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It was all long-term thinking from here on. He was going for broke because he wanted to go out on top. Like the firemen who work as much overtime as they can in their final year so they can retire with a salary based on whatever hours they pile up during their swan song, Frank was trying to accumulate as much power, fear, and reputation as possible before he bit it. This was his legacy. He wasn’t going to risk the mausoleum he bought in Flushing having an engraving that read, Here rests Frank Fortunato, devoted father, beloved community member, arguably powerful gangster . He wanted all questions answered before he was laid to rest.
    And that process would start with the guy who hadn’t come through with the other other thing.
    â€œFrank, you sure about this? I mean, I could talk to Tony Stutters.”
    Frank slowly turned and stared off in the distance, imagining the ripple effect this first step of his journey would cause.
    â€œNo. I said I’ll handle it. It’s personal.”

Brittany and Anfernee
    â€œWe got him.”
    Brittany Marinakos clicked the Pause button on her computer’s video player. The playback on the monitor next to her froze on a black- and-white shot of Frank Fortunato staring angrily at the camera that had been so carefully placed behind the speaker screen of his TV. Perfect. Just like she had rehearsed it.
    And how fortunate that he chose to punctuate his murder plans with a slow-burn look toward the camera that was oh so powerful. Not in a soap-opera way, but in a real Jimmy Caan, let’s-settle-this-mano-a-mano kind of way. The kind of look you always assume precedes some sort of dastardly deed. Or a dance off.
    She took a millisecond to remind herself that she was about to put her five years on the job at risk by proposing a mission that could make her a shining star in the FBI. Or ruin her. Then she turned dramatically (presentation is everything, Columbo), making sure to keep her carefully constructed “confident” face on as she waited for Anfernee’s reaction.
    â€œYou ‘got’ him? For what? Going to see ‘a guy’ about ‘a thing’? What are you going to charge him with, ‘ a crime’?”
    â€œDid you see the same footage I saw? He’s going to see Carmine. To kill him.”
    â€œBut they never said that. I can’t go to Justice with this.”
    â€œSal shrugged .”
    â€œ. . . And?”
    And in Mafia talk that was as good as Sal sending Frank a BFF text message describing in detail their plans to slit an associate’s throat. It was hard to remember that some people hadn’t been as immersed in the Cosa Nostra culture as deeply as she had. It had been twenty-six months now.
    Brittany had joined the FBI to please her father. He was a legend in the Bureau. Not for what he did. For what he didn’t do. Man, that guy could keep his mouth shut. He saw all sorts of rule breaking and didn’t do a goddamned thing about it. His nickname among those who could be trusted was “The Zipper.” Because his lips were zipped. Always. Oliver “The Zipper” Marinakos. He worked his cases, stayed right in the middle of the political road, and retired the day after he clocked thirty years.
    Since she was a girl, Brittany had tried everything to please her father. She was captain of her high school debate team. Homecoming queen. Twice. She played hockey, for Christ’s sake. Nothing ever resonated. It might have been the lifelong depression her dad suffered from, or perhaps he was just a terrible father, but nothing Brittany did ever got more than a “Well, isn’t that nice” reaction. Straight As. Uh-huh. Scholarship to State. Super. League playoffs. Sounds great. The playoffs! Nothing. So she quit law school and became an FBI agent, just like him. Seemed like a foolproof plan and the bennies were solid. It was her first accomplishment that he seemed proud of.
    Brittany was