 
Da' Neighborhood

Phil Wohl

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Phil Wohl

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It was October of 1987 and the stock market had just crashed, which meant that all of the legitimate money behind the Paris Lakes community had been flushed down the toilet and into the cesspool known as New Jersey.

The FBI had been tracking the Garrafolo crime family for years and was on the brink of convicting crime boss Vito Garrafolo and many of his associates. Vito's son Guido, or Gary as he like to be called, had just turned 21 and was about to make one of the biggest decisions of his young life.

"Hey, boss. Those mooks building that development on Orchard can't make the payments," accountant Artie Grecco asked Vito as he sat behind his huge mahogany desk eating peanuts out of the shell.

"Whatta' you wanna' to do?" Grecco asked in his best New Jersey slang, knowing that potential answers could range from a wide assortment of felonies and f-bombs.

Garrafolo knew he was on the verge of being nabbed for racketeering charges, so he needed a way to bridge the gap between the past and the present by getting his youngest son involved. But there was no way that his Guido would step foot in the business if it was dirty, at least not initially.

The FBI had planned a sting at Garrafolo's house the following night, because Vito was throwing his son a 21st birthday and everyone that was going to be arrested would be in attendance.

Grecco walked in Vito's home office just before the party started.

"You know most of us will be going away for a while," Don Vito said and Grecco nodded in acknowledgment. "I know you are unsure of my college boy and are reluctant to bring him into the business. But I tell you, just as sure as I am sitting here right now, that he will be the most lawless and profitable boss this family has ever seen. I can see it in his eyes," Vito said as he pointed to his right eye with his pinky-ringed right hand.

Grecco knew there was so much resistance he could show to Don Vito without getting popped, even though they were first cousins.

He smiled, "If it is your wish, Don Vito, it will be done," Grecco said as he then approached the Don and kissed his ring.

"My other sons are not to know about this. They don't think so well with a hot head. No sense throwing another tree on the fire," Don Vito added.

"Can you bring my son in, Arthur?" Vito said in a more formal tone, which caught Artie off guard.

"You know I'm counting on you to keep the family together while I'm away."

"Yes, Don," Artie replied and then stood motionless as Vito walked toward him and threw his arms around him.

"You have been like a brother to me all these years," as Vito kissed both sides of Artie's face and got uncharacteristically emotional. Vito then slightly slapped Artie's face and Artie said, "I'll go get Guido."

Vito made a face and then Artie corrected himself, "I mean, Gary."

A few minutes later, Artie was back with the only kid of Vito and Angela Garrafolo to get a four-year college degree. Guido had graduated from Rutgers University the previous spring with a Bachelors in International Business, a major concentration that he coincidentally picked for himself. The kid was fluent in more than five languages, including Italian, Russian, Spanish and some Asian dialects, and he was also a whiz with numbers. Vito often thought that he couldn't have assembled a more qualified heir to hand his business over to in an era of increasing internationalization. That was why he decided to make a deal with the Feds, who were more allies than foes.

The government had threatened to cut funding to the organized crime task force, and Agent Terrence Crowley sat down at a New York Yankees game one evening. The Don sitting in his box three rows from the Yankees dugout and Crowley posing as a hot dog vendor before shedding his costume moments later.

Vito unraveled the silver foil wrapper to uncover both a hot dog and ear piece for them to communicate. He took a huge bite out of the hot dog and then inconspicuously placed the clear device in his left ear. Crowley stood near the lower level concession stand and started eating an order of gooey nachos, which he was never allowed to do in his normally fastidious life.

"We're getting some heat from upstairs," he said.

Vito finished the hot dog with his second bite and then wiped his mouth the foul wrapper that was aptly marked, "HOT DOG."

"What's it gonna' take?" Vito asked, with his usual voice because the stands were generally empty during batting practice, which usually took place and hour before the game started when the weather cooperated. He also had a bodyguard or two in place to keep people away from him during these times.

"This is bigger than usual," Crowley stated. "The market crashed and we need to keep our funding so we can keep you in the black," he added, referring to the assistance the Feds gave to Vito and his family business. Crowley's multi-million dollar, off-shore bank account was a testament of his good work on this front.

"I need to get some reading done," the 60 year-old Don said to Crowley. "I'll talk to my boys and get you a list before the bust." He then took a huge swig of his beer and said, "It doesn't matta' if I never sleep in the inside of my house again, but I want your word that nothing will ever happen to my son."

Crowley replied, "Johnny?" meaning Vito's eldest son, who he expected to be the next in line to take over. At 38 years old, Johnny was a ruthless killer who made his living on the mean streets of Brooklyn, Staten Island and the other three Burroughs, leaving New Jersey to his younger brother Pauli, who had a gift for burying bodies that could never be found.

"No," Vito replied.

Crowley went to the next name on the list, "Pauli?"

Vito smiled as he lifted his right hand and motioned in the air, propelling one of his goons to being him a meatball parm hero that his wife wouldn't let him eat because of his high cholesterol. He opened the two foot hero that was purchased in Brooklyn and lifted a half, taking a bite that would make most crocodile's envious.

"Nope," he replied through a haze of bread, meatballs, sauce and cheese, as he reached down with his free hand and took another swig of beer.

Crowley was confused because the power in all mob families was passed down through the male bloodline only. But it was Crowley's job to know everything about Vito Garrafolo, from his favorite dish - Muscles Marinara - to his taste in women - just about any young thing that wasn't his wife - to his favorite kid, who he obviously was asleep on until it him.

"Oh, no! You're not going to let the college kid in the business? You worked so hard to keep him out of it!"

Vito paused a few seconds to let his favorite Irish agent think about what he just said, while taking the opportunity to devour the hero in four bites. The man was as blood-thirsty and insatiable as any Don before him. He would use his time away to eat and screw anything he wanted, without supervision. Years of being monitored by his wife had worn on him and he was at the point that he had to get away or risk the highest communal crime, killing the mother of his children. That kind of action was reserved for women who were traitors. Angela Garrafolo was no traitor, but she was a huge pain in the ass for Vito, who didn't like to be questioned about anything.

Agent Crowley then remembered the young prodigy absorbing most of his languages before the age of 10, which was the point when most of his instincts were programmed before he could even realize it.

"You've been training G all along to take over for you," Crowley came to the realization.

"And nobody will suspect him because he's so educated and clean. It would probably be a good idea to send him to law school so he can be District Attorney one day," Crowley added without thinking it through. But once the idea was out, Vito would expect him to follow through.

"Exactly! Make it happen, Terry," Vito stated sternly while using the agent's first name. Crowley knew that Vito would wipe out him and his entire family with one sweep of his hand, no matter if he was on the Jersey Shore or in jail if he didn't follow the plan.

"Yes sir," Crowley replied to the man befitting such respect.

TWO

"Poppa, you called for me?" Guido said to his father as he entered the room and Vito contemplated the future with his back to him in his high-backed leather chair.

Vito stood up and walked over to his son, kissing him on both cheeks and the hugging him, saying "My dear boy. You will be destined for great things," he said and then slowly pulled back from the hug. Vito walked toward his chair and motioned for G to sit down in front of him, and he did.

"I know that you are not fond of some of the things we do around here, but I want to make it all right tonight. It's your 21st birthday and I wanted to celebrate the day by making an offer that even you can't refuse."

Gary Garrafolo made the transition to mainstream society, leaving behind many of the questions and oddities that come with being the son off one of the biggest mob figures in the U.S. and perhaps the world.

"It has come to my attention that a prime property near us has become available, and I want you to have it for your 21st birthday," Don Vito said as if he was giving the kid a normal gift.

Gary was skeptical about anything to with the family.

"It has to be 100 percent clean, dad," he replied.

"We bought the property with money we made from the sales of our olive oil product," the Don stated and then thought about the process of stuffing the olive oil cans with assorted illegal narcotics.

The son knew the olive oil business was dirty, but he really did like olive oil the family made from the olive orchards in Italy, and then imported to the United States. The fact that the product was not sold to the public probably limited the income the family could have made from such a venture.

Guido was filled with elation while Gary stewed over the legal ramifications that such a venture would produce. He had political aspirations and really didn't want to mess with his chances, so his reply was predictably mixed.

"While it has always been my dream to manage a property, I'm not sure I can accept your generous offer," he said with all of the poise of a born leader.

All Don Vito heard was the first part of his son's answer and planned to build on that.

"I have enrolled in NYU Law School and don't want anything to deter my career progress," Gary stated in a tone that he hoped would present his position, albeit leaving the door open just a bit for his father to convince him.

Don Vito was a man of action, and rose to power by using anything and everything in his disposed to get ahead. He sat back in his chair and looked deep into his son's blue eyes.

"Federal agents are going to come through the front door in about an hour and take me and some of my men away for a long time. I am doing this so that you and your sisters can have a chance at a normal life. Obviously, there isn't much I can do about your brother's at this point..."

They both laughed. "That's why I want you to have this development," he stood up and so did Gary, as they came close together.

"Go to law school, become president, do whatever your heart your heart desires." He put his thick, right paw on his son's soft, baby face.

"You were my greatest creation in life," Don Vito said as he almost shed a tear, "You make me so proud every day," he concluded as he hugged and kissed his son.

While everyone else in the family would have cried at such a speech. Gary Garrafolo was already planning his future in his head. There were no tears necessary for either man - Vito's eye welling was only for show - because they were both always focused on the prize, and random emotion had no place in their world. They broke the hug with a few pack pats and Don Vito asked, "Are we good?"

Guido smiled, "Yeah, we're good?"

And then Don Vito had one last piece of advice, because he knew the true nature of his son's career track.

"Don't ever back down. Even when they got you by the balls, you always have the advantage because you are my son. You'll always be my son."

Almost to the second, an hour later Agent Crowley and his team walked through the front door and calmly arrested Don Vito and eight of his men that were also dying to get away from their wives. The agents wore blue jackets with gold lettering on the back that simply read 'FBI.'

If there was some advanced notice, Don Vito's eldest sons, Johnny and Pauli, surely would have fought back with any weapons they could get their hands on. But this was a celebration's of Gary's birthday and his unofficial entrance into the family business, so Don Vito wouldn't let anyone sidetrack his pure joy on this night. He looked back at his son on the way out and conveyed a message through his eyes that said, "You're the head of the family now, G. It's your job to take care of your mother and sisters."

Gary looked at his dad with pride and nodded in affirmation. He then walked out of the door of his parents' house a few hours later and never looked back. Aside from his weekly trips to get his new neighborhood off the ground, he spent all of his time in New York City and his law school studies.

THREE

Gary Garrafolo's first order of business as CEO of the Paris Lakes community was to change the name of the development.

"I want to feel like I'm in California at some winery, not in fuckin' Paris, France. Let's change the name to Sonoma Valley and make every street name to coincide with an area in California," he said to his CFO, friend and fellow Rutgers University graduate, Salvatore Pugliese. The two boys had been friends since kindergarten and Sal's father Vincent had also gone to jail with his boss Don Vito. Sal also shared Gary's interest on going straight, but was equally interested when the opportunity to manage a community bought with dirty money came up.

There was a lot of thought that went into the layout of the development by Gary and Sal, but even more thought was given to situating the inhabitants.

"Did you get me that blueprint I asked for?" Don Vito asked the guard on duty from his deluxe, 1,500 square foot jail cell.

"Yes, Don Vito," Officer James Parsons replied. Parsons knew the power of doing favors for such an influential man, and had a boat in mind when he retired in a few years.

Parsons walked the blueprint in and asked, "Is there anything else I can get you?"

Don Vito took a deep breath and replied, "Has the cappuccino machine been repaired?"

"I believe so."

"Yes, that would really hit the spot," Don Vito stated. "And if you have any more of those biscotti's, that would be great."

"As you wish," Parsons said as he left the room.

Vincent Pugliese walked in as Don Vito spread the latest map of the Sonoma Valley community across the big table.

"Hey Vinnie, our kids have a pair of stones on them!"

Pugliese, known as Vin the Win for his skill at being the master bookmaker who could fix the outcome of any event, sarcastically replied, "It's a good thing they don't want to go into the family business. This could be one of the smartest things we've ever done."

"No arguments here," Don Vito said.

Officer Parsons walked back in with a couple of cappuccinos and a plate of biscotti's.

"Hey Jimmy, we're would you look first for illegal activity in the community?" Don Vito asked the former NYPD narcotics detective.

Parsons looked at the map and surveyed the 20-acre property, the courts of which were shaped like Don Vito's good luck charm, the horseshoe, surrounded by two lakes.

"There is always danger in putting your money earners on the periphery, so I would put operations people and civilians there. I would think the hub of your operations would be here, right in the middle of the community," he said, pointing to the middle of the map. This would give you time to hide shit if there were a breach of the perimeter. You would also want to put your best soldiers around that area.

"Would you put anybody near the lake?" Sal asked.

"No, I would sell those at full price. There should be a premium for those homes, and you should stay away from water at all costs - too many access points," Parsons concluded.

A similar conversation was taking place on the phone between Sal and Gary, who was living in Downtown Manhattan - just beyond Little Italy - and was attending law school at New York University.

"How is school?" Sal asked to get the conversation going.

