Honor in the Son

By George C. Lukas

The year is 1981, and Stefano DiTommaso has a desperate problem: his family debt. The older of two Italian-American brothers, he must uphold his familys honor by repaying this debt, incurred in Sicily by his father many years before. It isnt monetary, but the debt keeps him under the thumb of a New York City organized-crime groupwith the safety of his family dependent on his success at doing their bidding.

Over the years, the teachings of the criminal organization, as well as his own experiences, have developed Stefanos talents in many areas--including the use of weapons. But his abilities are a double-edged sword. And his desperation is caused by the fear that, with the criminal organizations demands escalating, it is only a matter of time before they compel him to become a killer. His situation is even more complicated by the fact that he is a Catholic priest.

When a violent crime is committed involving his sister-in-law, Stefano and his brother journey to the Florida Keys in search of retribution. With the area already a seething cauldron from race riots, violent dopers, and "Marielitos, adding them to the mix will be just the right ingredient to make the pot boil over.

In Key West their dangerous quest thrusts the brothers into a complex, violent world of drug smugglers, murderers, and crooked cops. Still, a few heroes emerge to help them. And while everyone seems to have their own secrets and hidden agenda, Stefano finally gets the opportunity to use some of his abilities in a positive, personal way.

But, when their interlude in the Keys has ended, it has only served to postpone Stefanos focus on his incessant dread: the family debt. Will he ever be free of it? Finally, he must return to New York City to confront it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 7, 2008
• ISBN: 9781434340443

George C. Lukas

    George C. Lukas was born and raised in New York City.  He is a former Special Agent with the US Treasury Department, having spent most of his federal law-enforcement career with US Customs in Miami.         He is married and has one teenage daughter.  He and his family live in the Southeast U.S.  This is his first book.      You can learn more by visiting his website at www.georgeclukas.com

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© 2008 George C. Lukas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/27/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-4044-3 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-4043-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-4042-9 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007909012

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Front cover photo and author photo by Lauren Lukas.

Honor in the Son is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, events and places (except for obvious cities and locations) are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Epilogue

About The Author

For Joanne, for your unconditional love,

patience and understanding. For Lauren, for the

joy and inspiration you provide by being you.

And for my parents.

The most significant event in a man’s life is the death of his father.

-Sigmund Freud

Prologue

The Sabana-Camaguey Archipelago

Late February, 1981

Damn it. I see something.

Their boat had just left the seclusion of a jetty outside the small town of Santa Juanita on the north coast of Cuba. Stefano DiTommaso’s emerald-green eyes were searching ahead to the west through night vision binoculars toward the water north of Havana and Varadero—the logical direction from where a patrol boat would come. Now he spotted a much larger boat than the fishing boats they’d seen earlier. It was about two miles away and coming straight toward them.

He pushed back his dark hair and scanned the rest of the horizon ahead. Nothing else.

The two men were standing behind the console of a U.S. Customs Scarab speedboat. Zebulun Stormy Thorpe, a U.S. Customs Special Agent, who, at 6’3 was the taller of the men by two inches, took the binoculars from Stefano and looked for himself. Shit, it’s a gunboat." The Cuban boat was creeping slowly eastward on a course which would intercept theirs.

While moving through the small islands of the archipelago, Stormy had kept their speed down, so the boat left a small wake. But with more light appearing every second, if they stayed on this course, the Cubans would surely spot them.

Stormy turned the boat to a westerly heading and began to parallel the shore, hoping to sneak around the gunboat far enough so they could make a dash out to sea. This area of coastline was desolate; there was little chance they’d be noticed by anyone on the mainland. However, now they would lose the advantage of being able to retrace their earlier inbound course.

This could be bad, Stormy said, as he absently moved a hand over his stubby, blond hair. I figure they’ve got grenade launchers, anti-submarine weapons, a 50mm machine gun, and probably a small cannon. And, oh yeah, individual small arms, too.

Doesn’t give us much of a chance, does it? Stefano replied.

We need to maneuver out of their range. We’re a lot faster than they are.

Both men were silent as Stormy guided the Scarab until they were a good distance behind the gunboat. But in a few minutes the sun would rise on the horizon, so Stormy started the other two engines and increased their speed.

They began to feel better. It appeared as though they’d lost the patrol boat. After rounding a point of land, Stormy read the depth chart and saw that only a short distance ahead lay a course that would take them straight out to sea.

