My calm gaze rests on the Van Gogh painting hanging over the fireplace in my office as I listen to the soft sound of a pathetic excuse for a man sobbing in a chair behind me.

The painting is of a coastline, seen from the land, the perspective slightly raised up, as if the painter was standing on a hill. A small ship with a single rolled-up sail bobs in the water in the painting, and closer to the shore, a loose group of seven or so people stagger toward the sandy shoreline out of the water. Their faces are just blotches of color. The sky behind them is cloudy and gray, but there is light shining from behind the viewer, as if the shore is sunny.

Behind me, the man—as much as my mouth curls into a frown to call him that—blubbers a few words at me.

“Don Abruzzi, I...I don’t know what I can say. My son, he’s a good boy, he really is. He just lost his temper. He’s young, he’s hot-blooded, they’re all like that.”

“Your boy was rash,” I say calmly, my gaze not moving from the painting on the wall. I’m seated still as a statue in my grand leather chair. “He picked a fight with one of my soldiers.”

“He didn’t know, Don Abruzzi,” the man says, exasperated. “And he paid for it. Your man knocked out some of his teeth, he-”

“He’s lucky he wasn’t killed,” I say matter-of-factly, slowly rising to my feet and folding my hands as I turn to look at him. The man is thin and middle-aged with graying hair, his eyes rimmed with red.

What a pathetic husk of a man.

“He understands that,” the man says, nodding his head quickly. “Please, Don Abruzzi, I will take responsibility for anything we owe you because of this.”

“I know you will,” I say. “My soldier your boy fought with says it was over your daughter. I expect you’ll tell her to show a little more respect to my men as well.”

“Of course, I-”

“Moreover,” I interrupt him, gesturing for one of the guards in the room to pour me a glass of wine, “Since it seems your boy has enough money to piss away in the bars picking fights with dangerous men, I expect you can manage a fifty-percent increase in your monthly payments.”

His eyes go wide, and his face goes pale. “What? Don Abruzzi, please, I’ve just sold my car to make my back-payments already, and-”

“Your protection is clearly more expensive than we realized,” I continue, unfazed. “If your boy is so liable to get into trouble, it’s only fair to charge more.”

“Don Abruzzi, I won’t be able to stay in business if-”

I stop listening to the man’s squawling, and I glance to one of my guards. With the slightest nod of my head, two of them move toward the man and haul him to his feet. He continues to make any excuse he can come up with as my men drag him out of my office.

I glance at them going while I take a drink of the black wine offered to me.

Pathetic.

As he’s dragged out, my consigliere passes him on the way into my office. He takes his hat off to me out of respect, and I give him a nod to allow him inside.

“Come in, Enrico.”

Enrico enters, and my guards close the doors behind him while I invite him to have a seat and have them pour him some wine to join me.

“Him again?” Enrico asks with a wry smile, nodding back to the door where I can still faintly hear the man crying out pleas for mercy. “You’re a more patient man than me, Don Abruzzi.”

I give a soft smile, then look back up to my painting.

“You see the people in this painting, Enrico? Every time I deal with men like that blubbering idiot, I look at this painting. Lost, weary parasites staggering into our territory, wanting just a taste of all the riches we’ve built up for ourselves here in New York. You give them just a taste, and they want more and more until they’ve drained you of everything. Push them too far, and they turn violent. It’s all about knowing their breaking point—then you can keep them just where you want them. It’s only fair.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Enrico says with a broad smile, getting comfortable in his mahogany chair in what looks like a brand-new Armani suit.

We raise our wine glasses to one another. “Salute,” I toast before we take a drink and I sit back down behind my desk to face him. “Enough pleasantries, though. Tell me, have you found what I’ve asked for?”

Enrico takes a moment longer than usual to enjoy the taste of his wine, and I have my answer before he’s even spoken.

“We haven’t been able to find the De Laurentis girl, no.”

“Is she still in New York?”

“We should assume ‘no.’ Lomaglio still has close allies in the Costas, and they got her away from the car bomb fast.”

Now it’s my turn to give him an even, silent stare before I speak again. “You don’t sound optimistic about it, Enrico. Care to share your thoughts?”

Enrico clenches his jaw a moment, and I can feel his nervousness like a stink on him.