While they were best friends, Sal always tried to steer clear of topics that would excite the generally easygoing and docile Gary. He had only seen Gary get really mad once and that was in the sixth grade, when Garrett Flowers pulled a chair from under him in the lunch room. Instead of sitting on the ground and being embarrassed like most kids would have done, he became furious and then beat Flowers to a pulp, breaking his nose, arm and leg before finally being restrained by three large lunch ladies and two male teachers that were called into the cafeteria.

In the end, it was Flowers that was removed from the school and Gary was never disciplined. The Flowers family gladly accepted the expulsion once the situation was explained properly to them by a few of Don Vito's men. They moved to remote part of Montana that summer and were never heard from again.

"There is a lot of reading, but it hasn't been as bad as I thought. The teachers have been really helpful," Gary replied.

He must heard himself talking because everyone else he had asked told him that law school was a living hell and the teachers were devilish in their intent. But the ease had always been something that as present in his life, and it was something he had grown accustomed to. Adults had always been nice to him because if they weren't courteous, they would find themselves buried in a ditch near Exit 15 of the New Jersey Turnpike with an easterly view of the Manhattan skyline.

Sal also thought nothing of the treatment because he was always under the umbrella of the Garrafolo protection.

"That's great! I was calling to get your take on the prices of the various units."

Gary was amazing at analyzing things quickly and then spitting out an accurate assessment based on his advanced analytical skills.

"Prices should start at $400,000 for units closer to the street, and then go up $50,000 to $100,000 as you move toward the middle."

"What about the houses around the lakes?"

"This will start at $500,000 and up," Gary replied.

"The builder said we could squeeze an extra two units per court if we limited the space between houses," Sal explained.

"What would that look like?" Gary asked.

"It would look like a townhome community, but all of the units would be detached," Sal countered.

Gary was all about the bottom line and was concerned about the comfort of his customers, who were lining up to get into such a prestigious community. The research arm of a huge communications conglomerate was headquartered across the street from Sonoma Valley, and the Asian executives had a lot of money to spend in one of the premier school districts in New Jersey - mostly because the Asian students' test scores had inflated the base.

"How much more money are we talking about?" Gary asked as he looked around his sparse apartment and suddenly had a yearning for more.

"Well, I ran the numbers, and it could be between $40 and $50 million, depending on if we are able to acquire the adjacent cemetery land and build there?"

Gary did not hesitate, "Do it!"

FOUR

Everything about the community was dirty, from the builders to the contractors to the stolen building materials, appliances and other interior features. Gary and Sal did everything by the book, or so they thought. All of their phone calls were being monitored by Don Vito's people, who sent out their people under what appeared to be legitimate company names to win the jobs.

Even the realtors that sold the units were on the take. The mob funneled everyone that was looking for housing in the area through Margaret Smith, who had built an incredible reputation in the area. Every time the boys asked people who to use, they were told, "You gotta' use Margaret Smith," whose billboards and commercials appeared to be everywhere. In reality, Margaret Smith was actually Mary Margaret Constantino, whose father was also a known associate of Don Vito in Staten Island.

Smith was closing a house almost every other day and was booking units almost as fast as they were listed.

"We're selling those things before their even finished now!" Sal beamed as Gary came to visit one weekend.

Most people would have said "Wow! I didn't think they would move so fast," but Gary was all about the bottom line, all of the time.

"So, how much are we clearing?" which made him sound exactly like his father. So much so that that two guys that were surveilling the conversation looked at each other and one guy said, "That was scary!"

"We have 44 courts with seven properties in each court, so we should make over $150 million on the sale of the properties - maybe more because the price keeps going up - and when you subtract our costs, we should clear..." Sal stopped for a moment to punch the numbers into his HP12C calculator and to enhance the effect, '$77 million."

The guys had never talked about how they would split the money, and Sal even thought for a while that they were partners and should split it 50/50. But it was probably good that he really didn't care, because working with, or for, Gary certainly beat taking his business degree and starting from the bottom as some asshole's foot stool on Wall Street.

"I'll give you 10 percent of everything we bring in as long as you stay on and manage this place."

The one piece of advice that Vincent Pugliese gave his son Salvatore before he went to jail was, "Whatever you fuckin' do, never - and I mean NEVER - question anything that kid says," while pointing a finger that was missing a tip. Vinnie questioned Don Vito once then lost part of his finger with the swipe of his sharp blade. He would have lost the entire finger if they weren't friends.

Sal looked at his fingers and replied, "Done."

He never had a lot of money in his pocket, but he also didn't want for anything, and $7.7 million would definitely take the edge off things and improve his quality of life.

Of the 308 units built in the development, 104 were taken up by their wise guys and other people who worked for Don Vito. 142 units were purchased by people who worked across the street - most of them of Asian descent - and 62 other civilians buyers were scattered among the mobsters to give the impression of normalcy.

Various enterprises were strategically scattered throughout the center, or belly, of the community. The drug/narcotics ring was connected through a carefully dug an underground tunnel systems that would provide access to the outside world and also procured an effective hiding place in the face of danger.

The organization's bookmaking/betting operation would also have access to these tunnels, which could be entered through secret portals within various rooms of the house. Check, credit and copyright fraud and the highly-successful prostitution ring were on the outskirts of the core and required fewer units to run the operations. And, there were a handful of units that were allotted to fence stolen goods, which were processed through the garbage trucks that rolled through the neighborhood twice a week. The stolen goods were taken from New Jersey to storage facilities in Staten Island, Brooklyn and Long Island.

The deluxe neighborhood was adorned with full landscaping and snow removal services, an olympic-sized swimming pool, three tennis courts, a playground, a central clubhouse and a guard station in front of the gated community. Of course, all of these services were activated through mandatory association fee that was more than most people's monthly rent or mortgage.

A demographics profile of the neighborhood revealed a proliferation of young upwardly-mobile professionals in their late 30s to early 40s with younger kids in grade school. This was true not only for the legitimate people but also for the mobsters, who were living normal lives on the surface but conducting illegal activities both inside and outside of their homes.

FIVE

Gary Garrafolo made it through NYU Law School and then passed both the New York State and New Jersey Bar Exams on his first attempts. It was unclear whether he would have actually received passing grades on these exams had the graders actually checked his tests. Most things for the favorite son of Don Vito were a formality, but he appeared to be gaining confidence with each passing success.

"He passed both exams," Vinnie said to Don Vito as he read his Wall Street Journal over breakfast.

Don Vito put the paper down and clapped his hands once in celebration, "It's just a matter of time now," he added before switching gears. "I'm a little miffed. Are these eggs runny, or is it me?"

Vinnie looked at the eggs, "No, they're runny."

"I don't want to be a pain, but you know how much I dislike runny eggs. It's like they survey me a live chicken, or something. Am I right?"

"One hundred fuckin' percent, Don Vito!" Vinnie agreed and then picked up the plate, "I'll go bring this back to the kitchen and crack some skulls."

"Could you have him make an omelet with pancetta and toss a few mushrooms in there?"

"Any cheese with that?" Vinnie asked.

"How does gouda sound?"

"Gouda sounds good," Vinnie replied and then left the room.

Just then, the wireline phone rang in the cell, so Don Vito picked it up.

"Don Vito, it's your son, Guido, I mean, Gary on the phone," the screener said.

"Gary?" Don Vito said once the line was clear.

"Dad! Yes it's me! I just wanted to call and thank you for the generous graduation present." Gary knew better than to ever refuse a present from his father.

"I'm so proud of you! Did they get the right color?"

Gary beamed, "Fire engine red Ducati motorcycle! It's what I wanted ever since we visited the factory in Italy when I was a kid."

The father paid special attention to the little details. He could have bought his son a flashy Ferrari or Maserati, but it wouldn't have had the same neutralizing impact of something his son could not refuse. For a kid who wanted to distance himself from the family business and name, Gary was certainly not shying away from its central figure and driving force, Don Vito.

"One day I will be District Attorney of New York and make sure you get out of that cell and living in one of my Sonoma Valley homes," Gary said without prompting.

Gary had never been to visit his father in jail, because his father acted all concerned that the Feds would take photos of him and it would hurt his aspirations in the future. So he had a view of his aging father in a small cell along with the general population and this concerned him.

"I'm will get a job with the district attorney's office and work my way up, dad. I'm going to make you proud!"

No one in Don Vito's life had made him feel more pride than his son Guido. He was torn between telling his son about how he felt, or do absolutely nothing to quell his enthusiasm and keep him hungry? Normally, he would always keep everyone just a little bit hungry, but he had no other choice to go a bit soft for a change. Don Vito knew his words could never quell the fire burning in his son's belly, because words were just that, words, no matter how they were delivered.

"You make me proud every day, Gary. You keep fighting out there and I will do the same in here. Knowing that my boy is making a difference makes these days on the inside almost bearable."

Gary felt great and might have gone soft if not for the word "almost," which propelled him into another dimension of focus. Again, not that it would matter because of the plan for the future that was already in place, and Gary could do little to break the chain.

He started slowly, working for a small law firm in New Jersey. Gary had made so much money on Sonoma Valley unit sales, that he admittedly took a little breather to enjoy the spoils of his labor.

It was summertime and Gary Garrafolo was living the good life. He bought a place on the Jersey Shore, "a decent distance away from potential trouble," as he put it, and was knee-deep in primo poontang.

The district attorney's office had implemented a hiring freeze, even for mobster's sons, and the boy wonder was momentarily derailed from his career track.

"That kid of yours has boned more girls than freakin' Wilt Chamberlain!" Agent Crowley said to Don Vito over the phone one day.

While Don Vito was beaming over the exploits of his junior bragole, he knew that it was time for Gary to get back on track, at least in the non-summer months.

"It's time, Terry. He should fill the void in the district attorney's office. I think if he started as an Assistant District Attorney that would be appropriate."

The word "no" was never spoken to Don Vito more than once, so Crowley had to come up with an effective way to have the Don approve Plan B while he worked on Plan A for a few more years.

"I need time to gather more information on the D.A. of New York, so I'm going to place him in the New Jersey D.A.'s office until I can put him in position to look like the hero who uncovered corruption in the office."

He will say something like, "It has come to my attention that there has been a terrible injustice perpetrated in an office whose unwavering commitment should be to uphold justice." Gary will be seen as the person who cleaned up the streets of New York and New Jersey, so people will feel safe with him."

Don Vito thought about Crowley's soft "no" and then replied, "As long as it goes that way, Terry," which gave Crowley a sinking feeling in his stomach after a burst of energy from his revised plan.

"Hello," Gary said as he struggled to pick up his phone after another night of hedonism.

"Is this Gary Garrafolo?" District Attorney Lorenzo Graziano asked as Agent Crowley listened through the tapped line.

"Yes, this is Gary," he replied, sitting up in bed and then leaving the naked, sleeping woman in his bed behind. The importance of this man's voice aroused some of his other senses that hadn't been used in a while.

"We work closely with the New York State District Attorney's Office and they informed us that you recently applied for a position there, but none was available. I have looked over your credentials and was quite impressed with your work at NYU."

"Thank you," was all that Gary could muster, partially because he was still fairly drunk and mostly because he wasn't sure who he was talking to."

"I would like to offer you a position with the New Jersey District Attorney's Office as an Assistant District Attorney working under me."

Gary's brain came back on line as he remembered being very impressed with District Attorney Graziano speaking at a seminar he recently attended.

"We could use more people like you in the office," Graziano added, although his interpretation of the statement would have been a full 180 degrees from Gary's thinking. Graziano had been in Don Vito's pocket from the time he was in law school. Having two well-placed plants in both the New York and New Jersey offices was something that Don Vito coveted for some time.

"When would you like me to start?" Gary asked, not wanting to waste any more time in his life. It was Sunday morning.

"Can you come in tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m.?"

Gary rubbed the crust from his eyes, "I'll be there at 7:30."

"Good! We don't have time to waste," Graziano replied and then he and Agent Crowley breathed audible sighs of relief that the first phase of the plan had worked, and they both would avoid disappointing the Don.

SIX

It was 1997 and Gary had been happily working at the New Jersey District Attorney's Office for over five years. He had passionately pursued criminals from Sussex to Cape May, but he had never prosecuted a wise guy in his half-a-decade of service. It must have been a subconscious reflex to avoid hunting his own family and the livelihoods of other neighboring families.

Gary was now 31 years old and had been serial dating for years, preferring variety over monogamy. Life was going so well, between the D.A.'s office and Sonoma Valley community that he never really got the urge to settle down. What he was getting the urge to do, however, was to finally spring his father from prison. The guilt from putting aside his father's needs for his own needs and wants was starting to eat away at him.

"He's 70!" Gary said to Sal as they drank a few beers at Gary's Shore house.

"Can you get him out of there?" Sal asked.

"I found out last week that he's coming up for parole in the next few months. They say he's been a model citizen, but he was denied parole a few years ago without so much as a hearing," Gary replied.

Agent Crowley was listening to the conversation and so was Don Vito in his cell, like he was a young boy hanging on every pitch of a New York Yankees radio baseball broadcast.

