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    His father had a withered leg, mangled beneath a horse-drawn cart. His mother lived most of every week at the house of a prosperous Genoese banker, where she washed clothes and scrubbed floors. In the corner of their tiny kitchen his father had kept a wrist-thick length of tree branch he’d cut many years before. There were twig stubs at the end of the branch. Many times, lying in bed between his two sisters, one older, one younger, he’d heard the crash of the branch, followed by the high-pitched chirp of the injured rat—followed by another crash. And another. Followed finally by silence. Except that, in the silence, he could hear his father panting from his exertions, dragging his withered leg as he returned the branch to the kitchen corner, then dragged himself back to bed. His father had—
    Wood tapped twice against the bars of the cell. “Mr. Venezzio?” It was Farley’s voice. Farley, captain of the guard, back from vacation. Captain Farley, the only guard permitted to talk directly to him. Venezzio opened his eyes, braced his elbows, rose to a sitting position, legs swung over the end of the bunk, feet on the floor. After an angina attack, keeping up appearances, it was necessary to speak briskly, move decisively:
    “Jerry! How was the vacation?”
    “Fine, thanks. We went to the Grand Canyon.”
    “Ah …” Venezzio nodded. Now the pain was almost gone, a mild discomfort, nothing more. It was only necessary to buy a few minutes more before he could get to his feet, go into his act: the indestructible mafioso, for thirty years capo di tutti. If the President was the most powerful man in the world, then he was the most feared.
    A few minutes more …
    “Did you drive, Jerry?”
    “Yeah.” The guard, big and blubbery, bulging inside his uniform, nodded. It was an expression of heartfelt exasperation. “Yeah. But never again. Two kids, forget it. Not only that, but we pulled a trailer.” Once more, Farley shook his head.
    Venezzio smiled, rose to his feet, stood motionless for a moment. Yes, the pain was passing—had passed.
    “You’ve got a visitor,” Farley said. “Where d’you want to see her?”
    Her, Farley had said.
    Meaning that, finally, Louise must have come. Louise, accompanied by Bacardo. For days, he’d expected them. Why hadn’t Bacardo called the prison, left a message, given him notice?
    The answer, he knew, lay with Louise, not Bacardo. Never had Louise kept appointments, kept to a schedule.
    “Is the little yard clear?”
    “Yessir. And there’s a golf cart.”
    “What about the weather?”
    “It’s fine. Fifty-seven, according to the radio. But this time of day, you know, that little yard’s in shadow.”
    “Okay.” Moving slowly, carefully, Venezzio went to his free-standing closet, selected a light poplin golf jacket. From the small desk he took his notebook and a ballpoint pen. “Okay,” he repeated. “Let’s go.”
    “Yessir.”

4:10 P.M., EDT
    F ROWNING, LOUISE TURNED UP the collar of her coat. “It would’ve been warmer in the warden’s office.”
    “This won’t take long.” Venezzio switched off the golf cart’s electric motor, stopped the cart in the center of the small exercise yard. The yard hadn’t yet been policed after the lunchtime tour; cigarette butts and food wrappers littered the area. A few feet from the cart, Venezzio saw a condom, used.
    “Are you getting enough exercise?” Louise asked. “I saw a heart specialist on a talk show—Larry King, I think. He said it’s very important after a heart attack to get on an exercise schedule. But he said it has to be supervised. Very carefully supervised.”
    “I do as much walking as I ever did. I just go slower.”
    “And weight.” She looked him over. “Maybe you should lose some weight.”
    Exasperated, he sighed. “My weight’s fine, Louise. A hundred sixty, stripped. That’s it.”
    “I know. But maybe you should—”
    “Louise. Wait.” He held up his hand. “What about