“The Lomaglio guy...Bruno. He isn’t-”

“Wasn’t,” I correct him.

“Wasn’t like the other Costas. He commanded their respect in a way the other capos can’t. That kind of loyalty extended to Serena De Laurentis. Bruno’s friends are going to make sure she’s far out of the way. They’ll know it’s no use stashing her in some safehouse around town.”

“And you don’t know how far they’ve taken her...why, exactly?”

“Her trail just vanishes, Don Abruzzi. Whoever got her away from the hit on Bruno did it fast and quiet, and nobody’s talking. We don’t have the means to-”

“Find the means, Enrico,” I say, letting the slightest impatient edge come to my voice. A calm demeanor means that it only takes a light touch to get my point across, when I want something done. I look him dead in the eye, my gaze steely. “I’m giving you freedom to use whatever funds necessary, and I want you to hire a professional to get this done. I want the De Laurentis line to end with that girl, and I want it to end sooner rather than later.”

“I understand, Don Abruzzi,” he says, bowing his head, but he hesitates a moment. “Finding someone for this job might be...costly. There is one more thing we’ve picked up on.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“There are rumors going around about an announcement she made before the hit. Serena De Laurentis might be pregnant.”

I don’t let any reaction cross my features. Inside, I feel frustration brewing up like a storm. Every day either Serena De Laurentis or Bruno Lomaglio is alive, it’s an insult to the Abruzzi name. It’s a testament to my own son’s murder and a challenge to my authority. But some bastard spawn of the two of them…?

“Very well then,” I say candidly. “Whoever you find can deal with the problem before she gives birth and it becomes two problems.”

Enrico stares at me a moment, and the look in his eyes makes me tempted to replace him. He still clings to useless, outdated values that do nothing but cripple you in this city. I set my wine glass down and fold my hands.

“Enrico, my friend,” I speak to him with the kindliness of a grandfather. “I shouldn’t have to remind you how this works, you know. Bruno Lomaglio is dead. We killed him. If the De Laurentis girl has a child, and that child is allowed to grow up, that’s one more rival, one more person who will grow up bloodthirsty for vendetta against us, against everything we’ve built.”

Enrico shifts ever so slightly in his chair, but he nods. I lean forward.

“Blood for blood. This is for Lorenzo, don’t forget that. And if this ‘pregnancy’ thing is a rumor, then let’s keep it as a rumor, nothing more. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Don Abruzzi,” Enrico says, apparently finding his manhood again and acting with some dignity. “It will be done.”

“Good,” I say, and I gesture for my guards to open the door as Enrico begins to stand up. “See to it. And while we’re on the subject of rumors…”

“Right, about Bruno,” Enrico says as he stands up and I open my desk, taking out a small envelope. “Some of the men have been talking about how the hit went down. The soldiers talk—it’s what they do. Nothing to be worried about.”

“I know they talk,” I say as I open the envelope and take out its contents. “Talk isn’t good for business. Which is why I have these,” I say, sliding a few photographs across the table. Enrico steps forward and looks at them, his eyes widening as he picks them up.

They show a large, burly, musclebound body lying on fire-scorched asphalt...and a bloody stump where its head should be.

“This is all that remains of Bruno Lomaglio,” I say evenly, giving him a meaningful look as he glances up at me.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I talk again before he can. “Make sure these circulate among the men. Understood?”

He takes the envelope and sticks the photos back into it, swallowing hard. “Yes, Don Abruzzi.”

I smile.

“Good man. Now go.”

I watch my consigliere stalk off, and I gesture for my guards to go too, which they do, silently—the way I like it. The door finally closes behind them, leaving me in peace.

I let out a breath, feeling tired already. If I still had my youth, I’d be out taking care of this myself.

My eyes drift back to the painting on the wall as I finish off my wine in a single swig. I look at the faceless figures staggering onto the shore, and I know that not long ago, we were those people. Cleaners, they called us. It’s only thanks to me that we can one day be called the Abruzzi Family and command the respect we deserve. And I’m not about to let some bitch and her unborn brat ruin our war for the Bronx for me.

Not her, not the Costas...

And certainly not the fact that I never was presented with Bruno Lomaglio’s corpse.