"It's time to set the ball in motion," Don Vito said to Crowley. "Release the bitch. If my son is truly the Garrafolo heir, then he will chase that tail like no other tail he has ever chased."

Crowley smiled, "You ready to come out?"

The Don looked around his cell, including the naked 30 year-old woman sprawled in his bed and steaming bowl of Mussels Marinara sitting in front of him. He was always famished after sex and couldn't envision a life on the outside that would limit all of the things he loved to do. In a way, being on the outside would be like going to jail for Don Vito.

"Can you get me at least six more months?"

Crowley was now a big man at the FBI, "You can take all of the time you want. And if you come out and the conditions are less than satisfactory, we can throw you right back in there."

The Don was content for now, "Thanks, Terry."

"You're welcome, Don Vito," Crowley replied, making sure that he remained respectful to the most powerful man that he knew.

Twenty-five year-old Francesca Scallini was the eldest daughter of mob boss Carlo Scallini, who happened to be Don Vito's biggest competitor in the tri-state area. Scallini was 20 years Don Vito's junior and his hunger and widespread use of the latest technology in his operations posed a significant threat. In the old days, Don Vito's boys simply would wipe out a rival gang, but this was a new era where technology would play an increasing role in the business and Don Vito was thinking merger.

The Don knew that any suggestions of a merger on his part would appear soft, and weakness would only open him up for attack. So he decided to merge organically, where the natural chemistry between two key family members would set a course of prosperity for years to come.

Francesca Scallini was a paralegal working for a small Wall Street law firm, commuting every day from her studio apartment in trendy Hoboken, New Jersey. It was a funny place to try to bury her Italian heritage. Hoboken, the birthplace of Frances Albert Sinatra, was home to more mobsters per square foot than any other location on the Eastern seaboard. But it was also home to young upwardly-mobile professionals looking to party while also reducing their commute time into Manhattan.

She had aspirations of working in the New York District Attorney's Office, and once she passed the bar exam she planned on securing a position, any position with the D.A.'s office.

Don Vito was quite detail oriented, but mostly he was a nervous man with significant trust issues. He talked to Agent Crowley almost daily through his new phone that was free from wires.

"Can you get her in there?" Don Vito asked.

Crowley was going to reply, "Does the pope shit in the woods?" before he realized who he was talking to. Any reference to the pope that slandered the father's name would have caused an abrupt end to Crowley's life, so he sobered up real quick.

"Yes, sir. I can get that done. And I wanted to thank you again for that fruit basket you sent my wife. She was pleasantly surprised because she thought I forgot our anniversary again."

"You can never forget about romance, my friend," Don Vito confidently stated. "Because we are nothing without our women. Am I right?"

Crowley smiled, "You are right!" as he thought about the mistresses he had scattered throughout the five Burroughs of New York City.

"How long before they connect?"

"Another month or so," Crowley replied.

"Well, I'm not going to come outta' here until they are engaged. Then I will make my move. Don't want to distract my son from the love of his life."

"We can get you out any time you think it's right. The kid has picked out a special house for you in his community, and we are preparing the underground bunker so it will be up to snuff when you are ready."

'Up to snuff' for Don Vito consisted of a modernized living area that could be accessed through a secret panel within various access points in the house. This way, he could be away from home and be doing as he pleased even when he was at home.

SEVEN

Francesca had applied for a job with the New York District Attorney's Office on the Monday after she passed the bar exam, and her phone rang on Tuesday morning. Mind you, these were days when people filled out paperwork in person, especially when applying for positions within the government, which always seemed to be generations behind the rest of the world. The D.A.'s office was notoriously slow in getting back to applicants, often taking months to simply send rejection letters to candidates. It also took in excess of six months for the average person to get hired. But, there was a sense of urgency with this potential hire.

"This is too perfect!" District Attorney Scott McNulty oozed as he picked up the resume of Francesca Scallini. Crowley and Don Vito knew that the pompous McNulty could not resist hiring the daughter of mob boss Carlo Scallini if her background checked out. When he was told that she was another mob kid trying to shed her family's shadow and go straight, he knew he had the right person to counter-balance Gary Garrafolo of the New Jersey D.A.'s Office, and keep Don Vito behind bars until he took his last breath.

McNulty felt invincible after his 25 years as D.A., his distinguished and spotless career made him an even more popular figure in the city than the mayor.

"Isn't it fuckin' ironic?" he said out loud as he dialed Francesca's number. "That fucker will never get parole with Carlo "The Knife's" daughter on watch. Then he thought as the phone rang, "She may not know it, but she will naturally hate anything to do with her father's greatest rival."

McNulty studied psychology in undergrad at Fordham University and had a knack for being able to leverage even the most volatile situations. But his arrogance was starting to cloud his judgment. Crowley and Don Vito had little success over the years in swaying this servant of the people, which was why they initially came up with the idea of killing the beast from within. They hoped that one day the opportunity would present itself for Gary to make the move from New Jersey to New York, and opportunity was now knocking.

"Hello," a perky Ms. Scallini said after she picked up the receiver.

"Is this Francesca Scallini?" McNulty asked.

"Yes, this is Fran. Who is calling?" she inquired in a slightly bitchy tone because she expected the person to be another annoying telemarketer about to pitch her about a service that she didn't want.

McNulty picked up on the irritated tone in her voice and smiled, "This is District Attorney Scott McNulty."

Scallini smirked because she thought it was one of her law school friends playing a prank on her, "Yeah, D.A. McNulty, and I'm the fuckin' Tooth Fairy!"

McNulty became ever more enthralled by his selection, "Well, if you are in fact the Tooth Fairy, I wanted to thank you for coming to my kid's house and paying him an obscenely high wage."

Francesca thought about the man's voice and the way he said, 'obscenely high wage,' and then realized that she had made a huge, huge mistake.

"I thought you were one of my friends," she stated directly but offered no apology.

He never wanted her to apologize, no matter how heinous the infraction.

"We are looking to fill an open Assistant D.A. position. You interested?"

Francesca thought she was dreaming but still maintained her moxy.

"Depends on how much you're offering?"

"Good girl!" he thought, because his layers never agreed on anything after the first offer.

"You have any better offers?" he countered.

She had no answer for that one, so he continued, "Can you be here tomorrow at 8:00 a.m.?"

She smiled, "I'll be there at 7:30."

Crowley said, "Holy shit!" as he and Don Vito listened in on the conversation. Don was right on when he made his assessment of the compatibility between Gary and Fran.

"Bingo!" the Don yelled as he actually had B-I-N-G-O while playing a game that he rarely lost, for obvious reasons.

EIGHT

It was one of those cases where nature was trumping the need to fix the entire game. District Attorney McNulty was a sadistic son of-a-bitch who had a rather dry sense of humor. But, the minute he hired Francesca Scallini, he finally started to have fun in the job and be able to see the irony in life.

"I want you to negotiate the release of Vito Garrafolo," he said to Francesca on her second day of work.

She looked at him for confirmation, "Release? Why would they release him?"

The D.A. smirked, "Exactly. The New Jersey District Attorney's Office is trying to negotiate a transfer to their state, so Garrafolo can be put under house arrest and serve out the remainder of his time."

"Which is the end of his life?" she asked.

"At least until then," McNulty replied, displaying some of his new-found comic genius, which drew a chuckle from his new protégé.

Lawyers have a way of taking the most simple of points and expanding it into a full-blown discussion. New Jersey District Attorney Lorenzo Graziano knew he would be sending his ace, Gary, when it came time to negotiate the return of his father to the cloudy state of New Jersey. There was just one small detail for Gary and the new A.D.A. of New York to work out.

"Where would you like to meet?" he asked.

"You could come to our offices," Francesca replied.

"But I work in New Jersey."

"But don't you live in New York?" she asked.

Gary became instantly miffed and on-guard at the mention of his personal life.

"How do you know where I live?"

She refused to back up, "I know a lot of things about you."

Francesca might have tried to distance herself from her father's corrupt business, but she always would use anything and everything against a person in order for them to see it her way.

"Oh really?" Gary replied, as his motor was about to drive him from mild-mannered to that of his power-hungry Guido alter persona.

"There are better restaurants in New Jersey," he said, letting his love of food act as a calming influence.

She could not believe her ears, "I hardly think the diner state can compete with one of the culinary centers of the universe!"

He thought, "This chick is a snob! Who does she think she is?" but he said, "This is not for public consumption," professionally conveying that he did not want to sit down and break bread with her.

She was done with the small talk, "Eight o'clock a.m. at your office tomorrow."

Gary had a power surge, "If things don't go your way, you might have a tough time getting out of here."

He didn't laugh, so she knew he was trying to intimidate.

"I doubt that," Francesca replied, not specifying the point she was addressing - things going his way or suffering the consequences. And then she hung up without saying another word.

Gary was furious!

Francesca was curious...

Gary was in the office at 7:00 a.m. the next morning after taking an early-morning run on the treadmill and lifting weights at the building health club before driving to the office in a ghetto car, a 1992 BMW convertible. On the outside it looked like a tired and beaten up piece of shit, but behind the tinted glass windows and hood was a pure driving machine in every sense of the words.

He could not calm down. Normal cases were a breeze for Gary, but it appeared that anything to do with his family or father further solicited emotions that he had no answer for.

It was a warm, early fall day and Gary could not stop sweating. He wore a suit and tie to work every day but this was one of those times he wished the office had a 'business casual' dress code so all of the heat he was throwing off had a place to go.

Francesca was getting ready in Hoboken and doing her best impersonation of a human snowball. Her body had grown stone cold and she was doing whatever she could to warm up, including staying in the shower until it ran out of hot water, running in place, doing push-ups, viewing pictures of shirtless men in magazines and eventually wearing her down winter jacket.

She pulled out of her garage in her 1994 Volkswagen Cabriolet convertible, which was a 21st birthday present from her father. The top was up and the heat was maxed out as she drove the 20 minutes to Gary's office.

Francesca was wearing a knee-length skirt, a blouse and a pair of three-inch heels, but most it was obscured by her full-length down jacket that was zipped up as far north as it could go. Most of the people in the streets were wearing light jackets on the 65-degree day.

The elder receptionist could see that Francesca was apparently having trouble regulating her body temperature and asked, "Can I get you something warm to drink, dear?"

Francesca's teeth were chattering, "Do you have any tea?" This was a strange request from a girl who always drank coffee and never drank tea because "It was for old ladies."

She was herded into an aged conference room that was last decorated in the 1970s, and then the receptionist brought her in a cup of steaming tea.

"I hope this helps."

"Thank you!" she said, immersing her face in the small sphere of steam. "Is there any way you can raise the heat in here?"

The receptionist replied, "I'll see what I can do," as the uncontrollably-sweaty Gary stood by her side shaking his head back and forth and mouthing the word "No!" over and over again.

Gary was burning up, his suit jacket feeling as if it was on fire. He walked into the room and slid the thermostat from 70 degrees down to 50 in the hope that it would give him an advantage.

"Glad you could make it Miss Scallini," he said as he extended his fiery paw, which made contact with her extended ice pick.

She didn't even look up as he ripped his jacket off and unhinged the top bottom of his shirt as he continued to search in vain for some relief.

Francesca uncharacteristically took the first punch because she feared that her remains were on the verge of becoming cryogenically sealed and preserved for future generations.

"He's never getting out. "Gary stopped panting long enough to ask, "What did you say?"

She picked up her head and defiantly stared him in the eye, "Your father. He's never getting out of jail."

At 31 years of age, Gary Garrafolo never had the urge to blatantly whack someone. But if he had a gun in his hand he would have put a few holes in her head.

"Who are you, the judge and the jury?" Gary shot back in an act that appeared to come quite short of whacking a person, and was one of his weakest comebacks in some time.

"I am the only person in the universe, Mr. Garrafolo that can negotiate the release of your dear father."

"And why is that?" Gary asked as his body temperature appeared to be finally normalizing.

"I mean," Gary recovered, "wouldn't your father want you to help him if he was in jail?"

Francesca unzipped her jacket and pushed the tea away from her on the table, as the scent of the tea was once again repugnant.

"What do you know about my father?" she excitedly asked.

Gary was clueless but knew he had hit on a raw nerve.

"What should I know about your father, because I have no idea what you are talking about?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Guido!" she exclaimed, as she stood up and referenced his nationality with any knowledge about his given name.

The pendulum swung again as the power struggle continued.

"I don't like to be called that! Why are you calling me that?"

"Because you become even more of a Guido when you get angry," she stated.

He was having evil thoughts so he did the only thing his legal training taught him to do - retreat and live to fight another day!

"I don't like the direction this meeting is headed, so I', going to have to ask you to leave," he said, standing on the other side of the conference table.

She took off her coat and Gary got his first glimpse of what was under her armor. Francesca walked around the table and was met my Gary at the conference room door.

"You weren't going to get anywhere, anyway."

He held the door closed in order to get his last point in.

"I will get my father out of jail before he dies."

"Over my dead body," she moved in closer and snarled.

Gary said the first thing that came into his mind as he loosened his grip on the doorknob and moved closer to Francesca's face as he whispered, "Whatever it takes."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Garrafolo?" she asked, although not giving the appearance of being threatened. Their faces were and bodies were only inches apart and could not be separated due to some cosmic force field.

