The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
218
what better way than to have it officially buried by a registered undertaker? And Amerigo 
Bonasera had no illusions about the act he was to commit. He would be an accessory to 
murder. If it came out, he would spend years in jail. His daughter and wife would be 
disgraced, his good name, the respected name of Amerigo Bonasera, dragged through 
the bloody, mud of the Mafia war. 
He indulged himself by smoking another Camel. And then he thought of something even 
more terrifying. When the other Mafia Families found out that he had aided the 
Corleones they would treat him as an enemy. They would murder him. And now he 
cursed the day he had gone to the Godfather and begged for his vengeance. He cursed 
the day his wife and the wife of Don Corleone had become friends. He cursed his 
daughter and America and his own success. And then his optimism returned. It could all 
go well. Don Corleone was a clever man. Certainly everything had been arranged to 
keep the secret. He had only to keep his nerve. For of course the one thing more fatal 
than any other was to earn the Don’s displeasure. 
He heard tires on gravel. His practiced ear told him a car was coming through the 
narrow driveway and parking in the back yard. He opened the rear door to let them in. 
The huge fat man, Clemenza, entered, followed by two very rough-looking young 
fellows. They searched the rooms without saying a word to Bonasera, then clemenza 
went out. The two young men remained with the undertaker. 
A few moments later Bonasera recognized the sound of a heavy ambulance coming 
through the narrow driveway. Then Clemenza appeared in the doorway followed by two 
men carrying a stretcher. And Amerigo Bonasera’s worst fears were realized. On the 
stretcher was a corpse swaddled in a gray blanket but with bare yellow feet sticking out 
the end. 
Clemenza motioned the stretcher-bearers into the embalming room. And then from the 
blackness of the yard another man stepped into the lighted office room. It was Don 
Corleone. 
The Don had lost weight during his illness and moved with a curious stiffness. He was 
holding his hat in his hands and his hair seemed thin over his massive skull. He looked 
older, more shrunken than when Bonasera had seen him at the wedding, but he still 
radiated power. Holding his hat against his chest, he said to Bonasera, “Well, old friend, 
are you ready to do me this service?” 
Bonasera nodded. The Don followed the stretcher into the embalming room and 

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