Now, have any of you been to Italy? I pause as if you can answer me! Not quite the image of a vampire you might have expected? No, I really ought to play the part for you. From now on, I’m going to be a brooding, sulking, sad little vampire that intends to toss upon you a sob story about his bullshit life that never ended but only continues in misery. Sound good? Ok. So yes, my name is Vegeta. I was born in Italy, jumped a boat to New York, lived there until I was taken into the darkness and exist now because I’m too damned lazy to chain myself to playground equipment and wait for the sun. No no no! Terrible! Absolutely abominable! How could you let me do that?! Let’s start right. Ahem! My name is Vegeccio Giovanni Valentino. Try saying that three times fast! Even having vampiric abilities such as my own, it’s a struggle to say the least. In 1873, my father named me after a Spanish explorer whose discoveries escape me at the moment. And yes, we don’t have the flawless memories you might expect. Hell, if I was cursed to remember every single moment of my one hundred and thirty one years, my state would not be quite as cheerful as it is. But back to the topic. Yes, my name was Spanish rather than Italian which of course, brought me to a sort of shame amongst my strong Italian family who believed that every name ought to be strictly Italian and have a meaning behind it. Of course, whether you might have known it or not Valentino means strong in my language and for this, I was blessed. Sicily was always a beautiful city to me, though others might not agree. Of course, being in the predominate family that I was born into, I was raised in a gorgeous villa, surrounded by luxuries that most Sicilians never even laid eyes on. From a young age, too young I imagine, I was a Mafioso by family tradition. Born of the proud Valentino mafia, I was feared and respected, victimized and targeted. My father, Vincenzo (Later known as Vincent) Valentino was the most fearful man you could imagine. Cold and withdrawn from me, he was the tormentor of Sicilian poverty, very organized when it came to his dealings. Our family was huge, as most Italian families are, and obscenely close. If dad wanted it done, so to speak, it was as good as that. Someone pissed him off, notify the mortuary by Tuesday. Someone messed with his family, find a wheel barrow to pick up what’s left. A violent temperament, I could recall to you a million memories of my father, the kind you wish were just scenes from a movie. Awakening at night to the hushed sobs of my mother, and those high pitched squeals that came every once in a while, turning my blood cold in my veins. It was something that never bothered me until I grew to understand exactly what it was. Sitting on the slick marble flooring of my bedroom, I had looked up as a toddler, only to see my father’s hand wrapped around my mother’s thin throat, his other locked around her mouth as she sucked in air, forcing it out through the crevices of his fingers. In an innocent childlike mind, I smiled, imagining that my dad was playing with her. You would think that tears might have awakened this ridiculous notion, but in a child’s mind, the world will forever seem all that we are taught it is. Sunflowers and rainbows. Growing into a child of six years old, it finally dawned on me that it wasn’t playtime when my father would scream and back my mother into walls. That the belt around his waist was an object to be feared, as the very sound of the metal and leather being pulled from the loops became something of a nightmare for me. You know that feeling? The world between dreams and reality, when you feel yourself suddenly fall and your body jerks awake? I was never falling, or flying. I would hear the sudden sound of leather sliding across material; that crack of metal and just like that, I would be awake, my eyes darting around the shadowed room. My brothers, being older than me, were often times at the mercy of my father’s temper, as I was the youngest and Vincenzo’s favorite. The eldest Baldessare (named by my mother and meaning “protected by God”) was often times locked away in his room, a poetic man by nature and the whipping boy of my father who was homophobic before most people even imagined that men chose to have sex with each other. My second brother, Gian, (meaning “God is gracious”) was a constant failure, lazy from the day he was born and equipped with the determination of an African sloth. Though I was my mother’s favorite, there were times when I was victimized by my father’s wrath, laying underneath his belt on the floor and thinking that it would never end. I don’t think people honestly realize what abuse does to a child. I don’t think humans will ever truly understand the web of fate that being beaten just once can send us on. Naturally a child is born one way, but after being abused, (physically or sexually) its almost like a new course is set out for their life. And not always an easy course; or a good one. But for all his harsh dealings with me, I knew my father loved me. His temper short as it was, I treaded softly until the right age, avoiding him altogether for the most part. He was antisocial until it came time to handle “the business” and after one or two times accompanying him on a ritual “shaking” (the family word for threatening until we got what we wanted), I actually believed my dad to be quite the chatterbox! Now look at this. I’m tempted to start all over again. Well, its not like I don’t have eternity to write this after all but I’m simply appalled at the approach I’ve taken. I’m inclined to ripe this to shreds after reading what I’ve jotted down so far. I sound like an illiterate school boy writing his first speech for the teacher. Like a modern day punk rocker or wannabe gangster. And here I had wanted to sound so gothic. Oh well. Take it or leave it, this is how the story goes. I was loved. Maybe that’s what’s missing in all my vampire friend’s lives. They were unhappy from the womb, destined to be wretched until the sunlight claims them. But me? I was happy once. I was content. I had walked along the cheerful hallways of my home and had smiled at the carefree sense of it all. I had known what it was like to be confident, to be arrogant and stupid and not have to pay for those crimes in adulthood. I’d been a child at some point though I had grown up too fast. Isn’t that the irony of it all? We’re all in such a hurry to mature and grow that we spend our entire youth wishing it away. And I did the same. I’m surprised that I wasn’t better sheltered from the violence that my family indulged in. They were like gluttons, the lot of them, merciless and guiltless leeches! Entire families they would drown in the Salso River, tying large stones to ropes and wrapping them around children’s feet. They were the Italian bullies, handing out black cards offering protection at a charge and yet perfectly aware that the only thing people needed protection from was them. Ironic that the word “mafia” means refuge in the Arabic language and yet was the complete opposite. My father himself was knee deep in the politics of it all, Raffaele Pazzolo his greatest ally. At the age of three (1876) I was my father’s tiny companion, on a “good mission” to gain votes for uncle Raffaele, who was currently running for political office. Of course, gaining votes was easy when the alleged voter was gazing up the barrel of a loaded gun, sweat dripping down their faces when they agreed that Pazzolo was the man for the job. I remember staring curiously at a rather pesky “voter” who, even under the weight of such scrutiny, defied my father and refused to cast for anyone involved in such an organization. “Little Vegeccio,” My father had cooed, his big brown eyes examining me. “Mr. Benito doesn’t seem to agree with Uncle Raffaele. He wont sign this piece of paper. What do you think of that?”