"Do you feel threatened, Miss Scallini?"

She was now sweating and somehow found the strength to break free of the orbital lock and walk out of the room. Gary turned and watched Francesca walk away down the hall until she disappeared from view.

Don Vito smiled in his cell while Agent Crowley simply muttered, "Oh my," as he wiped the sweat from his own brow.

NINE

Aside from going to work, Gary stayed clear of New Jersey for the next 10 days, spending all of his time walking and running in Central Park trying to clear his head and figure his life out. As the days progressed he could be seen on the streets of Manhattan walking aimlessly for hours at a time until the wee hours of the morning. Everything in his life made sense and was relatively simple before he met Francesca Scallini.

Gary loved to research everything but he was so turned around that he hadn't even bothered to see who his colleague on the other side of the table was. The same could not be said for a curious Francesca. She went right to the source when she met her father for coffee one morning.

"Why is the name Garrafolo so familiar?" she asked, only knowing that the D.A. wanted to keep a criminal in jail.

Carlo Scallini nearly choked on his cranberry scone and had to dump some cold water down his throat.

"That's the first thing you ask me at seven o'clock in the morning?"

"Sorry," the daughter said. "Are you all right?"

Carlo motioned that he was okay and knew his daughter was working the Garrafolo case, so he didn't want to show his hand.

"Well, my dear, the name is pretty popular in this area."

"Are you saying that Gary is related to Don Vito?" she asked.

"Guido is Don Vito's youngest son," Carlo revealed.

Francesca gasped, "His name is really Guido? I thought it was Gary."

"Why do you ask?" the inquisitive father probed on.

"Because I told him last week that his father would die in jail."

The proud father was jumping up and down inside but managed to maintain his stoic poker face.

Don Vito was also listening, complements of FBI surveillance and he was less than pleased. Carlo Scallini had no idea at the time that his daughter was falling hard for his foil's son. Ignorance was definitely bliss in this case.

It was Friday night about three weeks after the hot-cold meeting at Gary's office and Francesca was out with some friends in the city after work. They were partying hardy until she realized that the last Hoboken-bound train would be pulling out of the World Trade Center station just after 10:00 p.m. It was either catch that train or have to ask her father if she could stay in his Manhattan apartment. Carlo usually liked to have some advanced notice so he could bring one of his girls back free from hassle.

She was running as fast as she could in high heels, as she turned the corner past Whole Foods and the illuminated station entrance was in sight. Francesca looked down at her watch and it read 10:05, which meant she had over five minutes to make the train when she only needed less than three to get there.

Even though it had been three weeks since his encounter with Francesca, Gary was still having trouble calming down at night. He resorted to going for long runs when he felt the anxiety kick in and his body temperature escalated. The sweat from his body served to temporarily cool his core and lessen the anxiousness.

Just about the time Francesca looked down to check the time, Gary broke out of his trance and removed himself from the mental zone long enough to notice a woman running directly in his path. He tried to pull up but all he managed to do was angle his body in such a way that it defrayed the contact. He held her up or she certainly would have fallen.

She screamed out of surprise and then he said, "I got you!"

In typical New York/New Jersey fashion, she took one step away from him and yelled, "I gotta' make my train!"

She was about to forget about the chance encounter until her eyes spied the glistening god in what must have been excellent street lighting. Since time was on her side, Francesca fully turned around and let curiosity turn into utter confusion, as she realized who she had just had a 'chance' encounter with.

"Garrafolo?"

Gary, at first, just saw a shapely woman who had enough meat on her to absorb a decent bump. But when he heard the familiar voice his heart starting beating faster again, a melodic rhythm that had been missing for weeks.

"Scallini?" he replied.

She stepped closer, "What are you doing in my city?"

He was not a time waster, "Trying to run you out of my mind."

She smiled broadly inside but kept her cool on the outside as she took a few steps closer.

"Is it working?"

Gary shook his head from side to side and then said, "Hell no!" and then they set aside any remaining barriers, any final reasons not to cross the line, and they met in a passionate kiss... that lasted for two days!

TEN

"You're not going to like this," Carlo Scallini's head of security told him while they were driving to Brooklyn to Attend Sunday morning mass.

Carlo Scallini, an educated man by mobster standards, was reading the New York Times, which was sprawled out in the back seat of the bulletproof Lincoln Town Car. Scallini graduated with a computer science degree from St. John's University, and this knowledge helped him revolutionize many of the illegal activities while also eating into the profit margins of major competitors. As of this morning, his chief rival was Don Vito in a true showdown of old school versus the new school breed of gangsters.

Anthony Barbaccia always seemed to protect Scallini, even back to their days as boys playing dice and delivering packages for the local mob in Brooklyn. Tony B knew better than to deliver the emotional news with the car moving, so he waited until the car stopped and both men emerged in the church parking lot before continuing.

"Spill it," Carlo grunted as he moved closer to Tony, both men standing just shy of six feet, but Barbaccia was obviously juicing in a way that neither required a machine nor fruit.

"Frankie's dating a new guy," he said in an attempt to let the information trickle out slowly.

Carlo was confused, "Why would Frankie Palermo be dating a guy? Is he a fruit?"

"No, I'm not talking about Frankie 'The Thumbs' Palermo. I was talking about your Francesca."

"What's the matta'? You can't just go to the new boyfriend and impress on him how nice it would be to be able to walk on two unbroken legs?"

Tony B knew the conversation would come to a point where it would become awkward, and this was it.

"It's not that simple, boss."

Carlo was trying to avoid the subject at all costs.

"Frankie Palermo isn't gay?"

Tony B was starting to get frustrated but knew he had to watch his tome with Carlo, especially in public.

"No, Frankie isn't gay. At least, as far as I know."

"That seems pretty simple to me," Carlo said as Tony grabbed his suit jacket from the car and then placed it on Carlo's broad shoulders, right arm first and then left arm.

Tony B would have punched anyone else in the nose, but he had to find a way to calm the flowing roid rage.

"Her knew guy is someone you know."

Carlo started walked toward the church but he stopped to confront his friend.

"What, are you playing fuckin' 20 questions here?"

Tony looked at the church to say, "Not here with that language, so Carlo rolled his eyes, crossed himself and then kissed the pendant hanging from around his neck.

"Are you gonna' tell me or do I have to leave you in the car with the windows closed again?"

Since Carlo didn't want to wait by himself again with the car windows closed again, he simply spilled the beans.

"She's dating Gary Garrafolo."

"Who the fuck is Gary Garrafolo?" Carlo blurted out, which disturbed some of the elderly patrons walking into the church.

"Good morning!" he yelled and waved to a few people.

One old man walking with his wife rolled his eyes in disgust and muttered, "What an asshole."

Carlo then turned back toward Tony B and impatiently repeated his question in a lower tone of voice, "Who the fuck is Gary Garrafolo?"

Tony B replied, "It's Guido Garrafolo. Don Vito's youngest son."

"The college boy?" Carlo questioned.

"Yeah. I think the kid went to NYU Law School. He's an Assistant D.A. in New Jersey."

"How old is he now?"

"He's 31," Tony B replied, as it was his job to have all of the answers when he checked people out.

Then it made sense to Carlo, "That's why she was asking me about the Garrafolo's," thinking back to their conversation at the coffee shop. "You got a recent picture of the kid?"

Tony reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a color 3x5 photo of Gary he took with a zoom lens.

Carlo looked at the picture and nodded his head and grunted. While Carlo's grunts had various meanings depending on his thoughts, this particular grunt sounded more positive in its intonation, which surprised Tony B at first. Carlo's protective nature was only surpassed by his love of the natural order of things, which often translated into making a lot of money for his family.

When he looked at the picture of Gary Garrafolo he saw the future of both his daughter's life and his own business. Don Vito was getting older but he had all of the connections and power, and t was becoming costly for Carlo to compete even though his operations were more efficient and productive than Don Vito's.

"Hey, can you do me a favor and set up a meeting with Don Vito?" Carlo asked.

"Yeah, sure boss," Tony B replied although he was still confused, but confident, that his friend would only do things that would make them all more successful.

ELEVEN

Usually, when the heads of two families get together it was under great duress and significant bloodshed had already occurred. This was a new era where people were still killed for the cause, but technology added a new dimension to an already vibrant business model.

Don Vito had more than 20 years on Carlo Scallini, who should have been more anxious than he was entering the cell of such a powerful man with so many allies within shooting distance. Carlo went in alone despite the objections of Tony B in the parking lot.

"You can't go in there alone!" Tony protested like an overbearing mother.

Finally after two minutes of hearing why he was doomed, Carlo replied "You know he can kill me any time he wants? There's a reason he's kept me alive so long. It's because we're gonna' take his business from the Stone Age and bring it into the 21st century. He needs us and we need him."

"Why do we need him?" prideful Tony asked.

Carlo could have been honest and said, "We need the muscle," but that would have embarrassed his friend and that was unnecessary.

"Because we need him," was all Carlo said and Tony accepted it, although he still didn't quite understand the potential partnership. But he was paid to protect, not to make major business decisions.

Carlo felt nothing but confidence as he walked into the jail and passed some familiar faces along his route to Don Vito's cell, which was a great deal larger than most New York City apartments. Most of the incarcerated wise guys were happy to see Carlo, but he did get a few "Eat shit and die!" and Choke on it!" remarks, which he let gently roll off his back.

He walked through the doorway of Don Vito's cell and was thoroughly frisked by Vinnie, who casually asked as he patted Carlo's upper body and then regions that were a little more sensitive.

"How are the wife and kids?"

Carlo replied, "Keeping me out of trouble. You?"

Of course, it usually would have been an awkward question to ask an inmate who didn't get out much.

"They're great! We just went out to the movies and then to Scarpacci's a few nights ago."

"Scarpacci's! Now we're tawking!" Carlo replied as Vinnie nodded to Don Vito that Carlo was clean - no weapons or wires. He then walked out of the room to give the two men privacy, as they greeted each other with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

"Thank you for taking this meeting, Don Vito, "Carlo said with nothing but respect in his tone.

Don Vito pointed to a seat across from him and replied, "All I have is time in here," and then he paused briefly for the effect. "But not so much out there," and then he played stupid, "So what brings you here today?"

The Don was famous for not wasting time and always cutting through the bullshit and getting to the point, and waited for an opportunity to pounce.

"I don't know if you know this, but our kids are dating," Carlo stated in the least feminine was possible.

Now, Don Vito could have taken a few different avenues in hi response, but he decided to take the path least traveled.

"Oh, is that right? I'm trying to think of which one of mine and which one of yours would come together?"

"My Francesca and your Gary," Carlo replied, knowing that Vito's boy preferred to be called Gary over his given name of Guido.

Don Vito further tested the waters, "How long?"

"It's fairly fresh," Carlo countered.

The Don was now ready to advance to the more serious and pertinent part of the discussion.

"While I appreciate the update on my kid's dating life, I assume that you're here for other reasons."

Carlo was relieved to dispense of the preliminaries.

"Don Vito, I say this with all the respect and admiration in the world. We need each other."

Don Vito was always in full bravado mode and took the opportunity to turn the tables. "Why Carlo, aren't you going to buy me dinner first before you fuck me?"

Carlo also had a temper but it was nothing in comparison to Don Vito's flame. The college boy flushed when presented with such a huge roadblock.

"Our businesses," he clarified.

"I know," Don Vito stated. "I was just bustin' your balls!"

The two men had a good laugh and then Don Vito lowered the boom just as joy hit a crescendo.

"I set the whole thing up."

Carlo was confused like Columbus seeing natives and then thinking he discovered America. He felt stupid.

"I should have known that nothing happens around here without your imprint."

Don Vito smiled, "The biggest problems in this world occur when you leave things to chance." He then continued, "I'm sure we both love our kids, but those two are the future of our business."

Carlo was surprised to hear the Don use the word "our" to describe their separate businesses, even though that was the purpose of his visit. He then nodded in agreement to say, "I agree, what do you have in mind?"

"We need your technology and you need our connections and muscle. This world is changing and I'm not ignorant to it.

Then the Don laughed.

"What's so funny?" Carlo asked because he wasn't in on the joke.

"In the old days I would have just popped you and taken everything you had," and then the smile disappeared from Don Vito's face, and eventually soured Carlo's sunny disposition. He was being warned, like a son hearing it from his father that if he stepped out of line there was a bullet or two that had his name on it. He also knew that any deal Don Vito offered him, he would have to take it or that bullet would be forthcoming.

"Since our operation is roughly 70% larger than yours, I'll give you 30% of the profits up front with the potential for additional points if we exceed monthly and annual targets. I'm also hoping that when our kids marry, that one day the families will split all profits 50-50."

While Carlo was hoping for a higher initial percentage, it sure beat being dead.

"I won't let you down, Don Vito," the younger man said to the father figure.

Don Vito again laughed, although this time in was more sadistic in nature.

"It's a good thing for you, because people only let me down one time."

They shook hands and then kissed on both cheeks before Carlo left the room, the prison and was allowed to return home unscathed.