Just as Stormy sighed in relief, he heard Stefano say, Look! and followed his companion’s extended index finger.

Less than two miles straight ahead, another gunboat was heading toward them. Although it probably hadn’t spotted them yet, with the increasing light there was no place to hide.

No choice now, Stormy said, setting his jaw. While keeping their speed moderate, he spun the boat to the north.

At first the Cubans didn’t seem to pay them any attention. But luck soon abandoned them when the gunboat turned in their direction and picked up speed as it moved between several small islands.

Time to see what these engines can really do, Stefano said.

Stormy nodded. He visualized a path to the sea from the depth chart and pushed the throttles forward as far as they would go. The engines responded with a roar, leaving a deep wake behind the Scarab.

Their luck held; in less than a minute it was obvious their speed was too much for the gunboat. It fell behind, as though it was no longer even trying to catch them.

An artillery round exploded in the water thirty yards beyond them, kicking up a huge splash of water. Seconds later they heard the sound of a blast coming from the east. It was the first gunboat: the one they thought they had evaded earlier. It had fired its deck cannon from well over a mile away and although that distance seemed great, it wasn’t far enough as long as the cannon could still reach them. Stormy swung the boat toward the west and began to zigzag.

After several more artillery rounds exploded harmlessly in the water nearby, the firing stopped. The Scarab had outdistanced the range of the gunboat’s cannon. One patrol boat could barely be seen now, and the closer of the two was also getting smaller. But neither had given up the chase.

Stormy cut the engines and said, Time to get rid of this; we’re in international waters. Get that side.

Each man leaned over and peeled off the tape which had covered large, white U S Customs lettering on both sides of the Scarab’s blue hull.

Stefano stared back at the water behind them. Why are they still following us?

I don’t know. Maybe they’re sore losers. But I don’t want to call for assistance unless we have to. Too much to explain.

It would likely cost Stormy his job if Customs Enforcement brass found out he was this close to Cuba. Especially because—no matter how good his excuse—he hadn’t told anyone he was going.

We may not have any choice.

Yeah, Stormy said. If our buddies back there called for backup, we’re in big trouble. We’re too close to Cuba for help to arrive in time. We sure can’t outrun a MiG and they could be here in minutes.

Stefano saw a small glint of sunlight reflect off something far away in the sky. Or even sooner.

A few seconds later, he saw a second object in the sky. Both moved so fast that almost immediately they were close enough to identify as fighter aircraft. When they passed overhead at less than 1000 feet the roar was deafening, even above the noise of their boat engines.

The MiG’s passed over them several more times before one dropped down and came in diagonally in front of the boat’s path. The pilot fired a barrage from his twin-barrel 23mm cannon, which churned up its own path in the water 25 yards ahead.

Stormy had no choice but to pull back on the throttles. It took only seconds for the boat to come to an almost complete stop with its engines at idle. When they turned, the men saw one of the gunboats still heading in their direction. Now that they were practically dead in the water, it would soon be upon them.

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Break—break—Sector, Echo 150 in the clear. This is an emergency. Over.

Kelly KC Cairns was one of the Sector Communications Technicians monitoring the many Customs radio channels at the Customs Communications Center in Miami. Her reply was clear and even. Echo 150, this is Sector.

Sector, I’m in international waters in FL421362, with clear Customs markings. Am being attacked by Cuban MiG’s and gunboats. Request you call the Navy to lend assistance. Repeat—am being fired on by Cuban MiG’s and gunboats in the Florida Straits. Request NAS assistance ASAP!

The five other workers in the Communications Center stopped their movements. The room became quiet. This type of transmission wasn’t one they heard very often.

All of the Sector radio operators could identify the hundreds of Customs employees working in South Florida by their Call Signs. There were some they could even identify just by their voices. Stormy Thorpe was one of these. He was generally considered to be one of the best: a hard-nosed, dedicated Special Agent. Although he had not filed the required Operation’s Plan with Sector, they knew this transmission was no joke.

The others watched Cairns as they—along with all the other Customs employees monitoring the channel in South Florida—stood by and listened.

Ten-four, Echo 150, Cairns responded. Read you loud and clear. Can you transmit in ten-ten? Who’s with you, and what’s your twenty? Over.

