It all started sometime around 1990, when, visiting my grandparents, I took a few minutes to scan my grandfather’s impressive shelf of books. Amidst the encyclopedias, books on Cuban history, Dick Francis, Umberto Eco, and Clive Cussler novels, was another book, with an ominous, black cover and killer logo: The Godfather. Wasn’t it based on a movie? I wasn’t sure. The tattered paperback didn’t offer much on the plot of the book — just a creepy sketch of an old man’s face, staring back at me. It was probably going to be pretty boring, I thought at the time.