TWELVE

Francesca and Gary thought their whirlwind romance existed within a nice safe and warm bubble. They didn't even talk about telling their families during the first nine months of sleepovers, weekend trysts and rendezvous. And then the calendar turned from October to November, bringing the holiday season into clearer focus.

"What are you doing for the holidays?" Francesca asked as she seductively inched toward Gary in bed. They were in a clothing optional phase of their relationship and comfort was the feeling of the day, at least until the conversation started.

"Thanksgiving or Christmas?" Gary asked as he reached toward the bedside table for his iPad.

"I don't know?" she replied awkwardly but fully wanting to show her new man off to as many people as possible.

"Thanksgiving!" she blurted out as she casually picked up her own iPad."

This was the conversation they both avoided since even before they started going out. Family was such a hot button issue for kids of mobsters, especially kids that had tried to distance themselves from the corruption and walk in a path of righteousness.

Gary put his iPad down and turned toward Francesca because her question had stirred something deep in him.

"I haven't done Thanksgiving with my family in years. I stopped doing that when I was in college."

She was stunned and then put her tablet aside after checking her email.

"You don't do Thanksgiving?" she asked in a tone that suggested her boyfriend might indeed by the Grinch that stole Christmas."

Gary was always genuine with his responses, and that was one of the main reasons why Francesca had fallen in love with him.

"It makes me sad. Especially since my dad has been in jail."

"Are you going to start with that again?" she asked.

He was bordering on sadness with a tinge of anger.

"I'm just being honest!"

She didn't know how to deal with such candor at first, because the majority of the discussions in her life had been of the heated and contested variety, whether she was bickering with her mother or fighting defense attorneys on case points. She was almost speechless for one of the few times in her life.

"I usually just watch football and eat Chinese food."

"By yourself?"

"Yeah, by myself."

"Don't you miss being with people that you love?" she asked.

He thought about it for a moment and then took a small step out of the shadows.

"Yeah, sometimes."

And then she was finally set up for the big opportunity that she was looking for.

"Wouldn't you want to spend special times with me?"

He was as serious as male patterned baldness, "I don't ever want to be apart from you again."

Francesca hadn't cried since her communion dress got caught in the car door and ripped on the way to church. She started crying partly out of joy and partly out of relief for finally finding a person that loved and needed her as much as she needed him.

Gary became concerned, "Why are you crying?" and then he moved closer and hugged her in a comforting way.

"Because I'm happy," she replied as she did her best version of the vaunted laugh-cry.

She had used all of her feminine wiles to open up her boyfriend fully. To her, there was no life without family. While she had avoided direct contact with her family during the holidays in favor of spending time with her aunt and her family, it was her mother's sister who reinforced the need to reconnect with her immediate family at some point.

"You're gonna' have to bring them back in once you meet that special guy and then have your own kids," Aunt Margie said the previous Christmas.

"Won't it just get harder then?" Francesca inquired.

Maggie smiled, "Yes, but it's something you'll have to do. My sister might be the biggest pain in the ass in the entire universe, but she loves you. I would be happy to support you by coming along."

Francesca was surprised that her aunt would be willing to break a decades-old family freeze and agree to an all-out truce.

"You would do that for me? You would come to all of the holidays with me?"

Then the New Jersey in Aunt Maggie reared its ugly face.

"I would do it for that scarf you're wearing today."

Francesca laughed because her aunt had a quirky sense of humor. But when her aunt didn't chuckle in kind, then he asked the obvious question.

"Seriously?"

Aunt Maggie didn't flinch, "Seriously."

Normally, Francesca would break into negotiation, but she handed over the scarf as compensation without so much as a counter for being a buffer at future family gatherings, which was probably not needed because everyone, at least for the first 30 seconds, would be on their best behavior.

Meanwhile, back in bed, Gary was ready to open the barn door.

"I would be willing to do anything and go anywhere with you."

She hugged him back and replied, "Me, too," which drew a wry smile from Gary.

THIRTEEN

Agreeing to do the holidays together and with their families was a lot easier for Gary and Francesca than actually having to do the cooking themselves. This was one case where much of the actual work should have been left in the planning phase and never actually executed.

Francesca was so love-struck that she even gave thought to springing Don Vito out of jail so he could spend the day at home with his family.

"I am okay with it and the penitentiary has agreed to let him out for the day," Francesca said to Gary as they ate dinner together at the apartment.

Gary was reluctant at first to offer new information into the discussion, since getting his dad out of prison had been his focus for so long.

"I got a call from Gerry Norris of the Daily News. He said he heard some information about my dad possibly getting preferential treatment from the D.A.'s office in regard to Thanksgiving."

Francesca's face dropped when she realized the magnitude of her position.

"Then, we are going to have to work on getting him permanently released. I just don't think McNulty is going to let him free as long as he is D.A.?"

And, at that moment, it finally hit Gary Garrafolo that he would no longer take orders from anyone, let alone a pompous Irish lawyer that loved to push he and his family's buttons!

Don Vito sat in his cell and could feel the cylinders of his son's brain tumble into place. He had reveled at each stage of his son's development, while trying to keep his eldest sons in line after they heard about the Garrafolo/Scallini family merger. He took his earpiece out of his left ear when he heard the rumbling of angry voices coming toward his jail cell.

Johnny and his younger brother Pauli felt as if they were running the business in their father's absence, although their contribution fell quite short of actual leadership. Don Vito often warned his sons of dipping into the well and sampling products the family relied on to make money.

Gianni, or Johnny, was the resident poon hound who liked to sample the girls in the prostitution ring at his disposal. Pauli had a nose for blow and was getting back to Don Vito that he was inhaling a bit too much product. To say the boys were drunk on power and getting a bit sloppy might have been an understatement. But it was all the supporting information that Don Vito needed to back up his claim that Guido was the leader the family needed.

"Who agreed to this deal?" an irate and coked-up Pauli said as he yelled at Vinnie as they tried to push their way past the Don's main bodyguard and enforcer to no avail. They thought they were tough guys, but Vinnie was no spoiled rich boy from the suburbs, and all of the education he received in his life was on the mean streets of Brooklyn growing up.

Johnny tried to push Vinnie out of the way but he didn't budge. Even at middle age, Vinnie was still chiseled like a Michelangelo sculpture from years of protein drinks, steroids and pumping iron. He swiveled his head while keeping his body between the boys and the Don.

Don Vito motioned for Vinnie to finally let the boys in and then said, "It's okay Vincenzo, let them in.

Vinnie smiled at the Don and said, "Yes, Don Vito," and beamed at being able to stand up to the younger generation and basically bust their balls! But he also knew there was a line he couldn't cross and show disrespect to the Don's sons.

"My boys have come to visit me Vincenzo, this must be serious," the Don half-joked in typical sarcasm befitting a son of Brooklyn.

"Pops, what the fuck is going on?" Pauli asked.

Don Vito sat back in his chair and decided to let his boys talk themselves out before he finally went on the offensive.

Johnny then chimed in, "Yeah, since when do we need to bow down to a bunch of scavone's that we can squash with my pinky."

"Yeah, let's go and squash those maggots into a flat pancake!" Pauli exclaimed, as he was always ready to brawl and never needed a legitimate reason to punch somebody in the face or even end someone's life.

The boys went on for at least a few minutes, which felt like a few hours to Don Vito. The finer points of business and making money had evaded his eldest son because they were more interested in the joy ride than harnessing real power. All Don Vito could think about was his son Guido and his ascension to the family throne alongside his future bride Francesca.

The Don rarely had to raise his voice, for it was his mere presence that was always powerful enough.

He calmly said, "Zip it, that's enough," but his sons continued the verbal assault. He then stood up and forcefully slammed his fist on the wood table, which then splintered like it he had just snapped a small twig from a tree in his hands.

He looked down at the wooded rubble beneath him and said, "Ah, look what you made me do! I really liked that desk!"

Pauli and Johnny were astonished at the raw power of the old man still had and were almost falling over each other to help clear away the splintered wood.

Don Vito never liked it when anyone kissed his ass, let alone his own flesh and blood, and Vinnie smiled when he saw the look on Don Vito's face because pure entertainment was now only moments away. The man hadn't become the Don for no reason - it is not easy to ascend to such a position and it requires a great deal of intestinal fortitude and force. Vito Garrafolo in his days before becoming a Don was known for being able to crush skulls and snap necks like they were walnuts and pretzels.

There was no sign that the old man would resort to anything close to that kind of violence. After all, it had been more than 20 years since he disciplined these two morons. Don Vito's forearms were so strong that he didn't have to wind up as he breezed through the hitting zone and whacked his sons with the back of both of his hands to the side of their heads.

The Don sat back in his chair after adjusted the rings on his fingers. Not a hair was out of place on his head, his prison uniform remaining perfectly pressed.

Vinnie must have anticipated the activity because he had a replacement desk on the ready in the corner of the room. He kicked away the remaining debris from the broken desk and then set the new desk in front of the Don.

"Thank you, Vincenzo."

Vinnie nodded at the Don as the boys returned to semi-conscious states on opposite sides of the room. Don Vito nodded at Vinnie, who dragged both bodies by the collar and set them in front of Don Vito.

"I'm only gonna' say this once, so if you ever choose to talk before me again I will rip your voice boxes out and serve them to the dogs out in the compound."

Pauli and Johnny straightened up in their chairs and were now in listen-only mode.

"When I say something, it happens - no questions asked. If you weren't my sons then you wouldn't be breathing right now. So take what I am about to do and make something out of yourselves."

The Don stood up and then slowly walked over and kissed both men on the cheek and said, "We have decided to reassign you within the organization. God speed," he added and then crossed himself.

Vinnie and another gentleman that had entered the room slammed two black hoods over the son's heads and then they dragged them out of the room. Pauli on one plane headed to Mexico to work the family's drug trafficking operations, and Johnny on a jet to Vegas to learn the finer points of the prostitution business in the city of sin.

FOURTEEN

Don Vito knew that his two eldest sons would try to stand in the way of their younger brother \- who they deemed as "soft" - taking over the family business. So he simply gave both boys what they really wanted and sent them on their way, much to the dismay of their mother.

Even at 70 years old, Constantine Garrafolo was every bit the woman that Don Vito fell in love with and entrusted with holding down the household nearly 50 years earlier. She visited the Don almost monthly when the probability of being bitchy was at its cyclical low point - although she had already gone through menopause years earlier. Of course, the Don was with so many women that were pre-menopausal that he forgot his wife no longer had the cycles and was a bitch most of the time now. That was primarily the reason he agreed to go to jail in the first place.

Tina, as she was called by people that knew her - and everyone knew Tina Garrafolo - would come to the jail for about an hour at a time. Sometimes she would just fill her husband in on the mundane details of suburbia, and other times they would make love and not talk. The one thing they did have in common was familiarity, and in their world there was no substitute for really knowing someone.

Having mistresses was something about her husband that Tina expected, but that didn't mean that she necessarily wanted to talk or think about it ever. The practice was very old-world European and explained why the divorce rate among couples involved in such arrangements was so low.

"Why did you have to send my boys away?" Tina asked her husband on one of the visits where she didn't feel like opening her legs.

Don Vito had just finished a quite active session with a 32 year-old nymph and didn't feel like popping another Viagra, so he engaged his wife in conversation, even though she was not supposed to discuss his business.

"They were killing the business."

"But they're our sons!" she questioned vehemently.

Don Vito decided that play time was over.

"One put more snow up his nose than a freakin' downhill skier, and the other stuck his pecker into anything with a pair of cans and a pulse."

Tina wasn't playing either.

"Like father, like son," she said, but in a tone that was faintly more than a whisper.

"What did you say?" Don Vito asked, as his eyes nearly popped out of his especially round head.

Tina put her head down because she knew that there was just so much she could say without putting her very existence in jeopardy.

"I'm gonna' miss them."

"The get on a freakin' plane and go see them like normal people!"

Tina nodded and was comforted by the realization that she could hop on a private jet and see her sons and grandkids whenever she wanted. She also knew that her husband only had eyes for his baby, Guido, and he was the sole future he could see. Tina shared his love for her special boy and knew that if anybody could bring the family to the next level it was Guido Garrafolo.

Thanksgiving had always been a special time for the family in Gary's more formative years. But this was the first holiday he was going to do with his family since he was a teenager. Once Gary went to Rutgers University he realized the fine line between he and his corrupt family had to be drawn, and that meant he had to do his own thing going forward. Of course, meeting Francesca and seeing his future changed all of that, although the road from present to past would surely be lived with many potholes and speed bumps.

Don Vito prepared for the visit of his son and new girlfriend by securing accommodations that would be more appropriate for a felon doing a long stretch in a maximum security prison. Inviting his son into his usual cell would only beg for additional questions and disrupt the flow of honest, significant progress. The fact that any progress being made was based on complete fabrication of the truth and assorted other bullshit was obviously secondary in a world that Don Vito had made up for his son. There was no obstacle too high or manipulation too low for Don Vito to ensure that Gary would return to his rightful name of Guido, and take his place amongst the Mediterranean gods that preceded him.

In order for Gary and Francesca to make the 1:00 p.m. starting time at her parents' house, the couple had to drive over to Trenton State Prison for an early morning meet and greet with Don Vito.

