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of the crane operators who’d died. He nodded. “Good union man, Sean Devulder,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Anne Devulder rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Sean was a good union man through and through, for all the good it did him,” she said. “My old man told me what was going to happen, and then it did. He told you, too, but you ignored him and now he’s dead.”
    “You didn’t turn down the life insurance check,” Barros growled.
    Devulder ignored him and stepped closer to Vitteli to look up into his eyes. “Me and Sean had two kids,” she said. “I wasn’t in a position to be turning down nothing. Forty thousand dollars you paid—to raise two kids and make some sort of home for them and me.”
    “Yeah? And why aren’t you home with your kids now?” Barros sneered.
    The woman glanced down at the sidewalk and when she looked back up, tears were streaming down her face. “The state took them away,” she replied softly. “When Sean died, I turned to drink. We had a lot of bills and most of the money went to that. That was two years ago. I couldn’t get a job that paid anything so we lost our home and lived on the streets until the state took my kids from me, too. But they’re better off in a foster home than with me.”
    Vitteli reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He peeled off a twenty and held it out to her. “Get something to eat on me,” he said.
    Devulder looked at the bill as if it was a snake. She stepped back and pointed again at his face. “The Devulders are done taking your blood money, Charlie Vitteli,” she said. “Curse you and this two-legged dog who does your dirty work. You’re king of the docks for now. But someday all you’ll be king of is a prison cell.”
    Vitteli felt a chill ripple down his spine as Anne Devulder turned away from him to walk back to the fire. He was too stunned to move when the gray-haired woman rushed forward and snatched the bill from his hand.
    “I’ll take that,” she said. “Think of it as payment for the fortune-telling.” With that, the woman scurried off to join the other two.
    As though in a trance, Vitteli stood looking at the three women and at the dancing shadows on the alley wall behind them, cast there by the red and yellow flames. He didn’t move until Amaya tugged on his coat sleeve.
    “Come on, boss, let’s go,” Amaya said. “The bitches are loony tunes.”
    Vitteli shook his head as if trying to wake up. Then he laughed. “Jesus H. Christ,” he swore. “She had me going there for a moment. Shit, only in New York, eh?”
    “Yeah, boss,” Barros said with a laugh. “Only in New York.”

3
    V INCE C ARLOTTA LOOKED AT HIMSELF in the mirror that hung on the wall of his study. He didn’t know what he was looking for, perhaps some outward sign of the malaise that had been dogging him for the past week or so. But what he saw were the same striking gray-green eyes set in a handsome, tanned face framed by a full head of wavy brown hair; he felt good physically, too, and worked out regularly to stay fit and trim.
    According to the mirror, he was the picture of health—a good thing, as he needed to keep up with his young wife and infant son. Whatever ailed him couldn’t be seen. You’re just tired, he told himself. Between the election fraud, fighting with Vitteli, the old man’s death, and being the middle-aged father of an infant son and husband to an amorous young wife, you’re exhausted. And it’s affecting your mood.
    Antonia entered the room and smiled. “The peacock is preening,” she teased. She spoke with a saucy hint of an Italian accent, which went well with her doe-like brown eyes, translucent skin, and Cupid’s bow lips. She had been a runway model from Naples working in New York when she and several friends had gone “slumming” in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d been with a table of male friends, and soon the two groups were commingled andhe found himself talking to Antonia, hoping the