I was born in Sicily in 1925. That little guy is me, I’m standing there with my parents and my sister Francesca, in front of our old house. I don’t really remember too much about the old country, except that we were pretty hard up, and then one day my father decided it was time to move away. Away from Sicily, across the ocean to start a new life in America. Never in my life had I seen anything as fantastic as Empire Bay, it was beautiful. But on the other hand, I’d never seen anything more filthy and so disgusting as our new rathole of an apartment. The American dream was more like a nightmare. My father started working at the port for the guy who arranged our immigration, it was back-breaking work, and the little money he made mostly went toward booze. Eventually my parents sent me to school, I had to learn English. I sure as hell wasn’t going to do that in a neighbourhood full of Italians. That's where I met Joe. Over time Joe and I got to be best friends and since we were both poor and there wasn't much work around, we stared a little business of our own. Well, that time, it didn't work out so good. The year was 1943 and America was at war and they needed guys who spoke the language to help out with the invasion of Sicily, I was 18 and anything seemed better than jail, who says you can’t go home again.