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“That’s Amore”, a popular pizzeria, is in a bad part of New York City, but people from all walks of life come just to experience the taste of New York’s number one pizza. People are sitting at small tables covered by red and white, checkered linens, enjoying their slices. Meatball and Joey are at the cash register in their white aprons; working almost as machines, dealing out pizza, and then taking in money. Antonio’s braid is pulled back in a hair net and he is using a giant wooden spatula to take pizzas in and out of the wood-fired pizza oven. Michael Angelo Patone is in back, in the kitchen, almost effortlessly rotating a large piece of dough in quick circles on top of his closed fists, stretching and kneading it into a thin circle of pizza perfection. Amalia is clearing off a table, and Vito is sweeping up the floor of the kitchen. Customers are coming in hungry and leaving happy. “That’s Amore” is doing as well as ever; they had just been rated the number one pizza by “Zagaat’s Review” for the third year in a row.

It was a regular Wednesday in New York, the sky was gray and there was a chill in the air. “That’s Amore” was as crowded as ever, and a sweet aroma filled the small parlor. Everyone was hard at work. Michael Angelo Patone was whipping up more of his special sauce, while listening to his favorite Italian Opera. He had a jolly expression on his face, and his apron rested on his bulging belly.

He removed four pizzas from the oven and popped a few more in. There was an almost tangible smell that flowed through his nose and down to his taste buds. “Hey, Joey, come get these,” Antonio called to Joey who was standing at the register. Joey slid two pizzas at a time onto the hot rack.

“What, you can’t be away from your girl ten minutes?” Antonio shook his head and chuckled.

“I gotta ask ‘er somethin’, is there a problem with that?” Joey glared meanly at Antonio.

“Two ‘roni slices? That’s five bucks,” Meatball said in his thick New York accent. Although he came off as tough, he got the job done quickly and efficiently. He didn’t need to be told what to do. Joey had worked at another pizza joint across town, ‘Pizza Bonjorno’ but came to ‘That’s Amore’ after deciding to work some place closer to home. Joey is slim and tall, he has a strong jaw and short brown buzz cut. The customers like Joey, he and Meatball are a good team. Meatball is heavyset. His five o’clock shadow and messy dark hair make him look scruffy. He has dark eyes and dark circles around his eyes that make his glance be mistaken for a cold stare.

“Hey Meatball, you hungry yet?” Joey said tauntingly. At their lunch break, Joey and Meatball enjoy having pizza eating competitions. The real fun is before the competition because they love to intimidate the each other, and each try to psyche the other out.

Meatball chuckles. “You wish, Joe, you wish,” he says shaking his head. A customer approaches, so they get back to work.

Amalia walks through the door, her long legs moving quickly toward the kitchen, and her thick dark hair bouncing in rhythm with her stride. Amalia had just moved to New York from Italy a year ago, her beautiful Italian features cause most of the men in the restaurant to fidget in their seats. Her smoky eyes give off a laser beam glow to anyone in a five-foot radius, and her Italian accent flows out of her mouth like a song.

The young man stares at her and stutters a bit. She smiles again and walks back into the kitchen.

The day goes by and soon there are no more customers left in the restaurant. Michael Angelo, Joey, Antonio, Amalia and Meatball always clean up before they leave. It is very dark outside and the wind is hitting the screen banging the door against the frame every time a big gust would sneak up on the small restaurant.

“It’s cold too, good weather for a slice ‘a pizza, huh?” Michael Angelo said, chuckling. Amalia smiled.

“Everything looks good over here,” Antonio said walking away from the tables.

“Good, good,” Michael Angelo said, as he sweeps the floor. Meatball, Joey and Amalia are all sitting around.

“Everything looks good in here. Go home. Get some rest. See you tomorrow,” Michael Angelo tells them with a grin. They take off their aprons and put on their coats. Michael Angelo turns up his opera and finishes the sweeping. He organizes ingredients in the huge refrigerator. It is getting late. He takes off his apron and puts on his coat. He turns off the music and the lights in the kitchen and in the dining area. The light from the street dimly lights up the empty restaurant. Michael Angelo opens the door and feels a cold chill blow into his body. He steps into the street and begins to walk to the parking lot around the corner. Suddenly, Michael Angelo Patone hears something behind him, then, a gigantic bang that echoes for miles. Within a split second, he is face down on the asphalt. He feels a huge earthquake jolt through him and now he lay lifeless and still in a pool of his own blood.

