The Godfather

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THE GODFATHER
By 
Mario Puzo 
 
 
 
 
 
Courtesy: 
 Shahid Riaz 
Islamabad - Pakistan 
[e-mail] 

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 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
2
Book One
Chapter 1 
Behind every great fortune there is a crime – Balzac 
Amerigo Bonasera sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3 and waited for justice; 
vengeance on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter, who had tried to dishonor 
her. 
The judge, a formidably heavy-featured man, rolled up the sleeves of his black robe as if 
to physically chastise the two young men standing before the bench. His face was cold 
with majestic contempt. But there was something false in all this that Amerigo Bonasera 
sensed but did not yet understand. 
“You acted like the worst kind of degenerates,” the judge said harshly. Yes, yes, thought 
Amerigo Bonasera. Animals. Animals. The two young men, glossy hair crew cut, 
scrubbed clean-cut faces composed into humble contrition, bowed their heads in 
submission. 
The judge went on. “You acted like wild beasts in a jungle and you are fortunate you did 
not sexually molest that poor girl or I’d put you behind bars for twenty years.” The judge 
paused, his eyes beneath impressively thick brows flickered slyly toward the 
sallow-faced Amerigo Bonasera, then lowered to a stack of probation reports before 
him. He frowned and shrugged as if convinced against his own natural desire. He spoke 
again. 
“But because of your youth, your clean records, because of your fine families, and 
because the law in its majesty does not seek vengeance, I hereby sentence you to three 
years’ confinement to the penitentiary. Sentence to be suspended.” 
Only forty years of professional mourning kept the overwhelming frustration and hatred 
from showing on Amerigo Bonasera’s face. His beautiful young daughter was still in the 
hospital with her broken jaw wired together; and now these two animales went free? It 
had all been a farce. He watched the happy parents cluster around their darling sons. 
Oh, they were all happy now, they were smiling now. 
The black bile, sourly bitter, rose in Bonasera’s throat, overflowed through tightly 
clenched teeth. He used his white linen pocket handkerchief and held it against his lips. 
He was standing so when the two young men strode freely up the aisle, confident and 
cool-eyed, smiling, not giving him so much as a glance. He let them pass without saying 

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