Ten questions about how you work. Answer honestly: the Family doesn't punish people who lie at interview. It just never calls them again. At the end you'll find out your role and the three essays to start with. Capisce?
Your place in the Family
Consigliere
You don't go to the Don with a question. You go with a proposal, and a spare one in your pocket. When everyone's shouting, you ask what they've forgotten: what if we're wrong? The job has one hazard: the day you start believing you're smarter than the Don.
You've got your own patch, your own people and your own numbers due on Monday. You know whom to hire, whom to pull apart and whom to tell not just what to do but why. The Don watches you from above, the soldiers from below, and both are sure you owe them.
Turnover doesn't impress you: you ask how much of it is ours. You take a handsome proposal apart on a napkin, and it rarely stays handsome afterwards. You may have no taste, but you can add, and arithmetic lets you down less often than taste.
You know which client pays when, which cook is in a mood and who's about to leave, before the bosses do. You're valued not for what you do but for what you know and don't say. I'd advise no one to offend you, least of all the Don.
You do what you're told, and you have it done by half past six, not ten. The youngest keeps quiet and watches; the only better school I know is a kitchen table. You'll have your own crew one day; for now, learn to obey and to ask again.
You decide, you decide alone, and you explain why. You say little, which is why people listen. Don't flatter yourself: power isn't money or a loud voice. It's what people do when you're not in the room.
