to fear her silence more than any yell. Teresa never raised a hand, but her violence was subtle and deep-cutting, made of punishing silences, looks loaded with disappointment, and constant, corrosive criticism that chipped away at his self-confidence daily. "You're not what a man should be," "You gotta be tougher," her words were like water drops wearing down a rock, eroding his already fragile self-worth.

Look, growing up is confusing enough without your folks turning it into a tryout for the NFL. Talk about pressure—it's no wonder he was constantly on edge, waiting for the next test.

Another sour memory haunted him. One night at dinner, she served a dish he hated. When he dared to refuse it, she didn't scream, she just left the plate in front of him, taking everyone else's away. "You don't get up until you finish it. That's how you become a man—eating what’s put in front of you." Giuseppe spent hours sitting in that humiliating solitude until fear and the cold eventually won, forcing him to swallow the meal, which was now cold and nasty, but more importantly, to swallow his pride. He grew up believing his manhood was locked down to his ability to be "strong," to not mess up expectations, to not be a "loser"—a concept instilled through a rigid, affection-free discipline, often based on psychological manipulation tactics that left him confused and shaky, ready to jump at the first chance to prove his "masculinity."

Milan, early Eighties. For the thirteen-year-old, the city's promise of a future was already a tangled mess of unsaid fears. His clumsiness, his perpetually shaky vibe, made him easy pickings for anyone looking to feel powerful. He was desperate for acceptance. That’s probably why he got tight with that crew of older, cockier guys, led by some dude named Enzo—a charismatic bully with steel eyes and a rep to keep up.

Morena was the kind of girl who turned heads. She was in their class, but seemed to be from another planet. With her wild, black curls and a body that was already filling out for her age, she challenged the school's gray uniforms with a vibe that was almost too bold. She was sunny, laughed loud, and had the nerve to dump the crew's boss for a guy from another school—a straight-up slap in the face to the neighborhood's unwritten "code." Gossip was flying, infecting the air like a virus. Enzo was pissed, his pride bruised. And when the leader was hurt, he looked for payback. Giuseppe knew it was coming. He could smell it in the air—that sharp, acrid scent of something bad on the horizon. The bully started rounding up his boys, whispering revenge plots. Now, here he was, in the middle of them, mouth dry, heart hammering against his ribs like a runaway drum. At first, a part of him held back; the terror of what was about to happen clamped down on his stomach. He wanted to bolt, to vanish, but the fear of being left out, of being branded a weakling, was stronger than his gut instinct. Then, the words from Enzo and the others started to worm their way into his head. "That bitch needs a lesson," the leader hissed, his face twisted with rage. "We told her, she's a trashy piece of work." The voices piled up: "A whore, that's what she is! She's asking for it, she wants this!" Even in him, listening to those words, the resistance slowly crumbled. If everyone was saying it, if it was that obvious, then maybe it was true. Maybe Morena really was a "whore," and what they were about to do wasn't wrong, but justice—something she, deep down, desired or deserved. The idea that they were just granting her implicit wish, or punishing her for her "fault," gave him a strange, twisted legitimacy.

It was a rainy night, the sky low and leaden, perfect for hiding the shadows. Enzo got the tip-off: she'd be cutting through the park, alone, to get home. The meet-up was there, at the edge of the bare trees, near the streetlights that cast weak, deceptive circles of light. Giuseppe was with the others, waiting. Every leaf rustling in the wind, every raindrop hitting the ground, made his heart jump, but now it was a beat mixed with a growing excitement—a strange feeling of power he'd never felt before. When Morena appeared, a frail, clueless figure in the dark, it was like time stopped. The crew moved, fast and brutal. They surrounded her. Her laughter died, replaced by a choked scream. "Giuseppe... no!" Her voice, a mix of surprise and pure panic, pierced his ears. He met her gaze for a split second. She had recognized him. But in that moment, the boy’s eyes no longer held the fear from before. There was a new intensity, a distorted conviction that he was doing the right thing, almost a cruel pleasure.

She thrashed desperately, but there were too many hands, too much strength. They pinned her against the rough trunk of a tree. Her clothes, her shield, were ripped away in a fury. The sound of fabric tearing, the pop of buttons flying, was a horrible symphony. The others' cruel, flat laughter filled the park’s silence. Giuseppe jumped in with fervor, feeling the rush of that unleashed violence. His hands, which had always felt clumsy and useless, now moved with determination, grabbing, tearing. Every scrap of clothing that fell to the ground was a win, an affirmation of his power, a way to finally feel like a "man"—strong, like his dad and mom wanted.

This is how trauma rolls: the constant fear of not measuring up, instilled by a punitive, empathy-free upbringing, flips into an obsessive need to use violence to validate your existence.

He remembered Morena’s crying—a gasping, desperate sound, her tears mixing with the rain. But that sound no longer bothered him; it was background noise, confirmation that his power was real. Then the silence—a deafening quiet—as the group scattered into the dark, leaving the girl there, alone, to pick up the pieces of her shredded dignity.

Giuseppe booked it home, short of breath, his heart racing. He didn't feel dirty or stained. For the first time, he felt powerful, stoked. That night, coming home, was one of the first times he felt he had finally gotten tougher, the strong man his family demanded he be. He’d faced his fear, he’d participated, he'd proved he wasn't a wuss. And he never breathed a word of it to anyone. He didn't dare, not because he felt remorse or shame for the act itself, but because he was afraid his parents wouldn't get the "necessity" of that show of strength, or that they might see a side of him he didn't want to expose.

Morena didn't come back to school for months. When she reappeared, she was a different person. Eyes dull, smile gone. Her spark had vanished, replaced by an aura of cynicism and self-destruction. The neighborhood quickly slapped a label on her: "trashy," "she got hooked on junk." Nobody, apparently, connected her decline to that night in the park. But he knew. And that secret wasn't a weight—it was a confirmation, a latent reminder of the power he had felt, an experience that, in his warped mind, had hardened him, making him the strong man he was supposed to be, a man who had learned to control and punish.