Chapter One––Ciao, Anthony

He calmly wrote the words, “I killed someone today,” and took a sip of wine.

Journaling late at night was part of his daily therapy. In this line of work, it was sometimes necessary. Killing, not journaling. He hadn’t wanted to kill––he needed to kill. The victim’s name was Anthony Cribaldi. He never felt a thing.

Cribaldi––aka Don Anthony Cribaldi of the Chicago Mafia––was pure fiction.

The journal writer was a novelist who conjured Anthony out of thin air and dropped him into the first of three crime-and-suspense novels. Readers loved him from the start. He was brought back for the other two because he was likeable, handsome, charismatic and complex. Cribaldi was far from the typical, crusty Mafia-boss cliché; he could credibly discuss making delectable handmade pasta one minute and order a gruesome murder the next while simultaneously telling the joke about the football player who spikes the baby. He was ruthless, wealthy and shockingly funny.

The man had loved writing Anthony, but decided he had to go. In the Mafia, it’s two bullets to the head. In fiction, it’s a character’s arc decline and then a few deft keystrokes.

Still, the writer took pleasure in simmering Anthony in a rich broth of Stage 4, small-cell carcinoma of the lungs. It was kismet, the writer thought, smirking as he typed––Cribaldi never smoked.

The last memorable scene in his doctor’s office on a dark and rainy Chicago morning had the writer rearranging the oncologist’s schedule so the upcoming PET scan better suited The Don’s extortion and racketeering duties and the dialogue landed perfectly.

“Yeah, Thursday’s no good. Make it tomorrow instead,” muttered Cribaldi. Behind him stood two very yoke men, one in an Armani suit, the other in black leather.

“I’m sure we can do that, Mr. Cribaldi,” his doctor said, making notations. “Tomorrow morning, that is.”

“Fuckin’ right you can,” Cribaldi snapped back. He softened and said, “Sorry. Old habit,” then reached inside his coat and produced a thick envelope, which he slid across the desk. His voice caught on the words, “Do your best…eh, Jim?”

The doctor pursed his lips and reached over and picked up the envelope. Unfortunately, Dr. Jim’s best wasn’t quite good enough. Cribaldi died in his own bed six short weeks later. The writer couldn’t type fast enough. It was the last installment of Table For One and Cribaldi’s death was dealt by a keystroke as cold and dispassionate as putting a gun to a man’s forehead and pulling the trigger.

Buona fortuna, Anthony.