“You’re telling me that!” he said to his father in Italian. “You’re the one who screws this whore and then invites her into Mama’s house.”
His face was twisted in anger and disappointment.
“Shut up!” Sergio shouted.
“Why should I shut up?” Cesare asked with a nasty laugh. “You think that I don’t know what you’re talking about? You think that I’m a little boy, but—”
Sergio raised his hand and slapped Cesare’s face, which sent him reeling.
“Get out of my sight, Cesare,” Sergio said, his voice muted to an angry whisper, “before I lose it and do something that I’ll regret. Get out of my house!”
Cesare held his cheek and stepped back. His eyes darted around furiously.
“You’ll regret this! All of you will regret this! Fuck you all!” he screamed.
Luca and Silvio jumped up, looking at their boss.
“Let him go,” Sergio said in Italian. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s nothing but a coked-up idiot.”
He walked over to Alex and put his arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry he scared you,” he said, and then he turned toward the men and sent them out. He let go of her and walked over to the small bar in of one of the bookshelves.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, please.” Alex tried to get her panic under control and stop her trembling. She had to get out of this house right away! She wished she could fly home to her parents in Germany this very second. What the hell had she gotten herself into? Sergio handed her a glass of whiskey and observed her with a penetrating look. He seemed to be wondering if she’d really eavesdropped at the door.
“Did you understand anything I just said to Cesare?” he asked her in Italian. Alex’s brain was still functioning and instinctively reacted the right way.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she said with a slight smile. “Maybe you could speak English with me.”
“No, it’s all right.” Sergio smiled and took the empty glass from her hand. Then he put his arms around her and kissed her cheek. She almost pushed him away, but managed to control the impulse.
“Cesare is somewhat overzealous at times,” Sergio said softly. “He scared you.”
“He tried.” Alex managed to smile. “But people don’t scare me that easily.”
After everything she had learned about Sergio, nothing in the world could frighten her anymore. Senators, bank executives, the governor of the State of New York, judges, and lawyers were sitting out there. There was no way that they knew the whole truth about Sergio Vitali! Don Sergio, indeed, commanded an army of killers, paving his own path with money and murder.
“Come, cara,” Sergio said, “let’s go outside to my guests. We’ll drink another glass of champagne and enjoy ourselves.”
“Yes,” Alex mumbled, a little dazed. “Yes, that sounds good.”
A dark shadow had fallen over her entire life that evening. In desperation and dread, she asked herself what she should do.
Frank Cohen yawned and rubbed his eyes. His watch read quarter past ten. Besides him, only security guards and cleaning crews were still at city hall. There was such a flurry of activity at the mayor’s office during the day that Frank saved matters requiring more concentration for the evening. The last two evenings, he had been researching Donald Coleman—an African American preacher from Harlem who was stabbed outside his church by unknown assailants fifteen years ago. His death had nearly triggered a riot at the time and made a martyr out of Coleman. Tomorrow Mayor Kostidis would inaugurate a youth center named after Donald Coleman. The East Harlem center would employ social workers to look after street kids in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. The building had a library, a computer lab, and a counseling center for teenagers who were down on their luck or addicted to drugs. The printer spewed out four pages containing all the information about Donald Coleman that Frank was able to gather. The mayor would skim through them for two minutes tomorrow—two minutes attention for at least eight hours of work—and then give a brilliant, affectionate speech about Coleman for the opening ceremony’s guests, as if they’d been close friends for many years.
Gathering his papers and turning off the computer, Frank smiled to himself. Without a doubt, Nicholas Kostidis was the most impressive person he’d ever met. He’d gotten to know him about twelve years ago, when Kostidis was an assistant US attorney at the Department of Justice in Washington DC. Frank had just graduated with honors from law school and had managed to snag one of few highly coveted internships at the Department of Justice. Frank was assigned to work on Kostidis’s staff, and he was immediately fascinated by his boss. He had inexhaustible energy, cunning intelligence, and inspiring charisma. Nick Kostidis was straightforward and incorruptible, ambitious without seeming arrogant. Fighting crime was dear to his heart—in contrast to many other people who had only their political careers in mind. It was typical for him to work sixteen-hour days, and he demanded complete loyalty and hard work from all of his staff members. In return, he was an unconventional and generous boss. He hated pedantry and bureaucracy almost as much as organized crime and drug trafficking, which he had combated directly as the US Attorney for the Southern District of New York. Nick Kostidis’s enthusiasm was often called fanaticism by his adversaries, and Frank had to admit that it sometimes really seemed that way.
Frank vividly remembered the winter of 1984. After months of intense preparation for the RICO indictment against the city’s leading Mafia bosses, Kostidis had been just a shadow of himself—pale with dark lines under his eyes, driven only by his almost inhuman energy. He lived for his work. Sometimes it was downright frightening to see him in his office ready to accomplish his mission after five hours of sleep, setting a pace that even much younger staff members couldn’t sustain. Nick Kostidis set very high standards, yet he was tough and courageous, and willing to give it all he had. Moreover, he had an infallible instinct for dealing with the media. He was never afraid to state his opinion bluntly in front of running cameras. The majority of New York City’s population loved him for it, but there were also many people who hated him because he posed a threat to their lucrative—and in most cases illegal—businesses. Over the years, Frank had come to the conclusion that you either had to love or hate Nick Kostidis. At the very least, you couldn’t be indifferent to him.
Frank never regretted that he hadn’t become a lawyer like his father or his brothers. Fate had introduced him to Nick Kostidis, and Frank was grateful for that. Although his job was stressful and didn’t pay particularly well, the position as the closest assistant to the mayor of New York City held new challenges and assignments every day. Frank was confronted in his work with a sense of life’s incredible highs and lows that could only exist in a metropolis like New York. Wealth and misery, crime and charity bloomed and faded rapidly like colors in a kaleidoscope. The biggest bright spot was Nick Kostidis, this incredible man who never neglected humanity because of politics. Frank would never let Nick down in his tireless effort to fight for improving people’s lives in New York.
The telephone rang.
“Good evening,” he answered.
“You’re still there,” said an unpleasantly droning voice.
“Hello, Mr. McDeere.” Frank closed his tired eyes. “What can I do for you at this late hour?”
Truman McDeere was the FBI agent who’d been assigned to guard key witness David Zuckerman. Frank didn’t like this bald man with his grim expression and jaundiced face. He’d met him during the indictment of the city’s Mafia bosses and was happy when their collaboration ended.