I had stared innocently into the eyes of Benito Notarbartolo (Father to Emanuel Notarbartolo) trying to understand why anyone would refuse such a gentle man as uncle Raffaele.

“Make him.” I had said in my child’s voice, angry at this stupid old man that defied my father.

“Just what I was thinking Vegeccio,” Dad said, standing up straight as he cocked the gun, pushing me behind him. “You heard him Benito, you insolent old fuck! Sign the paper!”

The old man’s face twisted with an ugly glare that made every wrinkle twice as noticeable. In my childhood mind, I imagined him to be a large piece of dried old meat, baked in the sun for way too long.

“I’m not playin’ with you Benito, sign that fuckin’ paper or I’ll splatter your brains’ and do it myself!”

All the old man could manage to do was spit a wad of sticky saliva on my father’s gorgeous shoes, walking bravely into his face and adding a venomous “Fuck you” to the insult. At his father’s raised voice, 18 year old Emanuel raced into the room, right in time to witness his dad’s entire face blown off, pieces of flesh and bone spattering all over young Emanuel and even myself. Vincenzo didn’t know it at the time of course, but that single act was the undoing for the entire family as we knew it, Emanuel’s scream the beginning of a two generation grudge against the Valentino mafia.

And so you see my precious, I was never really innocent for long. Staring in horror at what remained of Benito’s face before his body collapsed to the floor, I was forever scarred with the image of what my dad had done over a lousy piece of paper. For one vote he had stolen a man’s life and a boy’s father. But then, Vincenzo only lived for the key word “respect” and Benito had denied him that.

Walking home with my father, I had been surprised when he stopped, kneeling down before me on a cobble stoned ally way, his expensive pants soaked in dirty puddle water as he cleaned my face of all the blood that had spattered on me.

“Respect, Vegeccio,” He had said, taking a scented tissue from his pocket and scrubbing away the blood. “Respect is all a man’s got. Someone takes that away from you, you do em’ in. It was like that with my father, with my father’s father, and its gonna be like that with you. It’s the family name kid and its up to you to withhold it.”

Sound like a two bit insert from the Godfather? Good. Because in the way of things, that’s all my family was. Mobsters, gangsters, mafia. They lived for death until it claimed them all, one by one. But then, that tale isn’t for now.

Until next time, I love you eternally. And I shall see you all very soon.