would make it a waste of our time to give them any. Raza will want our money and we will want him to kill and destroy. It makes for a sound arrangement.”
“I wish there were enough time for me to see this one through to the end,” Alexander said.
“As do I, cousin,” Vladimir said. “But I will do my best in your absence.”
Chapter 3
New York City
SUMMER, 2013
The meeting was held on the thirty-fifth floor of a downtown Manhattan office building.
The conference room table was covered with porcelain carafes, sterling silver coffeepots, and crystal bowls filled with fresh fruit. Three ornate chandeliers lit the room, the glow of their bulbs gleaming off the polished table and mahogany chairs. The floor to ceiling windows were bulletproof.
It was a landmark building whose halls were once populated by land barons and oil and steel magnates. It was a place accustomed to accommodating men of power, and I knew the ones I had invited to join me would feel at ease in here, impressed by the surroundings. They saw themselves as similar to those billionaires from an earlier century, so the parallel would not be lost on them.
I had food prepared by the finest chefs from every nation that would be represented at the table—from southern Italian delicacies to the freshest sushi to the finest French pastries. I had been around these men long enough to know they were appreciative of respectful gestures and put at ease by tastes of the familiar.
I needed them to feel comfortable as I pushed them to make what I knew would be an uncomfortable decision. My words had to be measured, my tone direct but not demanding. I would need to read the room quickly, watching for facial expressions, eye movements, and body language, to gauge each reaction. I had to anticipate concerns but never patronize or lie. I had to exert authority while being aware of the power each man at the table wielded.
I needed to convince a group of men who for decades were in full control of everything to join me in risking it all.
I was first to arrive.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at a chair in the center of the table. I had requested the meeting three weeks earlier but given no details as to what would be discussed. Every one of the men scheduled to attend had offered condolences in the days following the deaths of my wife and daughters. They were hard-core crime bosses but they were husbands and fathers and had been knee-deep in a harsh business long enough to have suffered their share of loss.
I was the youngest of the eight.
My father, Mario, was a long-haul truck driver, a proud union member who put in heavy hours. He was a big man with a laugh as hearty as his appetite and he was always good company. My mother, Elena, was frail, and I never can recall a time when she wasn’t ill with one malady or another. We lived in a two-story house in the northeast Bronx on a dead-end street. I attended a local Catholic school and was a weekend altar boy. I would smile when my mother would tell me what a handsome priest I would make, not wanting to shatter an illusion she shared with every other Italian-American woman in the parish. You could say I was bookish, spending hours in a back room in a small library that faced a supermarket parking lot, a pile of books by my side. I read the books boys my age would love—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories and the novels of Jack London, Rafael Sabatini, Victor Hugo, and Alexandre Dumas. On Sundays, after mass, I would go for long walks with my father and tell him about the tales I had read during the time he was away. In return, he would tell me about the cities he had driven through and the small towns he had visited, spending nights in the cabin of his rig, the cackle of a portable radio the only company he required.
I preferred solitary activities, which I’ve been told is not uncommon for an only child. It is a habit that has served me well in the criminal world, a place populated by
“I wish there were enough time for me to see this one through to the end,” Alexander said.
“As do I, cousin,” Vladimir said. “But I will do my best in your absence.”
Chapter 3
New York City
SUMMER, 2013
The meeting was held on the thirty-fifth floor of a downtown Manhattan office building.
The conference room table was covered with porcelain carafes, sterling silver coffeepots, and crystal bowls filled with fresh fruit. Three ornate chandeliers lit the room, the glow of their bulbs gleaming off the polished table and mahogany chairs. The floor to ceiling windows were bulletproof.
It was a landmark building whose halls were once populated by land barons and oil and steel magnates. It was a place accustomed to accommodating men of power, and I knew the ones I had invited to join me would feel at ease in here, impressed by the surroundings. They saw themselves as similar to those billionaires from an earlier century, so the parallel would not be lost on them.
I had food prepared by the finest chefs from every nation that would be represented at the table—from southern Italian delicacies to the freshest sushi to the finest French pastries. I had been around these men long enough to know they were appreciative of respectful gestures and put at ease by tastes of the familiar.
I needed them to feel comfortable as I pushed them to make what I knew would be an uncomfortable decision. My words had to be measured, my tone direct but not demanding. I would need to read the room quickly, watching for facial expressions, eye movements, and body language, to gauge each reaction. I had to anticipate concerns but never patronize or lie. I had to exert authority while being aware of the power each man at the table wielded.
I needed to convince a group of men who for decades were in full control of everything to join me in risking it all.
I was first to arrive.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at a chair in the center of the table. I had requested the meeting three weeks earlier but given no details as to what would be discussed. Every one of the men scheduled to attend had offered condolences in the days following the deaths of my wife and daughters. They were hard-core crime bosses but they were husbands and fathers and had been knee-deep in a harsh business long enough to have suffered their share of loss.
I was the youngest of the eight.
My father, Mario, was a long-haul truck driver, a proud union member who put in heavy hours. He was a big man with a laugh as hearty as his appetite and he was always good company. My mother, Elena, was frail, and I never can recall a time when she wasn’t ill with one malady or another. We lived in a two-story house in the northeast Bronx on a dead-end street. I attended a local Catholic school and was a weekend altar boy. I would smile when my mother would tell me what a handsome priest I would make, not wanting to shatter an illusion she shared with every other Italian-American woman in the parish. You could say I was bookish, spending hours in a back room in a small library that faced a supermarket parking lot, a pile of books by my side. I read the books boys my age would love—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories and the novels of Jack London, Rafael Sabatini, Victor Hugo, and Alexandre Dumas. On Sundays, after mass, I would go for long walks with my father and tell him about the tales I had read during the time he was away. In return, he would tell me about the cities he had driven through and the small towns he had visited, spending nights in the cabin of his rig, the cackle of a portable radio the only company he required.
I preferred solitary activities, which I’ve been told is not uncommon for an only child. It is a habit that has served me well in the criminal world, a place populated by
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