The prison was overcrowded and every cell was full, but Don Vito and Vinnie looked over the blueprint of the cell assignments and made a few minor adjustments for the morning. All of the goodwill Don Vito built up with the warden came at a price - an under-the-table cash donation of nearly one million dollars per year was more than enough to gain control of the prison. And, in typical Don Vito fashion, he recouped all of the money and even made a profit from sales of narcotics and prostitution, as well as bilking inmates and their loved ones of all their cash from the gambling operation. Warden Smith was potentially one of the worst gamblers on the planet, and was good for at least turning over half of his salary every year.

You would think the prison would be a hostile place with all of the loss of money. But Don Vito knew that of the 'braciole' was happy then everything else would fall into place. The facility had the lowest incident of crime among the other 'supermax' prisons throughout the country. Inmates got exactly what they wanted when they wanted it, as Don Vito had quite a pool of freaks to choose from in in the lovely Garden State.

Don Vito could have just moved the two inmates from the cell and they would have complied without a whimper, but it was Thanksgiving and he was in a generous mood. So, after they cleaned the cell from head to toe for a few days until Vinnie was satisfied with the level of cleanliness, the cell mates were treated to whatever they wanted. Angel Rodriguez, serving 35 years to life for grand larceny, opted to spin around the prison parking lot in a vintage Corvette for the better part of an hour. It also happened to be the car he was caught in when he was in the middle of stealing it. Don Vito now owned the card and was saving it for Rodriguez if he ever got out, because Rodriguez was still the brains behind his chop shop in Totowa, New Jersey.

Inmate number two was counterfeit expert James Blackmon. It wasn't typical for an Italian gentleman such as Don Vito to consort with men of color such as Blackmon, but the Don had seen the error of his bigoted ways while in prison and was now all about the Benjamin's. Blackmon produced copies of everything from currency - including bills, coins, credit cards and checks - to stock certificates, bonds, wills and property titles. He was predictably in jail for falsifying documents and forgery, and after 20 years in jail he was scheduled for parole in the coming months.

Much of the currency Don Vito had given to the warden was produced by Blackmon, who chose to spend his hour getting to know the 20 year-old son he never knew. Blackmon's now ex-wife was pregnant when he was caught and she decided to shield the boy from his father until she was presented with the right motivation. Phyllis Carter had severed contact with Blackmon when he went to jail and wanted nothing more to do with him, other than living in their five-bedroom, three bathroom house in Livingston, New Jersey that was fully paid for. She had come upon hard times as of late due to a combination of being laid off from her job and the high cost of putting her son through college.

Phyllis Carter and James Blackmon met as undergraduates at Columbia University and never were apart much after that until the day that Blackmon was arrested. He was a broken man by the time that Don Vito entered the prison and assessed the talent pool of the crooks around them. Vinnie was in Blackmon's cell first with a current picture of his wife and son. He had done whatever was asked of him since then, although he really didn't have much of a choice in the matter like everyone else.

Vinnie never left Don Vito's side, even when they slept at night, so his son Charlie - who was also an enforcer - did his bidding on the outside.

"Excuse me, ma'am," 'Good Time' Charlie said to Phyllis Carter as she rolled her cart out of the Whole Foods parking lot towards her car.

She glanced at the sketchy looking creature with the gangster-issued, black leather jacket and starting walking faster away from his without acknowledging that he tried to establish contact. Phyllis got near the back of her car SUV and looked back, feeling relieved that the man was no longer behind her. She turned back around and walked right into Chuck's cold 44 Magnum, which was softly resting on the side of her temple.

"I need just a moment of your time, Mrs. Blackmon. I would prefer if you didn't make a scene. That won't be good for your health in such a healthy place."

She didn't necessarily need an Ivy League degree to understand that it would probably be a good idea to behave. She also knew that it would be prudent to remain in listen-only mode until she could assess the meaning of this gorilla's impromptu visit.

James knew about his ex-wife's money problems through Don Vito's contacts and sought to ease her burden so he could, in turn, ease his own pain. He told Vinnie about a stash of cash he hid in the floorboards of the attic, and also knew there would be a 'finder's fee' on the million dollars upon retrieval. What James didn't disclose was that there were similar bundles placed throughout the house in fireproof boxes. But Don Vito figured they could discuss the finder's fees for those stacks once Blackmon was released.

"I'm gonna' reach real slowly into my pocket and put something into your bag," Charlie said as he did just that and made sure she saw the $250,000 block of cash in his hand that was wrapped liberally in plastic

Her eyes widened at the sight of such a cash windfall, but then she wondered what she would have to do in return for such a bounty.

"He wants to see your son," Charlie said without implying that it was also James' son.

Phyllis had tried to protect her son from the harsh realities of life, including the conflicting emotions of finally meeting a father that just so happened to be a convict.

James had tried to contact Phyllis for years so he could access the money.

"Half now, the other half on delivery," Charles said trying to seal the deal.

"There's more?" a completely flustered Phyllis thought to herself.

"He's been trying to get you this money for years," Charlie added, further sweetening the pot.

Phyllis was so enamored with the money that she didn't even think for a second that it might be counterfeit. None of Blackmon's bills had ever been flagged, and he was only nabbed by the Feds because of an anonymous tip to a certain well-placed official. The bottom line is that Don Vito never likes to lose money to greedy, yet highly skilled, free agents.

FIFTEEN

Don Vito had one of his black, bullet-proof Lincoln Continental's in front of Phyllis Carter's house to pick up her son Martin - named after Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. - on Thanksgiving morning. Martin got into the car and the driver locked the door, which jogged the kid's senses.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked.

"The driver replied, "No. If we were going to kill you, we would have picked you up in a Town Car because the seats are much easier to clean.

Martin didn't know whether he should laugh or cry, so he did neither.

He arrived at the prison the same time as Gary and Francesca, and the three of them were processed together. The couple was a bit anxious but was nowhere near as nervous as Martin Carter, who would be meeting his father for the first time. Phyllis Carter had been tight-lipped about her ex-husband and provided little information for son to really form an opinion. He neither felt sad nor angry about his paternal shortfall, at least until this day.

Francesca sensed the young man's apprehension and tried to engage him in conversation.

"Who are you here to see?"

He didn't realize the question was directed at him at first, until they made eye contact and she looked like she was waiting for a response.

"Oh, I'm here to see my father. Who are you here to see?" he asked out of obligation to return the interest.

"We're here to see his father," Francesca replied as she nodded at Gary, who was filling out some paperwork at the front desk.

They were all escorted to a common area where pedestrians met with inmates in an open area - a pilot program the prison was experimenting with as a potential stress reducer. James Blackmon walked into the room first wearing a blue button-down shirt, a pair of pleated khakis and some sensible brown leather shoes - the same outfit he came into the jail wearing. While prisoners were rarely out of their orange jumpsuits, the prison made an exception for Don Vito in this case of a father meeting son for the first time.

Martin's eyes instantly went toward his father, who was some 20 feet away, until the massive presence of Don Vito cleared the doorway behind James. It had been a confusing 20 years for Martin, at least until this moment when everything now seemed crystal clear.

Don Vito looked directly at Martin and smirked because he recognized the look on the kid's face, which told him that he would be instrumental in the young man's future. The look on James Blackmon's face was quite different. Seeing his son in person for the first time made him aware of how much he had missed and he started to cry. Martin barely noticed his father's emotional breakdown because he was transfixed on the emotional hug between Don Vito and his own son Gary. He was then caught by surprise when his father hugged him and continued to sob. James eventually moved back and then held Martin's head on both sides and said, "My son!"

Martin barely flinched, "Hey dad. Who is that guy over there?" he asked, willing to use a term of endearment in order to extract information.

The guy in the orange jumpsuit across the room already knew that Martin Carter had already found his father's equipment and was making the most flawless bills he had ever seen. How he 'tripped' upon this paraphernalia the previous year was untraceable, but not too difficult to guess its origin.

James Blackmon turned around and glanced at Don Vito, who returned the glance with a wink and a smile, albeit positive facial expressions dirty with manipulation. He smile back and then tried to run as far away from his son's potential damaging question as possible, "That's no one you should be concerned with."

Gary hugged his father and then stepped back and formally introduced his girlfriend to a man that probably knew more about her than he did.

"Dad, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Francesca Scallini."

Don Vito was a real charmer. While other men might have tripped over themselves to kiss the dark-hairy beauty, he simply extended his right hand, palm up, and waited as she extended her right hand and placed it in his experienced grip. He smoothly bent over and placed a gentle kiss on the top side of her hand and then stepped back slightly and looked deeply into her blue eyes.

"The pleasure is all mine."

Gary was happy to see that his father was so accepting, and Francesca started wondering how such a graceful and well-mannered man could be in jail in the first place.

The guard on duty escorted Don Vito and his guests to the small cell usually inhabited by James Blackmon and Angel Rodriguez. Then another guard came by with the homemade food that Gary and Francesca had picked up from Tina Garrafolo on the way to the prison.

"This looks clean," the second guard said to the first, implying that he had checked the food for foreign substances. But, what he had actually done was put a few extra marshmallows on top of the sweet potato pie and melted them appropriately with a mini blow torch.

"My wife always goes cheap with the marshmallows," Don Vito said to the man earlier. "Do me a favor and take care of that for me," the Don said while slipping the guard a $100 bill. He also instructed the guards that they shouldn't treat him any differently than any other prisoner while his son was in there.

The guard put the food down on a small desk that was doubling as a dining table on this day, and then walked out of the cell. Another guard walked in front of the cell and looked down at his watch, mostly for effect, and grunted, "You get 30 minutes, Garrafolo," and then he left.

Don Vito looked around and did his best impersonation of a humbled man.

"Sorry, but the space can be a bit limiting."

He and his son were about to nab a few turkey legs right before Francesca said, "That's all right, Don... I mean, Mr. Garrafolo. One day we'll all be together. Let us pray and give thanks that we're together and that we have such a beautiful feast."

She closed her eyes and extended her hands as the men clasped them and enjoined the circle \- or triangle - of prayer. The connection between father and son was so strong that while Francesca delivered her Pius words, both men squinted open their eyes and shared a warm smile and chuckle.

"And let us all say, amen," she said.

"Amen!" they all repeated as the men nearly dove on the plate and Gary came out with the bigger turkey leg.

Francesca was astonished, "Gary! Let your father have the bigger piece!"

Don Vito laughed and then said to his son, "No, you keep that." And then he looked at Francesca, "By the looks of things, you're gonna' need all of the energy you can get."

Francesca got the sexual reference and then smacked Gary and said to both men, "You're both terrible!" And then she turned to Gary, "Now I see where you get it from!" as they all laughed while enjoying each other's company.

SIXTEEN

Carlo Scallini had never met Gary Garrafolo, but his wife Jinny - short for Jeannine - was not shy about showing pictures of the new couple before they arrived for Thanksgiving dinner.

"Aren't they cute together?" the Patterson, New Jersey-born Jinny asked her husband.

Carlo didn't know how he was supposed to act. On the one hand, he was revolted by the sight of any man near his little girl. But, on the other hand, if he put up a stink he could potentially wind up in a ditch behind the Cheesequake Rest Stop just past Exit 123 of the Garden State Parkway.

He begrudgingly replied, "Yes they do."

Jinny had gone all-out for this special Thanksgiving meal. It had been a number of years since her daughter came home for the holiday, so every main course, side dish and dessert was brought out for the occasion. She even made her special Christmas glazed ham, not knowing if her daughter would extend her participation into the next month.

Francesca and Gary left the prison after visiting with Don Vito, and then they drove to her apartment so she could change into a suitable Jersey outfit," which consisted of a shorter-than-short skirt and a pair of four-inch pumps. In between the costume change and the drive to her parents' house the two of them went out it like wild dogs on her bed. She chose the position because it would have the least impact of her hairdo.

Carlo and Jinny Scallini's house was mere minutes from Gary's upscale housing community on the Jersey Shore, so he was quite familiar with the area. And now Carlo Scallini was quite familiar with the Sonoma Valley community as well. In the days following his deal with Don Vito, Carlo sought to modernize every facet of the operation from gambling to prostitution. The ladies of the evening now had pagers to alert them of appointments and, to a woman, they all appreciated the good vibrations. Some days it was the only real excitement they experienced.

Gary rolled up in his unassuming BMW 328i convertible - at least it was low-key by his standards - and emerged from his seat and then walked around the car and opened the door for Francesca. All the while, Carlo Scallini watched from the guest bedroom window on the first floor facing the street, and was trying to control his scattered emotions.

The split-level house was still very modest by mob leader standards, and Gary noticed many security liabilities just on instinct as he walked up the path toward the front door.

"Is this the house you grew up in?" Gary asked.

"Yeah, we moved here when I was nine," Francesca replied as she clasped his hand.

Gary thought, "Well, that has to change," in one of the first thoughts he had in his life in thinking like a leader.

As the couple approached the front door, Carlo walked quickly from the bedroom to the front foyer and was met by his wife, who was also wearing a short skirt and high heels to match her daughter.

"I got this," macho patriarch Carlo said to his wife, who usually let him play the part of the big gorilla.

Carlo opened the door and then stepped back in order to leave ample room for the couple to step inside of the house.