One employee was already dialing the number for the Naval Air Station in Key West, while another went to retrieve the Communications Center’s director from his office down the hall.

Well, right about now I wish I was between the sheets at my forty-two. My ten-ten isn’t working. I’m with a CI about twenty-five miles northeast of Varadero on the Cuban coast, just inside the tip of zone 4-6-5. KC, just have them track the MiG’s. Over.

Ten-four, Echo 150. Copy two-five miles northeast of Varadero.

The director walked in and said what everyone else had been thinking. What the hell’s he doing there? He reversed his path, and added, I better call the SAC.

Stormy had been forced to use his most powerful radio channel in order to reach Sector. It was neither private nor secure; anyone monitoring the channel could hear the transmissions. The Special Agent in Charge, Group Supervisors, and outlying field offices all had Customs radios in their offices. Every Special Agent also had a radio in their government car. Even the other Customs divisions were able to monitor these unsecured transmissions. This meant that even before the call from Sector came through to the SAC office, news of Stormy’s plight was already spreading throughout the Office of Enforcement and the rest of South Florida.

Really need some help here, KC. Stormy’s voice was barely audible over a jet-engine roar in the background.

Echo 150, the Navy’s been notified, Cairns responded. They’re tracking the MiG’s on radar and confirm the Cuban aircraft are over international waters. The Navy is preparing to launch as we speak. No ETA yet. Do you copy? Over.

Good copy, KC. We’ll try to hold out. Hate for us to be ten-seven when they get here. Whatever happens, thanks for the help you guys. Over.

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The two MiG’s kept the Scarab in one spot. They took turns making overhead passes in which their ear-splitting engine roar violently shook the air. And as if the two men needed a reminder of just how captive they were, every few of these passes one of the MiG’s churned up the nearby water by firing a barrage from its cannon.

Abruptly, both fighters flew off to the east, banked, and began heading north.

They’re after the Navy plane, Stefano said.

Yeah, it looks like it, but that’s hard to believe, Stormy nodded, cranking up the engines. They’ve never challenged one of our fighters before. Why would they risk it now? We’re not that big a prize.

Maybe they like the odds.

Overhead, a new jet-engine noise grew and two more MiG’s passed them heading north. They converged on a third jet fighter coming from the opposite direction, and in just seconds the third jet passed between them.

Although too far away to identify, both men realized it was the Navy fighter when the third jet fired a missile at one of the MiG’s. It missed, and the three fighters began to maneuver for position in and out of the cloud bank.

That’s an F-14 Tomcat our guys are in, Stormy yelled over the wind and engines.

I hope there are more on the way.

As they watched the dogfight, it became apparent the newly arrived MiG’s were flown by two experienced pilots. They were keeping the Tomcat on the defensive and it appeared to be a stroke of luck that the Navy fighter was still in the air. It had already managed to evade several missiles; spinning away almost like a matador avoids a bull. But it seemed to be running out of time.

It looks like Castro called out the A-team, Stormy said.

Yeah. Good thing that Navy pilot knows his stuff. And here comes some more trouble. Stefano replied, pointing toward the eastern sky.

I only see one, Stormy said.

Our guys must have gotten the other.

One of the first pair of MiG’s had reappeared. But instead of joining in the dogfight, the pilot suddenly banked and dove straight toward the Scarab.

Although the thin fiberglass of the console wouldn’t protect them, both men instinctively ducked behind it when the MiG pilot began firing his 23mm cannon. The bullets ripped up a trail of water not five yards from their speeding boat, after which the MiG straightened out and flew off behind them.

I don’t think he’ll miss again, Stefano yelled.

Stormy nodded and pulled the throttles back, bringing the bow of the speedboat down from the plane on which it had been gliding above the water’s surface. Take the helm, he said. We don’t have much time before his next pass.

Stefano was astonished. Why’d you slow down? Isn’t that going to make it even easier for him?

Stormy didn’t answer. Instead he reached into the console cabinet where they had stored their gear and pulled out two AR-15s.

Look at me! Are you kidding? A couple of rifles against a MiG? Stefano’s eyes could have burned their way right to Stormy’s soul.

But Stormy just grinned. He had hesitated for a second to return Stefano’s stare, but now began loading the rifles with 30-round banana clips.

