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show mercy. You shouldn’t make a habit of it, of course, but just this once.” He smiled at Astorre.
    For Don Raymonde Aprile this was a familiar moment, and he was in no doubt as to his decision. He had always distrusted the power of gratitude, and he believed that no one could direct the influence of free will in any man, except by death. He regarded Fissolini impassively and shook his head. Bianco moved forward.
    Astorre strode to his uncle and looked him square in the eyes. He had understood everything. He put out his hand to protect Fissolini.
    “He didn’t hurt us,” Astorre said. “He just wanted our money.”
    The Don smiled and said, “And that’s nothing?”
    Astorre said, “But it was a good reason. He wanted the money to feed his family. And I like him. Please, Uncle.”
    The Don smiled at him and said, “Bravo.” Then he remained silent for a long time, ignoring Astorre tugging at his hand. And for the first time in many years the Don felt the urge to show mercy.
    Bianco’s men had lit up small cigars, very strong, and the smoke wafted through the dawn air carried on the mountain breezes. One of the men came forward and from his hunting jacket took out a fresh cigar and offered it to the Don. With a child’s clarity, Astorre understood this was not only a courtesy but a demonstration of respect. The Don took the cigar, and the man lit it for him within cupped hands.
    The Don puffed his cigar slowly and deliberately, then said, “I will not insult you by showing you mercy. But I will offer you a business arrangement. I recognize you had no malice and you showed the utmost regard for my person and the boy. So this is the arrangement. You live. Your comrades live. But for the rest of your lives, you will be at my command.”
    Astorre felt an enormous relief, and he smiled at Fissolini. He watched Fissolini kneel to the ground and kiss the Don’s hand. Astorre noticed that the surrounding armed men puffed furiously on their cigars, and even Bianco, grand as a mountain, trembled with pleasure.
    Fissolini murmured, “Bless you, Your Excellency.”
    The Don put his cigar down on a nearby rock. “I accept your blessing, but you must understand. Bianco came to save me, and you are expected to do the same duty. I pay him a sum of money, and I will do the same for you every year. But one act of disloyalty and you and your world will be destroyed. You, your wife, your children, your nephews, your sons-in-law will cease to exist.”
    Fissolini rose from his knees. He embraced the Don and burst into tears.
    And so it was that the Don and his nephew became most formally united. The Don loved the boy for persuading him to show mercy, and Astorre loved his uncle for giving him the lives of Fissolini and his ten men. It was a bond that lasted the rest of their lives.
    T he last night in Villa Grazia, Don Aprile had espresso in the garden and Astorre ate olives from their barrel. Astorre was very pensive, not his usual sociable self.
    “Are you sorry to leave Sicily?” the Don asked.
    “I wish I could live here,” Astorre said. He put the pits of his olives in his pocket.
    “Well, we will come every summer together,” the Don said.
    Astorre looked at him like a wise old friend, his youthful face troubled.
    “Is Caterina your girlfriend?” he asked.
    The Don laughed. “She is my good friend,” he said.
    Astorre thought about this. “Do my cousins know about her?”
    “No, my children do not know.” Again the Don was amused by the boy and wondered what would come next.
    Astorre was very grave now. “Do my cousins know you have such powerful friends like Bianco who will do anything you tell them they must do?”
    “No,” the Don said.
    “I won’t tell them about anything,” Astorre said. “Not even about the kidnapping.”
    The Don felt a surge of pride. Omerta had been bred into his genes.
    Late that night, alone, Astorre went to the far corner of the garden and dug a hole with his bare hands. In