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Chicago underworld, gaining hold of all the strings after repeal when the various bootleg factions had come together to organize into the multi-billion-dollar-per-annum business the Mafia had become in the years since.
    Anyone who didn't like the way Vito ran things, well, that was how he got the name, The Butcher. Vito Parelli had killed, and ordered killed, plenty when he had to, and he had to a lot to keep hold of the power he wielded without mercy or compassion.
    Vito had married a young beauty during the forties...
    the daughter of one of his "business" cronies...
    and she had borne him a son. Vito's iron grip on the Chi underworld had remained intact, repulsing anyone foolish enough to try for a piece of what Don Vito would not let go.
    Until a power even greater than that of Vito The Butcher came along to snatch that power from him along with everything else in the meanest, roughest way to go.
    Vito died after an agonized, protracted battle against cancers in his body that had done what the law and his Mob competitors had been unable to do.
    What was known about David Parelli, now thirty-seven years of age, was that this father's son was not of the old school, not of his father's time.
    At least, not on the surface.
    David Parelli did not carry the almost standard nickname invariably bestowed upon young men on their way up through the Mafia ranks.
    This Parelli was single and lived at home with his mother, had a college degree, business associates in the very top echelons of city politics and, according to Bolan's most recent intel, was driven by ambition and a war chest that wouldn't quit.
    He was the kind of cannibal who was a lot more merciless than thugs like his father or Capone ever used to be because this new generation of Parellis knew how to play all the games the way respectable people played them.
    Parelli had used the family name, sure, but had grabbed his own slice of the pie with a savagery all the more dangerous because of the finesse that masked his evil.
    Bolan gained the end of the house that was hidden from view of those around the front gate.
    Except for the illumination of the single second-floor window he had noted on his approach, the residence appeared unlighted, not even a porch light.
    He knew something about the way Mafia households were run. He had been waging his war against these types for some time and had walked among them via the role camouflage of one of the elite Mob hit men...
    the legendary Black Aces...
    on more than a few occasions.
    It was not unusual to keep such a relatively low profile as the Parelli household seemed to be keeping this evening.
    The walled perimeter and armed sentries were not there for show by any means, and the joint would be set up to go "hard" at a nod from the boss. There would be accommodation for street soldiers brought in to protect the premises, if it was decided that a situation warranted "hitting the mattresses." But that kind of show of force was frowned on by the new breed of the family, except in the most extreme cases.
    It appeared to Bolan now that he would encounter but a skeleton security force here tonight, which did not mean they would be any less formidable if bullets started flying.
    He had come prepared for that, but he now considered making this a soft penetration if he did not find Parelli on the premises.
    There was a door on this side of the house.
    Bolan moved stealthily toward it, opened the screen door, tried the doorknob and found it locked. He unsheathed his knife and in a matter of seconds he had the inside door open.
    He started to step into the side entrance when he heard faint footfalls coming in his direction from around the rear of the house. He sheathed the knife and faded back against the wall.
    A sentry, armed with a rifle similar to those at the front gate, ambled around the corner of the house, not paying much attention to anything on his rounds except the cold. The guy was blowing into his clenched fists.
    Bolan saw