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truth, the crime family was on its last legs at that point, anyway. Years of warring with the Greeks, Russians and others had left them weak and disordered. Now the Mexican cartels had moved into the States, using Atlanta as their East Coast hub and spreading their network all the way to Maine—a route that also included York and all of the Marano family’s other territories. As far as Tony was concerned, illegal immigration was the biggest
    problem facing organized crime. Within another decade, anybody involved in the business would be speaking Spanish.
    The ruse had worked. Marano thought he was dead. Tony Genova ceased to exist. Larry DiMazzio was born. The government had set him up with a condo in Arizona. Tony liked the area, especially the fact that it was as far away from the fucking ocean as a person could get. He made a living day trading. His FBI handlers—they preferred the term liaison—checked in on him once a month, but otherwise, life was good.
    The only thing he missed was Vince. They had been partners for many years, and they’d seen a lot of weird shit together. Vince had also been the closest thing Tony had to a real friend—or at least what sufficed for a friend in their line of work. Vince was dumb as a rock and fatter than an elephant at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but he’d also been loyal and kind—two qualities that Tony had admired. Vince had been like a pet dog, or maybe a little brother. Sometimes he’d aggravated Tony to the point of violence, and then, the next minute, he’d make Tony laugh. Tony had loved him, in his own fashion. And now he was gone.
    And today would have been his birthday.
    “Larry,” the girl asked again, “are you listening to me?”
    “Sorry, babe.” Momentarily forgetting, Tony slipped into his natural accent—a bizarre compendium of Brooklyn, the New Jersey shore, and Pennsylvania Dutch. “I was off in fucking La-La Land. What’s up?”
    If the girl noticed the change, she gave no indication.
    “I axed if you were gonna take me out tonight?”
    Tony shook his head. “Not tonight. I’ve got shit to do.”
    Pouting, the girl—he wished he could remember her name—pulled on her panties and bra.
    “You got someone else coming over?”
    “No, sugar. It ain’t like that. I’ve got to work. You know how it is.”
    “Work? All you do is use your laptop. You can do that from anywhere.”
    Tony sat up and reached for his silk boxer shorts. “Look. How about I give you a few bucks. You can take yourself out on the town and have a nice time. Go to a movie or the clubs or something. How would that be? How much cash do you need?”
    “You calling me a whore? Is that all I am to you?”
    Tony suppressed his initial response—a feat he wouldn’t have been able to manage in his old life, and smiled gently. “Of course not, baby. I care about you, and I feel bad that I can’t go out tonight. I just wanted to make it better. That’s all.”
    Her expression softened again. She finished getting dressed. Tony did the same. Then he ushered her out of the house with a promise to call her soon. When she was gone, he shut the door and sighed.
    “About fucking time. I thought she’d never leave. God-damned whore.”
    Tony got undressed again and took a shower. When he was finished, he put on a fresh pair of silk boxers and his bathrobe. Then he sat down at the dining room table and turned on his laptop. In truth, he didn’t have to work. The way the market was right now, the best thing he could do was to do nothing—except wait, and watch for good deals on fire sale stocks. He’d lied to the girl to get rid of her. Instead of working, he had other plans.
    While the laptop warmed up, Tony poured himself four fingers of Woodford Reserve bourbon and selected a Partagas Lusitanias from his cured Spanish cedar humidor. After cutting off the tip, he lit the cigar, took a sip of whiskey, and then sat down at the dining room table and clicked on the laptop’s picture