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he understood the deeper meaning of the toast. It was confirmation that Venezzio’s status as capo di tutti was secure, unthreatened. One of the five New York dons, Cella was offering to keep a weakened Venezzio in power.
    Cella placed his wineglass on the table, took a moment to consider, then decided to say, “How is Don Carlo’s health, Tony? It’s been three months now. What’d the doctors say?”
    Also setting his glass aside, also taking a measured moment to consider, Bacardo looked directly into the other man’s eyes as he said, “The doctors tell him to do what he always does, only do it slower, that’s all.”
    “Ah …” Cella nodded. “Good. That’s about what I thought. And his mind, of course—sharp as ever.”
    “No question.” Bacardo spoke firmly; his eyes were steady.
    “When he had Tony G. whacked, that was smart. That helped us all. You told him that.” It was a statement, not a question.
    Bacardo nodded. “Of course. I told him immediately.”
    Nodding in return, Cella raised his glass, fastidiously sipped the wine. “Tony was getting to be a problem, no question.”
    Bacardo made no response.
    Cella returned his wineglass to the table with a gesture of finality. The preliminaries had been concluded.
    “How old is the don, Tony?”
    “He’s sixty-five.”
    “Ah, right …” Cella inclined his narrow, finely boned head. His silver-gray hair was full cut, meticulously styled. “And you’re—what?”
    “Fifty-five.”
    As if the answer had been expected, Cella nodded. Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “Your son—Tony Junior—I’m sorry. It—Christ—this business is hard enough, without something like that.”
    At the words, Bacardo’s rawboned face froze. His splintered gaze looked through Cella’s eyes, not into them. Even as a small boy, his son had often cheated at games, had once been caught taking money from his mother’s purse.
    Two years ago, Tony Jr. had been caught again—skimming the organization’s off-track take. It was an offense for which no appeal was possible; even Venezzio could not have changed the council’s death sentence. For a year afterward, except when it was absolutely necessary, Bacardo’s wife had not spoken to him or looked at him directly.
    “I don’t mean to open old wounds, Tony. I just wanted you to know that how you handled yourself, it was just right. It took a lot. Everyone knew it, how much it took.”
    Sitting rigidly, his gaze still fixed far back in time, Bacardo made no reply. He could only endure.
    “Here.” Cella lifted the bottle of wine, replenished Bacardo’s glass. It was a small gesture of peace, an offering.
    Bacardo thanked him politely, but did not raise his glass. Cella let a last long moment of silence pass before he spoke again, this time in an even, controlled voice:
    “The reason I invited you, Tony, is that it’s time Carlo and I got a few things out on the table. You agree?”
    Carlo, this time. Not Don Carlo. Was it a signal? The next moments would tell.
    Bacardo decided on a sip of wine before he nodded. Saying simply, “I agree.”
    “This place—” Cella gestured at the room. “It’s okay?”
    “It’s fine.”
    “There’s a button on the floor. When I want the waiter, I step on it.”
    “Ah.” Bacardo smiled. “Good. I’m glad you told me.”
    “Otherwise, there’s no bugs. Guaranteed.”
    “I know.”
    “So.” Cella tapped his fingertips lightly on the gleaming white linen tablecloth for a moment, then began: “So, like I said, Tony G., that was okay. The other dons, they understood. Carlo had to do something, and he did. But something like Tony G., whacking a capo without putting it to a vote, usually you only get one free ride from the council. Right?”
    Revealing nothing, Bacardo nodded—once.
    “So you’ll tell him that,” Cella pressed. “You’ll tell him what I said. Just to keep us square, me and Carlo.”
    “I’ll tell him.”
    “Good. Fine.” Once more, an