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his parents’ private jet took off, faltered in the air, exploded in a fiery blaze, and crashed. Whatever followed—whatever deep terror burrowed into his heart following the accident—felt like something that was none of my business.
    He was shaken but, to my surprise, neither angry nor resentful.
    With a weak smile, he told me I didn’t have to use cold fury, that he would’ve turned the jet around for me. I apologized, explaining that I’d remembered some urgent, unfinished counselor-at-large business, but that I should’ve been more patient.
    He asked then, had I seen his worst fear?
    Part of it, I replied, hesitating, and told him only about the part up to the plane crash.
    Tyler nodded slowly with something like a look of relief, admitting that he’d never discussed how he felt about his parents’ untimely end with anyone and, well, could he—with me? We sat then, the two of us alone at the back of the jet as he spoke quietly about grief and loneliness, how deeply he missed his mom’s light sense of humor that dismissed all bad things as temporary, and his dad’s wisdom and guidance. His eyes were wet and we held hands. He tried to explain the emptiness he felt, wondering when or if it would ever fill in, and if he wanted it to. It hit so close to home that I found myself talking, too. I couldn’t tell the truth about my situation, of course, so I channeled feelings of fear and loss into the lie about my dad’s dire illness. I’d decided to go to Rome for a respite; instead, the cancelled trip became a mutual therapy session, and it felt good, even a little cleansing. Toward the end, Tyler uttered something so undeniable that it made my eyes wet, too.
    â€œThere’s nothing as permanent as the death of the people you love most,” he said quietly.
    In a single sentence, he’d articulated my own worst fear.
    We were at the back of the jet sitting side by side, the engines humming low and steady around us. Tyler glanced out the window and then turned to me, saying how sure he was that the VP of Muscle, Knuckles Battuta, had orchestrated his parents’ plane crash.
    It sent a chill through me, a family so quickly separated by murder. “Why?” I asked.
    â€œPower. When it comes to the chain of command in the Outfit, only Lucky sits above Money and Muscle,” he said. “The two positions are interdependent. Muscle needs Money to fund its army of enforcers and Money relies on Muscle to collect street tax, operating tax, and all other funds.”
    I nodded. “I’ve settled a lot of disagreements between the two sides, as you know.”
    â€œMy dad,” Tyler said, and faltered, taking a breath. “He was younger than Knuckles, and charming—charismatic, I guess you could say. He and Knuckles were like oil and water.” Tyler was convinced that after all of the disputes between the two men over so many years, Knuckles took out his dad, hoping to exert influence over the teenaged Strozzini.
    â€œIt didn’t work out that way, huh?” I said.
    Tyler shook his head and leaned in closer. “I despise Knuckles and everything he stands for as the chief enforcer,” he said in a confessional tone. “But you know what? Even more, I hate that I’m bound to the Outfit. After my parents died, Lucky made it clear that I had to become head of Money, or else. My family had served too long and knew too many secrets for me to be allowed to become a civilian.”
    Tyler was chained to the organization, just like me.
    Beyond that, we shared the reality of being different from everyone else in the Outfit. For me, it’s gender. For him, it’s because he’s half African American. The organization practiced its own hypocritical version of multiculturalism—members could be Italian, Greek, Jewish, whatever, as long as they were male and white. Our disparity brought us together almost as much as the