Every year, I revisit it (The Godfather). I really enjoy this story about power, loyalty, and revenge. The more I read it, the more I slowly understand that it actually tells the story of a group of people desperately trying to protect themselves when they do not believe in the system.

In recent years, the scene that has weighed most on my mind is the seemingly casual description of the local customs of Sicily: 'To call you a cop is the greatest insult in Sicily.' I have never understood: why do the people of a place distrust their own country so much? Why are they willing to entrust their lives to the mafia, yet never seek help from the government?

Recently, I began to research the history of this island of Sicily, and the more I investigated, the more shocking it became. This small island at the center of the Mediterranean has never ruled itself — the Phoenicians came, the Greeks came, the Romans came, the Arabs, Normans, Spaniards... Finally, it was the 'homeland government' after the unification of Italy. But no matter who came, they treated this place as a peripheral colony to tax, conscript labor, and exploit resources.

Every generation of Sicilians lives under the rule of others, watching conquerors change flags, yet they have never waited for fairness and dignity. Thus, they slowly learned a skill: to distrust the government and rely on their own people.

By the 19th century, the unification of the Italian government had failed, and Sicily was in disarray, with corrupt officials and chaotic public order, even directly colluding with criminal forces. In the absence of government authority, the Mafia emerged in the mid-19th century.

At first, it was called the 'Honorable Society,' maintaining order through family and kinship, resolving conflicts, and protecting the community. You could see it as a form of 'folk order.' Later, it evolved into an underground force, filling the vacuum of law and order. The Mafia became the 'alternative government' for local communities, providing protection and arbitration.

But at least in the eyes of many Sicilians, what the Mafia does should have been done by the government.

Interestingly, the word 'Mafia' originally did not have an evil connotation. It comes from the Sicilian dialect 'mafiusu,' meaning arrogance, confidence, or a display of masculinity; there is also a theory that it comes from the Arabic 'mahya,' referring to protection or provocation. In either case, it has nothing to do with the 'black hand' we imagine.

But when it reached North America, the media sensationalized these Italian-American gangs as the Black Hand because their threatening letters to businessmen featured a drawing of a black hand — if you didn’t pay, this hand would reach for you at night.

In the Chinese context, the translation of 'Mafia' is almost instinctive — it does not seek accuracy, only imagery. Black symbolizes concealment and violence; hand symbolizes control and infiltration; and the word 'party' seems to declare that this is a more stable organizational form than the government.

From 'Honorable Society' to 'Mafia,' the translation is wrong, but precisely wrong — it misses the literal meaning but hits the collective subconscious's imagination of shadow power.

This is very similar to the governance realities in some modern societies: where law fails, other orders take root; and our naming of something is often more powerful than the thing itself. Sicilians are a typical group that believes in this 'other order.'

Vito Corleone in (The Godfather) embodies this belief. As a child, he watched his father murdered by the local mafia boss, with no justice available, and he was hunted down, forced to flee to America. He lends money without interest, helps people seek justice, and for 'business,' resorts to violence or murder; even the police come to him to negotiate terms, and senators quietly offer wedding gifts. Is this reasonable? In a community where the government is virtually nonexistent, his actions become reasonable, and he himself is a reasonable part of it.

There is an old saying in Sicily: 'Revenge is a cold dish that must be served slowly.' You might think this logic is barbaric, but from another perspective: if you have lived a life without judicial protection, would you still be willing to 'go through the procedures and processes'?

Even by 2025, the Sicilian people's indifference to the system remains unchanged. Reports from the European Union's statistical office show that the trust in government institutions in southern Italy has long been 40% lower than the national average. In Sicily, this distrust is not just a matter of 'suspicion'; it is a deeply rooted cultural structure.

Many people do not cooperate with investigations, do not trust the judiciary, and are even less willing to seek help from the government. They even see silence as a virtue.

In Sicilian, this silence has a specific term: 'Omertà,' which is the famous code of silence. This is the Mafia's 'honor code,' meaning: even if you witness a murder, you cannot report a word to the authorities; even if you are bullied or wronged, you must solve it yourself, and can never rely on the state.