Stefano shook his head. He couldn’t believe that even Stormy’s blue eyes seemed to be smiling. They’d both surely be dead in a few minutes and yet it appeared as though Stormy welcomed going up against the MiG when it returned to finish them off.

I thought I knew him, but it’s been such a short time. And yet, so much had happened.

As a man might do–if he has the chance–when confronted with almost certain death, Stefano began to reflect on the circumstances which had brought him to this obscure patch of water in the Florida Straits. But there was nothing he would change. His one regret was that Nico, besides losing his brother, would also be forced to inherit the family debt.

If only Nico had picked another place for his honeymoon.

Stefano’s eyes searched the sky to see from which direction death would come. But he was at peace. He understood that the events which led him here were like the gentle waves rolling by their boat. Nothing could be done to alter their course.

Part One

The Debt

Chapter 1

One month earlier, Stefano, a Roman Catholic priest also known as Father Tommaso, had performed the wedding ceremony for his younger brother, Nicolo, and Nico’s bride, Jessie, at St. Christopher The Protector, Stefano’s church in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.

Afterward, at the reception, Stefano sat at a table talking with his mother and several aunt’s and uncle’s. The conversation centered around the good old days back in Sicily. They all laughed, argued, and teased each other, with great animation and the kind of powerful affection reserved for close blood relatives who had been through many tough times together.

Stefano looked at the various people dancing, laughing, and having a wonderful time. Nico and Jessie, with their arms around each other, stood laughing at a nearby table with some of their friends. A deep sense of satisfaction swept over him. He was sure his sacrifices were worth it.

When his eyes met those of his mother, Angie, no words were needed. She looked at him with pride. But even though she smiled, he could still see the sorrow that always clouded her eyes. She might have been able to fool a stranger into thinking she was happy and contented, but Stefano and the other relatives seated around the table knew she was just doing a good job of masking the hurt and pain she had endured for so many years.

The affectionate smile Angie gave him was reassuring, but Stefano wasn’t fooled. He knew where her mind was: as always, back in Sicily. Only she wasn’t reflecting on the good times.

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Stefano’s family was from Balatafini, a town nestled in the mountains of western Sicily. There, Stefano’s father and uncle led an organized crime group. In the spring of 1960, incidents took place in Balatafini that would forever affect the lives of the entire DiTommaso family.

At that time, the local Mafia boss, Don Giovanni Marinucci, was thought by many to be on the verge of dying. In a power struggle involving the two factions that would vie for control of the crime organization once the Don was gone, Stefano’s father, Pietro, and uncle, Arno, were killed.

Don Marinucci, faced with the prospect of an unprofitable internal war, devised a unique solution in order to avert further bloodshed and to keep the peace. He took custody of Stefano and Nico, as well as the two male children of the rival faction’s dead leader. Marinucci sent the DiTommaso boys to live with his associates in New York City and the other two children went to live with other associates in South America.

In addition to having two children taken from her at the same time she had lost her husband, Angie was also informed that the family owed a debt to Marinucci for letting the children live.

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All the wedding reception rituals had long since occurred. Nico’s friends, who had all drank far too much alcohol, were kidding him about whether he would ever work up the courage to be alone with his new wife on their wedding night. Many good-natured offers came from volunteers willing to take his place.

With about all of the ribbing he could stand, Nico was anxious to get the honeymoon started.

Come on, babe, he whispered into Jessie’s ear. What do you say we get out of here? If we stay much longer, these guys are going to start to question my manhood.

Their plan was to drive south to Florida for their honeymoon. Jessie had never been to Disney World, and had talked Nico into going there. In fact, when they were discussing where to go, Jessie only had one place in mind. She had argued that a honeymoon should be like a magic storybook, full of wonder and innocence and fun, without any cares. It should happen in a beautiful, enchanted place, a fantasy place with no reminders of the real world. She asked him what other place besides Disney World qualified for all of this, and greeted Nico’s reply of his bedroom, with hysterical laughter.

No amount of logic or common sense would work once her mind was made up. Nico agreed to Disney World—if they also got to lie on a beach in the sun. So, for the second part of the honeymoon, they were going to continue driving south and camp out at Bahia Honda State Park, in the Florida Keys.

Nico planned the itinerary very closely, and didn’t want to get behind schedule. Even though this was his own wedding, he was beginning to get a little impatient.

Some mouse with a squeaky voice called from Disney World, Nico said. He’s wondering what’s been keeping us.