“Gunshot wound to the head, bullet found. Thirty-eight millimeter shotgun used. No sign of the gun,” said Detective Lawrence in a monotone. His face is painted with a serious expression and his piercing blue eyes pop out against the contrast of his crew cut, brown hair. He stands at the crime scene, assessing the area. His tall frame stands out in the crowd. He is dark and handsome. His uniform fits tightly on his broad shoulders and his muscular back. “Any witnesses?” He asks his partner, Deputy Goldberg. “Yeah, a Ms. Jenna Carey. Saw the killer from behind, but ran off when she heard the shot.” Lawrence scribbles down some notes.

“Let’s get some alibis. I want to talk to the witness and the victim’s family, friends, and co-workers.”

Detective Lawrence paces around the scene. He knows the street well. He loves pizza and had frequented the pizzeria many times before. He cordones off the whole block, from the pizzeria down to 32^nd Street. His staff swarms the scene looking for any piece of evidence to help find the killer. One member of the team makes an outline of Michael Angelo’s body where it lay on the ground, about 20 feet from the entrance of the restaurant. Lawrence walks up to “That’s Amore” and looks around. He walks down the street a ways, noticing the uneven pavement and the debris in the gutter. He passes the lifeless body outlined in white. There is a puddle of blood, pooling out from it, and blood is splattered eight feet in front of where the body lay, from the force of the shot. Lawrence walks down to the end of the street. He looks to his right, down a small alleyway. On the ground are puddles of dirty, gutter water. What’s this? He finds a pillow, an unusual item to be at this location. He takes it into evidence. He takes one last, long look at the scene and scans for anything else out of the ordinary. He seems satisfied, then steps into his squad car.

“So, Ms. Jenna Carey, where were you on the night of January 17?” Detective Lawrence is sitting about 3 feet away in his office, holding a recording device with his outstretched arm.

“I was on Irving and 31^st,” Jenna’s face looks terrified and tears are already welling up in her eyes.

“I saw a man walking on the other side of the street from me. Then another man appeared. He turned onto Irvine and started walking behind the first man.”

“I don’t know. Close behind, like he walked fast to get closer.” Jenna sniffled. “I walked faster feeling anxious, feeling something wasn’t quite right and then I heard it. It sounded like a loud explosion; like a firecracker. It felt as if it was one inch from my eardrum. Instinct took over, and all I could do was run.” Jenna closes her eyes for a moment and composes herself.

“He was a tall man, wearing a dark sweatshirt. He was a pretty big guy. Not fat, but he had kind of a big stomach. He was wearing dark clothes and a hood.”

“Maybe six feet, or so. That’s all I can tell you. It was very dark and it all happened so fast.”

“Thank you, Ms. Carey. If you remember any more details or have any questions, here is my card. Feel free to contact me. You are free to go.”

“Yes, sir. Four of them are coming in shortly, sir. Also, I just got a call from the NYPD. The gun was found in a pillow case in an alley on Irvine Street.”

Lawrence’s phone rang. “Send him in,” he said to his secretary. Goldberg leaves.

“’Bout two years I been workin’ there,” Meatball said in his thick New York accent.

The office door opens slightly, Goldberg sticks his head through and knocks quietly. “Sir, it’s urgent.” Lawrence nods and Goldberg comes in and hands him a folder. Detective Lawrence looks at it for a moment, then nods approvingly.

“Mr. Niccoli,” he begins the questioning again, this time with more conviction, “do you know anyone who would have a motive for the murder of Mr. Patone?”

“Mr. Niccoli, what can you tell me about an incident that occurred in 1994?”

Meatball was silent. “I was young and stupid. Me and the guys were messin' around and we got in some trouble. What’s that got to do with this anyway?”

