"You can pay what you owe." I don't sit down or make any pretense that this is a social visit. "You're three weeks behind on your protection money, Sal. That's not acceptable."
He wipes his hands on his apron in a nervous gesture that tells me everything I need to know about his state of mind. "I've been having some cash flow problems. The economy, you know, it's been tough?—"
"Bullshit." I cut him off, my voice hard. "You've been paying us on time for fifteen years. Your business hasn't changed. What's changed is that you think maybe the Benedetti family is a better bet. That maybe they're stronger than we are."
The color drains from his face. "No, Mr. Moretti, I would never?—"
"Don't lie to me, Sal. I know the Benedettis have been making overtures. I know they've been suggesting that maybe you'd be better off under their protection. And I know you've been considering it."
He stutters for a moment as he starts to speak. "They said—they said that maybe the Ciresa family was having some internal problems. That maybe it would be smart to have options."
"And what do you think now?" I take a step closer, and I can see the way he shrinks back. His hands start to shake. "Do you think we're weak? Do you think we can't protect you?"
"No, sir. I just—I was scared. I didn't know what to do."
"Here's what you do." I lean against the counter, my voice dropping a register. "You pay what you owe. You pay it now. Andyou never, never, consider switching your allegiance to another family again. Because if you do, if you even think about it, I'm going to come back here and I'm going to burn this restaurant to the ground with you inside it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"Good. Tony?"
Tony steps forward, and Sal scrambles to open his register, pulling out a stack of bills with shaking hands. He counts out the money—three weeks' worth of protection payments, plus a little extra that I assume is meant as an apology—and hands it to Tony.
"Thank you for your continued business, Sal," I say, straightening. "I'm glad we could clear up this misunderstanding."
We repeat the process at the dry cleaner and the grocery store, and each time the result is the same—fear, then compliance, and finally the understanding that the Ciresa family is not weak or vulnerable, or something you can walk away from without consequences.
By the time we're done, it's early afternoon, and I'm exhausted. The violence at the docks gave me a temporary release, a momentary sense of control, but now it's fading, and all that's left is the hollow ache of knowing that I'm going to have to go home and face the reality of my life. The reality of Giulia.
But I'm not done yet. I still have one more problem to handle.
Vincent Calabrese.
I find Vincent at a social club in Brooklyn, a place where made men gather to drink espresso and play cards and conduct business that can't be done in more public settings. It's mid-afternoon, and the club is mostly empty except for Vincent and two of his crew. They look like younger guys—ambitious, the kind who are always looking for opportunities to move up in the organization.
Vincent sees me walk in, and I watch the calculation flash across his face as he tries to figure out if he should run or fight—or try to talk his way out of whatever's coming.
"Luca," he says, standing. "I wasn't expecting you."
"I know. That's the point." I move deeper into the club, and Tony and his men position themselves near the door, blocking the exit. "We need to talk, Vincent. About the meeting you held last night."
His expression doesn't change, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't insult my intelligence. You gathered your crew without clearing it with Romeo or Dante. You talked about whether the family is still strong enough to maintain our position. You questioned the don's authority." I stop a few feet away from him, close enough that he can see the blood still staining my knuckles from this morning. "That's not just disrespect, Vincent. That's treason."
"I was just talking—just expressing concerns that a lot of people have?—"
"A lot of people?" I take another step closer. "Who else is questioning Dante's authority? Who else thinks the family is weak?"
"I didn't say weak. I said?—"
"I know what you said." My voice drops, and even I can hear the ice in it. "And I know why you said it. You think that because Dante's daughter got pregnant and had to marry one of his soldiers, that means he's lost control, that he's vulnerable. Maybe there's an opportunity for someone ambitious to make a move."
Vincent's jaw tightens, and I can see the fury in his eyes. He’s pissed he was caught, and he’s pissed I’m confronting him. "I've been loyal to this family for fifteen years," he says, an edgeof desperation in his voice. "I've earned the right to express concerns?—"
"You've earned nothing." I'm close enough now that I can smell the coffee on his breath and see the sweat starting to bead on his forehead, looming over him. "You're a capo because Dante allows you to be a capo. You have power because he gives you power. And the moment you forget that, the moment you start thinking you have the right to question his decisions, you become a liability."
"So what are you going to do?" Vincent bites out the words, a remarkable show of defiance from a man who could be dead if I chose to make him so. "Kill me? In front of witnesses? That's going to solve all your problems?"