He nibbled on her ear and whispered, And I’ve been watching you prance around all day in that cute white wedding gown, looking all pure and innocent. Somehow, I don’t think you’re innocent. Are you? At least, you won’t be after tonight, I can promise you that. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into that delicious body of yours.

Jessie rubbed her ear and glanced around the hall. Their wedding had been wonderful. She smiled radiantly and sighed, as honey-colored hair cascaded around her beaming eyes. Maybe you’re right. I guess it wouldn’t do for us to be the last to leave our own wedding.

Now you’re talking my language.

You will be gentle with innocent little Jessica tonight, won’t you, sailor? she purred.

He let out a sinister laugh that startled her. Then he grabbed her right wrist, bent down, and picked her up.

No, Nico, don’t! she screamed.

He threw her body over his shoulders and sauntered out of the hall, smiling amid the laughter and applause, with Jessie kicking and screaming in protest. They’d booked the honeymoon suite at the Plaza Hotel for their wedding night, and Nico wanted to get his money’s worth. It would probably be the only time in their lives that they would splurge like this for a hotel, but Nico figured it wasn’t every day you get married to the woman of your dreams, either.

Once outside, Nico helped Jessie into his yellow 1973 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale convertible, said goodbye to his mother, and turned to Stefano. Bye, Brud. See you in two weeks. Take care of Mama.

He used the pet name the two brothers had for each other since they were little children. Brud, pronounced like the first syllable of rudder with a soft b in front, was what Nico called Stefano when they first got to the states. At the time, Nico was having trouble pronouncing Stefano, and just beginning to learn English, he couldn’t pronounce the th sound in brother, either. Thus, he called Stefano, Brud. Soon, Stefano began to use the pet name, too, and over the years it stuck.

After rolling up the window, Jessie said, Nico, put the heat on. I’m freezing my butt off in this convertible. You’re a lunatic for putting us in this jalopy. The top is like Swiss cheese and there are arctic temperatures outside.

Nico pulled onto the Belt Parkway heading toward Manhattan, and said, Don’t worry, Jessie, where we’re going, it’s going to be rrrreal warm. He patted the dashboard. The Yellow Submarine will get us there.

It’ll be a miracle.

In fact, I’m thinking of you in a skimpy bikini and that’s already making me warm.

She leaned over and put her hand between his legs. I’m going to make sure your body stays warm from now on. Especially my favorite part of you.

You mean my tongue? That’s already warm.

She punched him in the shoulder. I could really use it in a certain place right now. I’m still freezing my butt off.

Well then, bring that cute little thing up here right now and I’ll warm it up for you.

He stuck out his tongue and began wiggling it back and forth, but stopped laughing once he saw the devious look on her face. When she lifted up her wedding dress and there was nothing underneath, he understood why.

Smiling, she began to climb up on the seat. You asked for it.

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Stefano held his mother as they watched Nico’s car veer sharply just before turning a corner several blocks away. He laughed and said, ‘I guess he’s got other things on his mind besides driving."

Then, his smile faded and he said, Mama, I’ve got to go.

Where, Stefano? Let’s go back inside. We don’t see our family every day.

No, I’ve got some business to take care of. Family business. It can’t wait. But, all right, Mama, I’ll go in and say goodbye.

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Later the same evening, Carmine Fingers DiBella was planted in a large chair at the kitchen table. He puckered his lips and rumpled the skin on his forehead. When he shook his head, the various layers of his thick neck followed, swaying a little behind.

DiBella listened all through dinner while his wife berated their youngest daughter for failing to come home directly from school. Already the third time in the last two weeks that Virginia had been late, her excuses had worn thin.

I’m not going to have a slut for a daughter. Do you understand, Virginia? Even though DiBella had tuned out much earlier, he knew it was probably the hundredth time his wife had said it.

What was all the fuss about? After all, it was 1981. Sexual attitudes were liberal now. Although DiBella didn’t like these changes, his daughter had just turned fifteen. He felt powerless to do anything if she wanted to be playing with some boy’s dick in the woods after school. However, his wife’s perspective was a different matter.

The only thing DiBella managed to contribute to the dinnertime conversation occurred just as he began to shovel a fork full of food into his mouth. He happened to look up and saw them staring at him. Since he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation at that precise moment, he said, Look, Virginia, listen to your mother. She knows what’s best for you.

