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What's this love everyone keeps talking about like they're obsessed?

Does it feel like two arms wrapped around you in a tight warm embrace?

Does it sound like the soothing, familiar voice telling you it's all going to be ok?

Can you put a price on it? Perhaps it cost as much as a brand new shiny diamond ring?

Well if you were to look to Angelo Vincenzo Gravina for the answer he'd state "You don't truly love someone unless you're willing to die for them every second of the day."

Angelo wasn't a lot of things - he wasn't talkative, thoughtful, kind, compassionate, charismatic, charming, or considerate of others, but despite all of his vices and shortcomings, Angelo loved his son more than anything else in the world even if he didn't always show it.

He was a man who was willing to do anything it took to make sure little Tommy had a chance to lead a better life than his old man has, a life where he didn't have to do the things Angelo has just to survive, even if that meant getting out of bed knowing that every new day might just be his very last.

Where other children would receive words of praise and reassurance, warm hugs, and holiday gifts Tommy would receive words of advice, stern guidance, and the occasional gruff "Bravo, ragazzo" in a thick sicillian accent followed by a big meaty hand ruffling his curly brown hair, causing a gleeful childish grin to dance across his face, revealing gaps where his milk teeth fell out.

When he wasn't busy being a family man, however, Angelo painted houses for a living, he was a professional with years of experience and countless recommendations by satisfied clients but... even professionals blunder sometimes, and occasionally those mistakes turn out to be rather costly.

Lady Luck, Dame Fortune, pure chance, happenstance - no matter what you chose to call it, the fact that an unexpected, unpredictable turn of events can drastically change one's lives, for better or for worse is undeniable.

Consider this then - How likely is it for a man to survive two point-blank .45acp shots to the back of the skull, make a full recovery and remember the shooter's face after the fact?

Furthermore, if such an event were to transpire, what would one call it? Fate? Chance, blind luck, or perhaps simply sloppy work on the part of the shooter?

In the end though, what one chooses to call it will not change the outcome.

That particular night was the coldest recorded in recent history, the white snow underfoot was slowly but steadily soaking through, turning a deep rich crimson.

It happened quick, clean, clearly done by a professional, seven loud shots ripped through the vacant, drowsy docs, every single one tearing into the target's center mass with a wet splat.

For a second all was silent as the gunshots hung in the air, no pained screaming or desperate begging, just silence eventually followed by the sound of heavy winter boots crunching snow under them step after step as the cloaked faceless figure got farther and farther away in no particular hurry, eventually blending into the night.

Angelo's still warm body hit the snow with a dull thunk, his arms wrapped tightly, protectively around a tiny figure pinned underneath, shell casings surrounding the both of them like a saint's golden halo, his brown eyes quickly turning glassy, glazing over, forever locked on a pair of tiny watery amber eyes staring back, barely peeking out from under an oversized fluffy hat and a warm wooly scarf with tiny specs of crimson splattered across.

If it wasn't for the flakes of snow slowly drifting down to the ground from the heavens overhead and the deep crimson blotch slowly soaking through the snow one might have thought that time stopped at that moment as the two figures lay wrapped around each other, a small pitiful whimpering like that of a wounded puppy coming from the crimson colored snowdrift.

Tommy was only six when he lost everything that night, but he also gained something he never had before - as his tiny fingers clutched around his father's blood-stained coat, turning blue from the merciless cold a set of footsteps, light, quick, unsure, almost scared but somehow determined crunched their way toward his quiet whimpering.

It wasn't long after that a soft feminine voice called out to him, very young but strangely motherly, seemingly as pained as him "Ehi, guardami piccolo, senti andra tutto bene ok? Guardami..." before two soft, cold hands cupped his bright pink face, wiping off his hot tears.

What's a good person? Really think about it.

Would a good person hurt another to feed their loved ones?

Would a good person take one life to save two others?

Does doing good set right all the horrible wrongs one committed over their lifespan?

Well if you were to ask Tommaso Vincenzo Gravina if his father was a good man he'd tell you "Depends on your point of reference, compared to the lovely individuals he's sharing the nine circles of hell with? Probably a pretty swell guy... I still love him though." with a crooked smile.

Being an orphan in the streets of Sicily is tough, winters are cold, people are jaded and desperate, only the luckiest and the most ruthless survive, and after seeing what happened to his father Tommy wasn't willing to hand his life into the cold clutches of the fickle mistress Lady luck, neither his nor... hers.

He took what he needed at knifepoint, by the time he was fourteen the feeling of warm blood trickling down his hands wasn't anything new, though it never got any easier.

But no matter how hard it got he wouldn't stop, he had a favor to repay, even if it meant waking up knowing every coming day might be his very last.

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