Francesca jumped into her father's arms as Jinnie waited for her turn.

"Good to have you back, Frenchy," Carlo said, referring to the nickname she received after watching the movie Grease over and over again. Gary surveyed the situation and could see a future with these people. After Francesca got done gently hugging her mom, she moved on to the formal introductions of her boyfriend.

"Mom and dad, this is my boyfriend Gary." Obviously, last names were optional in this situation.

Gary stared deep into Carlo Scallini's soul and then pulled out whatever backbone he had left after visiting with Don Vito in jail. Carlo felt a chill run up his spine the same way he did when the Don negotiated without remorse. Carlo met Gary's thunderous grip and did all he could to keep up with the rigorous handshake.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Gary said in his best white boy impersonation. But what he was really saying was, "I own you, Scallini!"

He then moved on to charming Carlo's wife while Carlo looked on and realized that the kid was even a bigger monster than his father. The realization that quickly sunk in that was nothing he could do to either save his daughter, or run as far as his legs would take him away from these people. Carlo Scallini could have gone completely straight after college and become a computer programmer for a Fortune 500 company, but that wouldn't have paid for the plans he had for his fiancée and Baby Francesca, who was still in her stomach. So he opted for quick, dirty cash over the slow burn of corporate America. And, after years of unimpeded prosperity, he was finally regretting that decision.

SEVENTEEN

Time marched on and so did the relationship between Gary and Francesca, as he proposed to her during a long weekend in Cape Cod. Like many future brides, Francesca's life became all about the wedding that she was planning along with her mother. She came up for air one night and had the following realization while watching TV with her future husband.

"We have to get your father out of jail in time for the wedding."

Gary had no success over the years getting through to New York District Attorney Scott McNulty and was beyond frustration.

"Yeah, that would be nice," he replied but refused to alter his gaze from the TV and give her the proper attention the topic deserved. She wanted no stone unturned, or no details left out of a wedding that would mark the apex of her existence.

She reached over, took possession of the TV clicker and then turned off the TV.

"Hey, I was watching that!" he exclaimed.

She was more emotional than usual, although the couple generally spoke in a more aggressive tone like most Jerseyites.

"Don't you care about our wedding?"

Now that was one of the more loaded questions a bride-to-be could ask a perspective groom.

"No, really. We have to get him out of prison in time for the wedding," Francesca stated with a little more emphasis than her first attempt.

Gary looked deep into her eyes and acknowledged the level of commitment necessary to get the job done. He would never move a muscle until people were fully committed to anything, as he wasn't much into wasting time. Gary could have said a number of things to Francesca that would have pacified her for the time being, but he was now in hyper-action mode and would do just about everything and anything to get the job done.

"I'll get it done," he said simply and with a level of conviction that satisfied Francesca's hunger to stage the perfect wedding.

"Just get me a meeting with that son of-a-bitch and I'll take care of the rest."

It took more than a month for McNulty to agree to a sit-down with Gary at a neutral site. And for McNulty, a neutral site was McCormick and Schmick's steakhouse in Midtown Manhattan.

The meeting was scheduled for a Thursday night at 7:00 p.m., and Gary arrived a few minutes before the hour to acquaint himself with his surroundings. By the time the clock struck seven he was ready to say what had to be said without losing control.

At 7:00 p.m., Scott McNulty was receiving a shiatsu massage with the prospect of a happy ending and had absolutely no intention of attending his so-called meeting with Gary Garrafolo.

Gary was eating some bread at 7:05 and then sat and thought for the next 10 minutes while people that weren't McNulty entered the restaurant. How he loathed waiting for anyone! There came a point in time when he knew that McNulty had stood him up and was playing him for the fool by not showing up.

Something happened to Gary that night, transforming him from every-man Gary into his rightful place as Guido, the powerful leader he was born to be. He had let this drama between his father and this piss-ant D.A. go on for years without imposing his will toward a favorable resolution.

Don Vito and Agent Crowley could have simply pushed the 'easy' button years earlier to get Don Vito out of jail, but Don Vito wanted the effort to come from his son because it was vital to his development. It was only a matter of time before McNulty pushed the right button to turn on the future Don's motor. And, apparently, this was both the button and the right time.

While Guido was a blazing inferno inside, his outer demeanor remained chilled, a balance that would become his trademark and confuse adversaries in the future because they could never figure out what he was thinking. Nothing seemed to be a big deal on the outside, while the scorching irons of hell were being forged behind skin and bones.

The waiter walked up to Guido after already bringing over some more bread and water - standard jail food - and asked, "Can I get you something else, sir?"

Guido sat back in his chair and calmly replied, "Yeah, get be a bottle of your best scotch, a T-bone steak cooked medium rare and some of those potatoes with the cheese on top."

Norman Thomas had been a waiter at the restaurant for almost 30 years and relied upon his training and experience when making his next move. Normally, Norman would have questioned the request for a full bottle of alcohol and clarified the au-gratin side dish. But, based on the look in this man's and the confidence he displayed in ordering, Thomas simply collected the menus and nodded toward Guido, "Very good, sir," and then walked away.

Thirty-five minutes later, Guido devoured the steak and cheesy potatoes and half the $3,000 bottle of 1969 Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch. He thought about driving out to the jail and talking to the one person that truly understood him, his father, but he decided to channel a little Don Vito instead. The angrier he seemed to get, the more focused he appeared to become.

Francesca waited patiently at his apartment to see what happened with the meeting, but she knew going in that such a matchup of immovable objects would produce little in actual progress. She also knew that her man would likely be frustrated when he came home and probably could use a good long walk to vent, so she waited on the stoop outside the brownstone apartment building.

Remarkably, the alcohol and little to no impact on Guido's mental or physical state of being. His life had flashed in front of his eyes and vowed to never step back again in his life from that point forward. His days of deferring to others and being polite were over. Simply, if he wanted something he would just get it, or do it, without another accompanying thought. He was the one with all of the power, not some scum-bag district attorney on an extended power trip.

He was less than a half-block away from his building when he spotted Francesca sitting on the stoop. Normally, he would have at least met her half-way, but on this night he made her come the entire distance to him. She kept walking toward him as he stood flat-footed and his essence burned a hole in the pavement.

"That bad?" Francesca asked as she closed in a kissed him.

Her held the kiss for a few seconds and then moved away from her lips but stayed in close so the visual was still blurry.

"I'm gonna' fuckin' burry that motha' fucka'."

She was now worried that he was going to do something that he was going to regret, as her heart rate accelerated. The question of regret would have met on deaf ears for Guido, because there was no remorse or regret in his life anymore.

She changed gears with her fiancée, "You do whatever you have to do to free your dad. I will too."

While Guido appreciated the supportive gesture, his focus was no longer on freeing his father - because that was already a foregone conclusion - it was on completely destroying the bothersome insect in his path. People had to learn that if someone fucked with him or his family they would pay a price that was so much more severe than a simple death. Scott McNulty's life was obviously not very important to him, and it was no longer an issue for Guido Garrafolo.

EIGHTEEN

McNulty took great pleasure in toying with people's lives, and that's probably why he was such a successful district attorney. It took a certain level of sadism to do the job effectively, if not live in New York in the first place.

"Did your boyfriend have a good dinner the other night?" he said to Francesca a few days after he blew off dinner in favor of a rub-and-tug.

"I went to the restaurant the next night and my waiter told me he took real good care of Guido," he continued and then turned and mumbled under his breath, "That fuckin' Daigo greaseball."

"Mick bastard motha' fucka'," Francesca mumbled under her breath and then tried to warn the boss, who apparently didn't realize that he was playing with some serious fire.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Scott."

McNulty was oblivious to the cliff he was standing on and the vast valley that lied beneath him.

"Or what? Gary's going to call me some names? Or maybe he could tell his daddy that I'm not being nice to him? Oh, that's right, daddy's in jail and is never getting out! That's where fuckin' rat-nosed, guinees belong!"

And then he realized that his associate was also of Italian descent.

"No offense," he said with a straight face, as if the comment was somehow meant for every other Italian person but not for her.

She held back the urge to either call him a name back or scratch his bigoted eyes out.

"None taken."

Francesca had fulfilled her obligation as a human being to warn someone that she worked with on a daily basis that his life was about to end as he knew it unless he cut the shit and played along. But McNulty only knew one speed and would think he was in the right until the bitter end.

Simply threatening McNulty would be the shallowest way for Guido to confront the New York District Attorney. However, threats backed with concrete, hard evidence would give him all the leverage he needed to complete the job.

Don Vito was going crazy listening to all of the words being thrown back and forth and feeling his son reaching his boiling point. Ne he also knew that it was necessary for Guido to fulfill his promise and lead the family as a Don. There just was the sticky situation of getting the necessary information on McNulty in Guido's hands without rousing suspicion of its origin.

"How are we gonna' get this done, Terry?" Don Vito asked Agent Terrence Crowley as they spoke on a secure line.

Crowley ignored the question for the moment in order to pat himself on the back for a change.

"Did I tell you that my son is starting at the bureau today?"

Don Vito knew everything and everybody, down to what food his kid liked and his bathroom habits.

"Oh, that's great news!" Don Vito fakely, but convincingly, exclaimed. And then he lowered the silent boom, "We should get the boys together."

Crowley smiled, "I'll get right on that."

The association with Don Vito and the mob had been quite fruitful for Crowley. He understood early on that being a federal agent was all about conforming to your target, not trying to be a cowboy and snare the unsnareable. He was frustrated in the beginning until he had a chat with a young Don Vito, who in those days was still Vito Garrafolo and was rising up the ranks fast.

"What's bothering you, Terry?" Vito asked Crowley as Crowley stopped to get a beer at a local pub after another long day.

Crowley looked to his left and there sat Garrafolo on the wood stool next to him.

"What the fuck, Garrafolo?" Crowley questioned.

"You beat the fuck out of me all day and now you're gonna' gloat in my time off?"

Vito let Crowley vent a little longer before pitting a stop to it.

"And you better address me as Agent Crowley when you're in my presence, or I will come down with all of the weight of the United States Government on you and your band of cockroaches!"

"There's no reason to use that kind of language, Terry..."

And then Crowley shot him a look so Vito restated, "Agent Crowley," and then he went on the offensive that he has never backed down from.

"You and I know there are two different kinds of agents, the dead ones and the ones with beach houses."

Vito swept the bar and Crowley for bugs so he knew his words would not be recorded.

Crowley looked at Vito to see if he was serious and was influenced by the look of the devil in Garrafolo's eyes.

"You know what I mean, Terry?"

At that moment, Terrence Crowley realized that he was the kind of agent that would be better off with his toes in the sand as opposed to six feet under the dirt.

Crowley smiled and all of his tension and frustration melted away, "Yeah, I know what you mean."

And that smiley, a bond of understanding was forged between two antagonists.

There were occasions when Guido had to appear in court on the transfer of perps from New Jersey to New York. On this day, he was ready to do battle with Scott McNulty, if needed, but he came across a new ally not an old foe.

In preparation for the meeting , Crowley sat his 22 year-old son, Aidan Crowley, down for a little heart-to-heart.

"There are things out there that you might not understand at first," Terry said while his son drank a cup of steaming black coffee.

"This shit tastes like our dog Scout just took a dump in it!" the neophyte grunted as he his face showed great pain.

"You have to be willing to be more flexible then what they taught you in the Academy."

Nancy and Terry Crowley weren't sure if their laid-back son was ready to be a federal agent, and Nancy didn't even know that his career path was going to run directly through the Organized Crime Unit.

Being the kid's father made him the least likely to understand what was ticking inside, because the emotions of the connection precluded him from registering an accurate read.

"You bought that beach house on a regular agent's salary. Did you think I signed up for this to wear a tie every day and make just over minimum wage?"

Papa Crowley was floored by his son's candor, but he was also relieved to have closed the gap on the learning curve.

"You know that you can't talk about any of this? Even your mother doesn't know."

Aidan simulated zipping his lips as a response.

"We're dealing with people that will treat you right if you clear a path for them. But if you get in their way, then you'll be worm food quicker than you can call for your mommy! Tell me now if you're up to this, because I don't need no headaches down the road!" Crowley said as he was talking to his own son, not just another wet-behind-the-ears recruit.

"I'm ready," Aidan confidently replied. "I've been watching you for years."

Crowley beamed, "Then let's get to work!" even though he still wasn't sure his son was sincere, or was he playing him as usual?

Aidan showed up at the hearing and watched the proceedings from the back of the room until he had to speak for the FBI. He knew the information he presented would piss off the New York District Attorney's office, which were represented by an A.D.A. other than Francesca on this day due to some timely scheduling.

The hearing was predictably postponed, which sent Aidan quietly storming out of the courtroom. Guido gathered his papers and stuffed them into his brown folder and then followed Crowley closely out of the room.

"Fuckin McNulty!" he grunted when he sensed Guido was close enough as they cleared sight.

Aidan was playing Guido's song, so guided yelled "Excuse me!" trying to get Crowley's attention.

"Agent Crowley, is it?"

"Yes, Agent Aidan Crowley," he replied.