“Yeah. But that has nothing to do with this. I’m innocent. I didn’t do anything.” Meatball said, scared.

“That’s all for now. You can go, Mr. Niccoli.” Detective Lawrence dismisses Meatball.

Meatball stands up and walks out of Detective Lawrence’s office. Lawrence sits in his chair, flipping through papers, with a serious look on his face. Goldberg opens the door. “We found the gun used to commit the murder. We traced the weapon’s owner to a Mr. Al Joseph Capone. We talked to Mr. Capone. He says the gun was stolen from his house three nights ago. He says he made a police report, we are looking into that now.”

Amalia and Joey sit at Joey’s dinning room table. Neither of them say anything. Amalia’s dark eyes are red and swollen. Joey just sits staring.

Joey rubs her back soothingly. The phone rings. “They want us both to go down and talk to the detective.”

She enters the room and sits in the frail chair. Her nose is red and tissues are sticking out of her pocket.

“I left work and went to my friend’s house. Mya Diaz is her name. I visited with her for a short while then went to my boyfriend’s house. His name is Joey Corleone. He works with us at the restaurant.”

Amalia stared at Detective Lawrence. An inexplicable look took over her once despaired face. It was not a look of sadness but a look of horror. Tears began streaming from her brown eyes, but her gaze was fixed on the detective. Her breathing began to speed up, sweat was building on her forehead and her cheeks turned pink, Amalia began looking from left to right, her big brown eyes frantically searching. She put her head in her hands and screamed as loud as she could.

“Detective Lawrence. Mr. Capone did not report the gun stolen three nights ago like he said. This is interesting, though. Mr. Capone’s brother in law owns a pizza parlor, ‘Pizza Bonjorno’ in Brooklyn.”

“Mr. Corleone, is there any reason why someone would want to kill Mr. Patone?”

Joey sits and thinks. “No. I don’t see any reason. He was a good guy. Great cook, too.”

“Yeah. I worked there for a while but it was too far away from my apartment in Manhattan. So I got a job closer to home, same business, pizza, with ‘That’s Amore’.” Joey replies matter of fact.

Before Joey can answer, the Detective stands up. He walks to the right side of his desk then looks at Joey.

“’That’s Amore’ is my personal favorite. Zagaat’s Review agrees with me rating ‘That’s Amore’ number one and ‘Pizza Bonjorno’ number two for the past three years.. And in New York, everybody knows if you don’t come in first, you’re last.”

Detective Lawrence paces around his office. He was on to something. Joey sinks deeply into the small chair.

“Mr. Garetti owns ‘Pizza Bonjorno’. He works hard. Very hard, but every year his restaurant falls short. He is pissed off. He probably wants to be on top.” Lawrence continued pacing. Joey’s head is becoming shiny with sweat.

“Turns out Garetti’s brother in law is Al Joseph Capone. The murder weapon was traced to Al Joseph Capone. The gun belongs to him. Now can you shed any light on this?”

“You left your old job to work for Garetti’s competitor. You say it’s because of “That’s Amore’s” proximity to your home. I say that’s a bunch of bull. I say it’s because Garetti and Capone planned the murder of Michael Angelo Patone with you as the shooter. Garetti and Capone are brothers in law. You are Capone’s nephew. You could work there for a while, so no one would be suspicious, then strike.”

Lawrence walked to his desk to call an officer. Sweat is now dripping from Joey’s forehead, his eyes glaring at Detective Lawrence. Joey lunges at Lawrence hitting Lawrence’s head on the desk. Lawrence throws a right hook into the side of the murderer’s jaw. Joey falls back on to the floor. He lay still. Meanwhile recovering from the blow to his head, Lawrence sits up and touches his head with his hand. He felt weak, and closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Bam! Pain radiated all over Lawrence’s skull, his face throbbed and he could taste blood in his mouth. Joey stood in front of Detective Lawrence with the chair over his head, ready to strike again. Detective Lawrence pulls his gun from its holster and shoots Joey Corleone in the arm. Joey falls to the floor as Lawrence runs for help.