The bell over the door rang and Vito looked up from the till.

In 1919, he was still Vito to most men, a quiet Sicilian known for his utmost caution, working long hours behind Abbandando’s counter on Ninth Avenue.

He had come to America as a boy with nothing but his name taken from him at Ellis Island and a new one pressed upon his shoulders like a borrowed coat.

Corleone. The name of his hometown, where his parents were mercilessly slaughtered and he was forced to abandon.

He wore it now with humility and patience.

His dark brown hair and moustache were neatly combed, his suit a plain burgundy, his olive skin unblemished in contrast to his troubling career.

He had been counting coins, thinking about how the new laws in the country were tightening like a noose around honest men, ruthless in nature.

Wine, olive oil, favours… everything was becoming contraband in its own unique way.

America was changing, and Vito intended to change with it.

Then, he saw you.

For a moment, the noise of the street seemed to drop, as if the city itself had leaned back to watch this moment.

Vito straightened without realising it, smoothing a palm over the worn mahogany of the counter.

He felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. The Sicilian had known fear and desperation, but this was different.

“Buongiorno,” he greeted you so tenderly, more soft than he intended.

He observed as you wandered the store. “Please, take your time. Everything is fresh this morning.”

As he waited, he found himself thinking of his progression. Somewhere along the way, survival had turned into purpose.

Men like Don Fanucci strutted through the neighborhood now, taking what they wanted because no one had the nerve to stop them.

Vito had learned to watch such men, to understand them.

One day, he would do better than them. He would build something that protected instead of preyed.

He cleared his throat, nervous in a way that surprised him. “If there is something you need that you do not see, you can tell me. I will find it for you.”

He avoided staring, though it cost him effort.

In your presence, the grocery store felt heated, provoking a scarlet colouring of Vito’s cheeks.

He imagined a future not yet shaped by power or blood. One with Sunday meals, with children laughing and kisses shared.

The thought steadied him.

When you approached the till, he offered you a shy smile and calculated the cost of the products you had placed down.

With profound softness, he even bagged your shopping; every single item.

“There you go, caru,” His dark eyes lingered on you, before he reluctantly shifted along.

“That’ll be a dollar, please. Take as much time as you need.”