His wife nodded her head and said, Thank you, Carmine. Then she continued her verbal assault. For DiBella, used to ignoring the female chatter, it was a safe answer. He just shrugged and continued eating.

With each mouthful he watched his daughter, hoping she would have a happy life. However, unlike DiBella, she would never be able to command the respect he did, because she would never be a button man, a soldier, in the Chiarelli organized crime family of Philadelphia.

DiBella’s mind wandered to a subject it had recently spent a lot of time on. Since acquiring a gambling habit at the new Casinos in Atlantic City, DiBella financed his losses with funds skimmed from his pick-ups. He thought about the hole he had dug for himself, and what would happen if his La Cosa Nostra (LCN) organization ever discovered what he had done. But he was jolted back when his wife loudly slapped the table to make a point.

What’s the matter with you, Lucille? he asked. You scared the hell out of me.

He scratched his belly between two of the straining buttons in his shirt, pushed his chair away from the table, and announced, I’ve had enough of this talk. I’m going to let the dog out.

DiBella thought how much better and easier it would be if Virginia was a son instead. He wouldn’t have to be concerned with his daughter learning about sex in the woods after school with some neighborhood boy. His son would be the one having conquests, and boys are expected to be mischievous. It would be someone else’s daughter losing her virtue, not his child.

He leaned heavily on the arms of his chair, hoisted his massive frame from the table, and ambled over to the kitchen window. Snow was falling and it had already covered the grass.

Geez, it’s already the middle of January, he said to no one, and we ain’t had a good snowfall yet this winter. Maybe this is it.

It was 7:30, and already dark for two hours. With the wind whipping through the trees and bushes in front of the house, it would be even colder now than when he arrived home.

DiBella took a coat from the hall closet, even though he was only going to let the dog out of the garage. Looking around, he clapped his hands several times and said, Come on, Skippy. Let’s go bye-bye.

A large German Shepherd wandered in from the living room where it had been resting on a rug in front of the fireplace.

Move it old timer, Dibella said, while lumbering toward the garage door. "You’re starting to slow down just like me. I know it’s snowing out, but we can’t have you making pischade on the floor, so let’s go."

His wife’s nearby words were only sharp noises that stung his ears, and he shook his head, amazed at how bullheaded Lucille could be when she had a point to get across.

When he opened the door to the garage and switched on the light, he immediately sensed something was wrong. His Cadillac sat parked alone in one of the two spots. Then he remembered Lucille’s car had been picked up to be fixed. That was why the garage looked different. He smiled at being so jumpy.

While he stepped down into the garage, DiBella pushed the button on the automatic door opener. When it began to move, Skippy loped over and scrambled underneath the door. Immediately, the dog barked several times. Then it gave out a short, high pitched yelp, which didn’t concern DiBella, since Skippy was always reacting to shadows.

He went over to the garage door and waited for it to finish its movement. A blast of cold wind mixed with snowflakes slapped his face, causing him to turn away. But when the door stopped, he turned back and began adjusting his eyes to the outside darkness.

From the right corner of his vision he sensed movement next to a big hemlock tree. As he began turning toward it, DiBella’s eyes were caught by a dark mass 20 feet in front of him. It was the dog.

Puzzled, he tilted his head. Then he saw Skippy’s dark blood running down the driveway, shining in the light as it stained the snow.

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. What the f—

With his head darting from side to side, DiBella reached for the 9-mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol he wore in a shoulder holster whenever he went out.

But groping around in his shirt, he realized he wasn’t wearing the weapon. This wouldn’t have made a difference, since it was to be the last deliberate thought he would ever have.

At that split second, two .22 caliber long-rifle bullets entered the right side of his head almost simultaneously, an inch behind his temple and just above his right ear. The impact caused his huge bulk to rotate slightly as he fell backward, and he crumpled, nearly without a sound, into a massive heap on the concrete garage floor behind the Cadillac.

The gunman stepped from the shadows of the hemlock and moved forward until he was at the entrance to the garage, but still in darkness. All the while, he never took his eyes off DiBella’s body, watching its massive belly for movement. After several seconds, the breathing became labored and stopped. When he was sure his target was dead, the gunman swung his right arm around and pointed his pistol at the garage light. For a brief instant, his eyes were reflected. They displayed the cold detachment one might expect of a hired killer. Then he fired. The gunshot, like the ones that had killed DiBella, made only a popping noise, barely audible in the wind.