In (The Godfather), Puzo dramatizes this culture: no one calls the police, no one goes to court; all that exists is 'you come to me, indicating friendship, and I will help you.'

It sounds like brotherhood, but in reality, it is an alternative rule established by an entire nation after long disappointment. The essence of 'Omertà' is not loyalty, but distrust.

When a society repeatedly experiences the reality of 'the government is unreliable,' people will simply choose to keep quiet, refuse to cooperate, and even form a reverse morality: speaking out is betrayal, silence is justice. It is not born of suspicion, nor is it a celebration of rebellion, but after countless attempts to believe, only to be let down repeatedly, they can only choose to rely on themselves.

You might think this is just a mafia issue, but in fact, it is the way ordinary people defend themselves against the world.

In Web3, there are actually many 'Sicilians.' They have seen anonymous project teams delete their accounts after funding, witnessed DAO votes that are always ineffective, seen KOLs shout 'hold the faith' while quietly dumping tokens OTC, seen people rush through CA in ten minutes only to bury themselves, and witnessed the indefinite postponement of TGE.

So, they start to be cautious and hesitant, remaining vigilant toward anyone who seems 'to want to persuade you.' They do not trust white papers, do not trust roadmaps, and do not trust the 'fair launch' token model. Their default position is 'the world will not take the initiative to be good to me,' and they hardly have many friends.

You ask them: 'Why do you not trust anything?' They might say: 'It's not that I don't trust; it's that I want to trust too much, so I can't trust easily.'

You say they are cold, but in fact, they desire trust more than anyone else. However, they dare not entrust easily.

I am the same: from being cautious when I first engaged in interactions, to later participating in governance, writing research, and voting. I understand: in the world of Web3, just like in our native world, trust is not given for free; it must be built little by little.

I have checked the other party's GitHub, traced their on-chain addresses, and gone through all their X posts from the months before their token launch; I have participated in proposals, seen how proposals were altered and ignored, and witnessed someone seriously listen to the speeches of anonymous accounts.

Only then do I slowly realize: who is a true builder, and who is just here to harvest; who has only a pretty persona, and whose project, even if obscure, is quietly writing code, adjusting parameters, and debugging governance systems.

It is not that we do not want to believe, but that we know too well the cost of believing the wrong thing. Deep down, we have always longed for trust. However, this trust should not be built on speeches and KOL retweets, but earned bit by bit through consistent actions.

Do you think Web3 is the beginning of 'de-trusting' everything? In fact, it is just an opportunity to rebuild trust. Yes, we use smart contracts to enforce rules, reduce deception with code, and eliminate 'defaulting' with on-chain data — this is great. Because when we no longer rely on a central referee, we must write the referee into the agreement. 'Code is Law,' this is the most powerful creed of Web3.

But do you know? Code has never been Trust. Code can be enforced, but it cannot tell you 'whether we will change the agreement.' Code can distribute tokens, but it cannot guarantee that these tokens will not be gradually liquidated by the team. Code can arrange voting processes, but it cannot ensure that the vote is not a carefully staged play.

You can see the execution logic, but you cannot see the motivation behind it. Therefore, what truly determines whether an agreement can go far is never 'how smart it is written,' but 'whether it can be fulfilled.'

You ask how Web3 can avoid becoming a cold calculation game or a scheming game? It does not rely on who burns the most gas, nor on who writes the prettiest contracts, nor on who has the highest average education in their team, nor on who has the strongest KOL matrix. It relies on people. On you, on me, and on those who are willing to allow others to 'trust them.'

Just like that old Sicilian, who, when external rules are invalid, still chooses to uphold his commitment to the world.

Perhaps one day, we will ultimately merge into a new way of trusting — not built on power and speeches, but on 'what I have seen you do,' and 'the on-chain record that you never disappoint others,' whether it is towards people or projects.

I write these words not out of nostalgia, nor to romanticize mafia culture. But to say: in this age where everything can be quickly replicated, trust remains an extremely scarce thing. You cannot rush it, template it, or buy it with a budget. You can only build it little by little through interactions and fulfilling promises.

And those willing to build this trust are not weak; they are the bravest. They are like the olive trees on the Sicilian hills, unyielding to the wind, unburned by fire, growing silently year after year.