He'd gone straight. Raised in a crime family, he was the black sheep, the one who had balked at initiation, at having to kill someone, and for several years had patted himself on the back for having done what everyone had said couldn’t be done.

He had slipped into a new identity, a new life. No witness program. Just wit, he thought. The wife. The son. The family. The thing that really mattered most to a man, not loyalty to the Don.

He was content with his life, his perfect life. And here it was, a perfect Saturday, and he was up early to go and get the car ready for their special Saturday outing. With the smell of fresh coffee wafting in the air, he sailed into the two-car garage, eager to make sure the tires on the 4Runner were full, the car packed, and the mountain bikes firmly tied to the bike rack on the back of the car.

And seeing how this was the perfect family, one that didn't smoke, drink, do drugs, or launder money, for that matter, he was really quite surprised, bounding into the garage, to be confronted with the pungent odor of cigarette.

And, for the last twenty minutes of his life, he learned that you can never really leave the Mob, and that the Don was very, very disappointed in him.

The blood from the gaping wound in his neck filled the floor of the garage and mixed with the pool of motor oil underneath the 4Runner. No, his life had not been perfect. He had neglected to fix that leak in the oil pan of the 4Runner.

Per the Don's instructions the kid was spared, and thereby cursed with a grisly awakening, having found his mother eternally resting in the king size bed of the master bedroom with a bullet wound in the back of her head, and his father in the garage.