Darkness shrouded the garage and surrounding area.

The gunman placed his pistol on DiBella’s chest before turning to begin down the long driveway, leaving behind dark footprints in the snow.

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Jessie and Nico started their wedding night between satin sheets in a large round bed in the honeymoon suite of the Plaza Hotel. But since they were both exhausted from the events of a long wedding day, their lovemaking didn’t turn out to be a very memorable experience. Far from it. And while this didn’t bother Nico in the least, it was a letdown for Jessie, because she always imagined in her daydreams and fantasies, that her wedding night would be incredibly romantic and perfect.

Jessie felt the rest of her wedding day had been perfect, and was angry that fate didn’t allow them to reach new heights of passion. It just didn’t seem fair. Especially since their love for each other grew with each passing day. Even though they were too tired from the long day and had drank too much at the reception, these details made no difference to her.

While Nico fell off to sleep after his climax, Jessie sat up in bed to ponder her dissatisfaction. She couldn’t let Nico go to sleep so peacefully while she felt this way and realized she had already arrived at a crossroads in her marriage. It would be a mistake to allow for the possibility that Nico’s inexcusable behavior might develop into a pattern. So she decided to teach him never to rest until he made sure she was satisfied.

Jessie grabbed the nearly-full bottle of champagne sitting on the night stand and pulled the sheets away from her husband’s sleeping body. With her thumb over the opening, she shook the bottle.

Nico had been lying on his left side facing away from her, with his right leg bent in front of him. He didn’t have time to react before she moved the bottle between his legs, and released her thumb.

The shock of cold bubbles hitting him in such a vulnerable area woke him immediately and he screamed, leaping out of the bed in one motion.

When he looked down, she was sitting on the bed holding the bottle and trying to suppress her laughter with a hand over her mouth. After checking to see if everything below his waist was still intact, though soggy, he began to protest. Are you crazy? You almost scared poor Boo-Boo to death.

I wanted us to have something to remember about our honeymoon night. Now that at least I do, we can go to sleep.

Where, now that the bed’s all wet?

Between the sweat and the love juices, she said, settling into a comfortable spot, I’m used to sleeping in a wet bed with you.

He had to agree, but nevertheless started feeling for a dry place, as he began thinking of a way to get even. It was to be a long honeymoon. He’d have plenty of time.

Chapter 2

Crosby Street runs north and south for six blocks above Canal Street in downtown Manhattan. South of Greenwich Village and north of Chinatown, City Hall, and busy Wall Street, it’s also a few blocks west of Mulberry Street, where every year the San Gennaro Festival takes place in Little Italy.

Where they can still be seen amid the asphalt patches in the roadway, cobblestones in the street have been worn smooth by countless years of use. Crosby Street is a short little side street in a colorless area of garment center warehouses, with molded, cast iron fronts. But, amid the warehouses are several six-story brick apartment buildings.

On this cold winter Monday afternoon, horns and sirens screeched in chaotic traffic jams from nearby streets, with exhaust polluting the congested area in a daily ritual. However, these noises were dull echoes barely heard on Crosby Street, where the only sounds were from wind whistling as it pushed through open corridors between buildings, and sent pieces of litter swirling into the sky. The street was a soft whisper in the city screaming around it.

On the first floor of an apartment building hidden from the street, past a narrow, creaky stairway leading to several floors of vacant apartments upstairs, a door led to a small room. From there, another door led to a larger room in the back of the building, where several men stood around a table, waiting.

A black four-door Lincoln Continental, with dark tinted windows, slowly turned off Grand Street and came up the block. When the car started past a row of four apartment buildings, it went through a wall of steam rising from a manhole cover, swerved and pulled up to the curb. A man got out of the front passenger door and stood just outside the car, with his right hand inside his overcoat, looking up the street. The driver also got out and walked around to the back passenger side door. He looked both ways up and down the street. Two men came out of the building and also looked up and down the street. There wasn’t much to see, as the only activity came from some laborers up the block, moving bolts of cloth from trucks.

The driver nodded toward the back window of the car, and opened the door. A short, thin man in a black overcoat emerged. He had dark eyes, a narrow face, and straight white hair combed back