The spacious, sprawling structure was the product of two generations of Camorra activity. Fredo's father Luigi had been a young Neapolitan recruit to Vito Genovese's end-of-war smuggling activities. After helping re-route thousands of tons of army grain to the black market that was run from Nola, in the east of Naples, he went on to serve the Families of Lucky Luciano, set up after the mobster arrived in 1946. Luciano lived in the region until 1962 and by then Luigi Finelli had risen through the ranks and was running his own Camorra clan.
Despite bitter differences between father and son in later life, Luigi's portrait still hung above the table where three generations of the family ate dinner on a giant oak table. Many years earlier, Fredo had paid a local sculptor to fell the tree, slice it in two, treat the timber and then hand carve the bespoke piece that he hoped would be handed down from generation to generation.
Fredo's two younger brothers, Dominico and Marco, had come tonight with their wives, their sons and daughters and grandchildren. In all, the great tree had just finished hosting eighteen people, ranging in age from four to sixty-four.
There was no formality to what happened after dinner. Everyone went their own way. The children – mostly the same age – raced each other round the corridors until they were red-faced. Meanwhile, Gina Valsi and the rest of the adults took coffee and desserts in a giant L-shaped garden room that opened into a pool house where the kids would scream and splash once their dinners had settled.
Her husband and her father didn't join them. There was business to discuss. Don Fredo apologized and begged their understanding.
The Capofamiglia put his arm around his son-in-law's shoulders and guided him to his study. The den was large but warm and had a carefully crafted cosiness. The walls and floors were panelled in cherry wood, with floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with antique books on three sides and a custom-built desk and drawer area occupying the other wall. Three green antique leather settees formed a horseshoe around a giant cherry-wood table scattered with legal documents and company accounts. The centrepiece was a silver ashtray. Don Fredo lit a Toscana cigar. 'Please, sit,' he said, waving a hand at the settees. He heard Valsi settle noisily into the leather as he produced a bottle of Vecchio brandy and two crystal glasses.
'Salvatore tells me you managed to renew your acquaintance with our old friend from Assisi?' He chose the couch across the table and poured generous measures.
Valsi took a glass. 'Yes, it was good to catch up, but we won't be seeing each other again.'
They clinked crystal.
Don Fredo gently swirled the amber liquid, smelled it and took a warming sip. 'We mustn't be gone too long. It is impolite with family in the house. But I want to share a concern with you, and it is best we talk now before it grows into a problem between us.'
Valsi made a point of sitting upright. He wanted the Don to know he had his full attention.
'When you were in prison, you formed some friendships with people who, now you are free again, it would not be appropriate for you to continue having relationships with.'
The young Capo put down his brandy. 'When I went to jail, you told me that survival in Poggioreale would be all about relationships. You were right. Many people were good to me. I feel it would be wrong now to forget them.'
'I know. But despite how you feel, forget them you must.'
Valsi tried not to show his annoyance. 'But please, tell me, who exactly are you suggesting I turn my back on?'
Don Fredo looked directly into his son-in-law's eyes. 'It would not, for example, be good for you to associate, or be linked in any way, with the likes of Alberto Donatello or Romano Ivetta.'
Valsi stared back. The Don was well informed. These were men he wanted. Soldiers to form the backbone of his crew. 'They are good men. They would join our Family if we asked. And if we do not ask, then they will join someone else's Family and that will be our loss.'
'They are not good men, Bruno, and they are no loss!' The old man's eyes blazed with anger. 'They are heroin dealers who got caught, so they are not even good at that.'
'They were not caught. They were betrayed,' insisted Valsi, 'by greedy cops who wanted more than their fair share in kickbacks.'
Don Fredo sighed wearily. 'All cops are greedy. It has been that way since the first of them pinned on a badge. These friends of yours are stupid if they do not understand these things and make provision. But that is not my main point.'
'I don't understand.'
'Bruno, heroin and coke are not our things. Narcotics we leave to the Cicerone Family. They, in turn, leave the garment business to us. They do not tender against us when we produce for the big fashion houses and that gives us a rich advantage. Contrary to what the press say, we do cooperate with other Families and we do respect each other.'
Valsi took a hit of brandy to calm himself. 'Do you really believe that Cicerone does not supply counterfeit clothing to the houses in Milano? You think he does not own designer warehouses and outlets in Germany stacked with clothes made under your nose? With all due respect, his Family is worse than the cops who betrayed Alberto and Romano.'
Sal had warned him that Valsi was bold. Nevertheless, the young man was even more stubborn than Don Fredo had bargained for. 'The matter is closed.' He picked up his cigar and for a second or so had to work hard at bringing it back to life. Finally he inhaled and slowly blew out a long thin cloud. 'There is another issue. You and my daughter, everything between you is all right?'
'Of course, why do you ask?' Valsi was angered by the question.
The old man's eyes weighed his answer. He could see the unrest. 'You seemed tense at dinner. I know it must be difficult for you both after being apart for so long, but I don't like what I am seeing. It does not look like Romeo and Juliet to me. You young lovers should be overjoyed to be together again.'
Valsi feigned embarrassment. 'You are right, it is not yet easy.'
'We should go back to the others.' Don Fredo collected the cigar and creaked himself out of the leather. They both walked together but, as Valsi stepped towards the door to open it, the old man put his hand on his shoulder again and this time squeezed tightly. 'We've spoken tonight of important things, but nothing in the world is more important to me than my daughter's happiness. Make her joyous and you will be very richly rewarded. Break her heart and I will have you buried so deep no one will find you for centuries.'
16
Sunset View, South Brooklyn, New York City On the way back to Nancy's parents' house, Jack swung by the home of his ex-FBI partner Howie Baumguard. An expensive divorce and an expansive booze problem had moved him from West Village, SoHo, to rented-room squalor. Jack climbed the garbage-strewn steps outside his friend's building, and made his way upstairs to a third floor that had never seen a working light bulb.
He had to bang four times before Howie eventually slid the bolts and opened the paint-peeling door on a chain thick enough to tow a truck.
'Hang on, I've got it,' he said, squinting at Jack in the hallway.
A warm, sour smell of beer and fried food hung in the air. The tiny room was so untidy it looked as if it had just been burgled.
'Great to see ya, man. Great to see ya.' Howie bear-hugged his former partner until he heard him gasp for air.
Jack slapped his buddy's back, then stepped away a pace. 'Wish I could say the same about you. My friend, you look like a bag of shit.'
'Man, ain't you the charmer!' Howie scratched the start of a bald spot appearing in his nest of unwashed hair. 'Sit yourself down, Mr Smoothtongue, I'll fix some coffee.'
Jack watched him waddle away. Howie had just hauled himself out of the sack and was dressed in blue boxers and an old grey T that only half covered his paunch. He'd never been one to watch his weight but it looked as though recently he hadn't even given it a passing glance.