Guido cut through all of the bullshit," I believe we have a common nemesis. Do you have any interest in joining forces against such an evil?"

Of course, the apple doesn't fall from the tree, or the orchard, and Guido already knew who Crowley was and why he was in the courtroom before the kid pulled the staged huffy exit.

"It would be my pleasure, Mr...." Aidan continued the act, unaware that he had already been made.

And then Guido shot him a look that shook the rookie to his core, and at that point he knew what his father was talking about. His legs said run away before it was too late, but Guido already had a mind hold on him that prohibited such actions.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Garrafolo."

Guido smiled, "Oh no, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Crowley."

"So, what do you have on McNulty?" Guido asked.

Aidan was the one smiling this time, "The real question is, what don't we have on him?"

NINETEEN

There would be no more scheduled meetings. No more disappointment at being blown off. Guido was now tracking McNulty with one of his new associates that he grew up with, Sal Mangione. It was almost like all of the guys he was friendly with from the neighborhood had waited for him to assume the power position, because they all jumped into action when he called on them. It also didn't hurt that Don Vito was paving the road so that there would be no bumps in his son's transition.

The only question as far as timing was wedding or McNulty? There would be a great deal of attention for a wedding involving two high profile mob families - even though they were already merged through business - but probably not nearly the attention Scott McNulty was about to receive.

It was the month of May and the wedding was planned for the second week of June on the Jersey Shore. Salvatore Pugliese, Guido's best friend and business partner, had been on the take for years and was more a part of Don Vito's crew than Vito's.

"What's up with you lately?" Guido asked as they sat at a Red Bank, New Jersey cafe one Saturday afternoon.

"What's up with me?" Sal shot back. "What's up with you?"

Guido again countered with his look of death to end all questioning and treatment as equals.

"I'm sorry," Sal said. "What's up with the wedding? You excited?" he asked, trying to keep the conversation light and fluffy.

"If you had something important to do, would you do it before or after the wedding?" Guido asked, momentarily releasing bits of vulnerability.

Sal, as usual, didn't hesitate, "You can't let that shit linger."

That was why Guido always loved and trusted his good friend, because he would always give him the straight shot no matter the circumstances.

Guido took the advice and then gave his partner a little advice of his own.

"Don't ever do that shit behind my back again. Capiche?" Guido asked while putting his massive hooks on both side of Sal's face and then playfully slapping him with a love tap that had the potential to turn into a death tap.

"Capiche," Sal replied as he smiled and was relieved to have his last secret from Guido out in the open.

There would be no waiting for the wedding for Guido to confront McNulty, so he decided to strike while the information was still red hot!

The weather was beautiful and the workload seemed to dry up on the Friday leading up to Memorial Day weekend. Scot McNulty being the workaholic that he was, scheduled a 4:00 p.m. meeting with his associates as a blatant form of torture and control at his top-floor conference room.

It wasn't difficult to get his scheduling, being that Francesca was one of his associates in the D.A.'s office.

"This asshole pulls this shit before every holiday!" she exclaimed. "It's like he's pissed off that we get any time off at all! He's takes fuckin' vacations and then calls us in the middle of the night to check up on us and make sure we're doing our jobs."

Guido already knew the man was a raging asshole, so he waited for his fiancée to stop talking so he could give her vital instructions.

"The meeting will never take place. Tell everyone via word of mouth at 3:45 p.m. and make sure that your floor is clear by four o'clock." he said as she attentively listened.

Guido continued, "He will do his floor check at 3:30 p.m. to make sure that no one has skipped out prematurely. Then he will head up to the next floor, his floor, to wait anxiously for the meeting, which he plans to drag on for at least two hours."

She nodded in agreement with his estimates.

"There will be a fire drill in the building at 4:00 p.m. and everyone your floor and below will be instructed to exit from the stairs to the street level. I am counting on you to make sure your floor is clear, Franky."

"I'll do it," she replied.

"Under no circumstances are you to remain in the building or come up to the roof. Do we understand each other?" he firmly stated.

While she was worried about her future husband and the lengths he would go in order to displace McNulty, she had faith in the process and hoped that it wouldn't be long before she didn't have to look at his smug, Gaelic face again.

She nodded and said, "Yes, whatever you need me to do, Guido."

Francesca had always called Guido by his given name, not the 'Gary' that he had been tooling around. He was a bit thrown off by it at first but quickly grew to like and accept it.

He stepped forward and kissed his fiancée.

"Nothing or no one is going to get in the way of our special day and life."

She smiled, "Especially a person who wasn't on the guest list to start with."

And they both laughed even though Guido was boiling inside.

McNulty always kept the people he worked with on their toes, which was probably due to his upbringing in Garden City, New York, under a lawyer turned judge father and a Catholic school teacher mother who ruled with an iron ruler. McNulty still lived in Garden City, which had more smug assholes per square foot than any other town on Long Island, and he also had an apartment in Manhattan that he used to sleep a few hours a night during the week.

Predictably, the 52 year-old D.A. was divorced and his four kids were all grown, out of college and were out on their own away from him. His wife sold their original house and moved back to her hometown of Patchogue, New York. She hadn't talked to her husband in five years, and was happily remarried to her childhood sweetheart who owned a chain of bridal and tuxedo stores and was in no way affiliated to the law. So, nobody would really mis the son of-a-bitch of he was not around...

He walked the floor below his office at 3:35 p.m. and gave the stink-eye to anyone that appeared to be gathering their affects for a quick exit and start to the long holiday weekend. When McNulty was sure that his people were glued to their desks, he walked back up the stairs to his office on the top floor. He was so paranoid that he had the other four offices on the floor knocked down and three of them were made into a conference large room, while he put two offices together to make one large office for himself. McNulty made sure the only bathroom on the floor was located within in his office, and made his associates go downstairs to their bathroom because his washroom \- complete with a shower - was off limits.

The next 20 minutes were filled with brushing and flossing teeth, staring at himself in the mirror for a good five minutes, clipping his fingernails, shining his shoes and taking a massive, smelly dump from the Indian food he consumed for lunch. He was out of spray so McNulty used some Polo cologne to diffuse the scent pollution.

And just as he washed his hands and then continued the unending fascination of staring at himself in the mirror, the fire alarm sounded. Francesca was on the floor below by herself, as word of the cancelled meeting spread like an actual wildfire and the place cleared out in seconds. No one wanted to hang around to be told that the boss had changed his mind, so everyone scrambled together whatever possessions they could find before bolting the aged building.

Francesca looked around and checked the bathrooms one more time before hitting the six flights of stairs and then exiting the building on the way to cook dinner for Guido at his apartment.

McNulty took one last gaze at himself in the mirror, made sure every strand of his graying hair on his head was in place and walked into the common area, where he heard the following announcement.

"Please proceed to the stairs and go up to the roof. Further instructions will be given once we uncover the source of the alarm. Thank you for your cooperation," the fire marshal read from a prepared statement.

McNulty had been caught on the stairs once during an actual fire and suffered from smoke inhalation. He was subsequently told that the safest place in a building during most fires is on the roof, and that was why he had his office on the floor closest to the roof. However, if a blaze increased in severity to a four or five alarm fire, then the worst place to be is the roof because it would most likely collapse and turn its inhabitants into marshmallows.

McNulty questioned most things but didn't think twice when fore-related instructions came through. He happily walked up the stairs and out to the roof door to the middle of the roof, where rare blue skies in an otherwise polluted city awaited him and his fair complexion.

Guido emerged from the conference room on the top floor and gave the signal through his pager that it was okay to turn the alarm off. He quickly moved through the floor and up the stairs to the roof, because the overpowering stench of McNulty's Indian ass waste was more than any human being should have to endure. The D.A. would often 'drop all of the kids off at the pool' right before a meeting with his associates for no other reason than to make them feel uncomfortable and off-balance. This way, he thought that no one would ever usurp his power.

McNulty hit a patch of son on the roof and briefly squinted and put up his right hand to shield his eyes as he heard the siren stop blaring. He was in the middle of turning back the door as he walked to a shadier portion of the roof, when Guido cleared the doorway and walked toward him.

"What the fuck did you eat for lunch, McNulty?" Guido grunted.

McNulty could not see who was talking to him at first until his eyes readjusted after the completing the transformation from extreme light to shade.

"I ate the balls of one of you sawed-off hoodlums," McNulty shot back as he reacted to the sight of Guido.

McNulty, standing at 6'2" and weighing a solid 210 pounds, had less of an advantage over 6'0" and 185-pound Guido then he did over most vertically-challenged Italians that crossed his path. He usually pressed that physical advantage on most occasions, and even resorted to hiring people that were less physically imposing then himself.

"Then I hope you choke on it, you pompous Mick bastard," Guido said as the two men walked toward each other.

Guido was tired of listening to this powerless man and decided to seize control of the conversation.

"The way I see it, you either listen to what I have to say or I decide who is going to be in the cell with you when they put you away. I'm sure we can find one of the many large men of color you have put away during your reign of terror as district attorney."

McNulty had not seen the new 'look of death' Guido had in his eyes but his pride precluded him from backing up.

"You and what fuckin' Italian army? I put away more of you whaps than anybody else. Who knows, maybe you'll be next?"

The only way Guido knew to respond to threats in his new skin was to immediately strike back. He thrust his left arm toward McNulty's throat ensnared his throat with his vice-like left hand grip, which didn't seem to be the weaker of the two.

"You arrogant motha' fucka'! If I didn't have half a brain I would snap you in two right here and now and toss your worthless body off the side of the building."

He stepped even closer and grunted, "You are dead to the world no matter what happens from here, but I'm gonna' give you the choice to step down gracefully. We have all the information to put you away for life." he then pushed McNulty back with force, as McNulty staggered and tried to regain his breath. The red color in his white face drained, but did little to slow his perpetual roll. Guido knew that men like him and McNulty refused to ever take a step back because it wasn't part of their character.

"Fuck you, grease ball! You people will never tell me what to do!" McNulty yelled.

Guido had grown tired of the derogatory references, so he hit a button on his page that set Plan A in motion. Plan B, which was a press conference where McNulty would announce his resignation from the position of District Attorney was never fully formulated because it wasn't a realistic option.

Guido sadistically smirked, "That's your fuckin funeral, you shamrock-loving leprechaun!" Guido stated as the roof door swung open and all hell broke loose. First, Aidan Crowley and his group of G-men burst through and ascended on McNulty. Right behind them was a swarm of local TV camera crews and reporters who had been tipped off about the event.

Crowley put the cuffs on McNulty and said, just as the camera lights were turned on, "Scott McNulty, you are under arrest for drug trafficking, prostitution and bribery, among other counts. You have the right to an attorney and the right to remain silent..." as the cameras followed the heard of FBI men in navy blue windbreakers off the roof before refocusing the camera on Guido, who was about to make a statement. It would be the last time he would use his mainstream nickname.

"My name is Gary Garrafolo and I am Assistant District Attorney with the New Jersey State District Attorney's Office. We have been pursuing leads that had been given to us in recent months about suspicious behavior in the New York District Attorney's Office, specifically with District Attorney Scott McNulty, who has allegedly used the power of his office to perform various illegal activities that are quite felonious in nature. We hope that with this arrest that we can begin the expedient process of restoring the reputation of this office in the great state of New York."

A Fox News reporter on Don Vito' payroll then asked, "Since you led the investigation, wouldn't it be prudent for you to finish the job that you started and clean up the office as New York District Attorney?"

Gary replied, "Only if that's what the people want and is best for the D.A.'s office."

Three days later, after the long holiday weekend ended, NYC Mayor Bruce Weinstein called an emergency meeting and it was decided that Gary Garrafolo would immediately assume the position of New York District Attorney.

"That fuckin' little Jew bastard has a pair of elephant balls on him!" Don Vito exclaimed from his cell as he sat with Agent Terrence Crowley. "That Christ killer almost said no to me. Can you believe it, Terry?"

They shook hands as Don Vito proudly said, "Our sons did good."

Crowley smiled, "Yes they did. Now let's get you out of here."

TWENTY

It had been years since the events of 1999, and Guido's ascension to the head of the D.A.'s position in New York and the couple's spectacular wedding along the beach of Point Pleasant, New Jersey, with the entire Jenkinson's boardwalk closed to the public and open only to the families associated with the wedding. It was quite a scene!

Francesca must have been impregnated on her wedding night because nine months later, out popped Vito Garrafolo, Jr., which made his Papa Vito as proud as the day his son Guido was born. Three years later, little Vanessa was born, which meant that the family's 'gravy' recipe would be handed down to the next generation.

Papa Vito was sprung out of jail when his son became D.A., and he was placed in a prime unit on Ventura Boulevard in the Sonoma Valley community. Here he lived every day in his 80s to the fullest - days alone in the house while his wife still shopped, cooked and cleaned, and nights with the boys underground and out in the world. He also remained a New York Football Giants, "The fuckin' G-Men!" season ticket holder and had a FedEx truck deliver him various papers from around the world each morning, except Sunday - that day was always reserved for The Lord.

Business was booming in the mid-2000s and the group inside the Sonoma Valley community, including Carlo Scallini and his fully integrated technology team, was totally efficient and producing record numbers from 2003 to 2007. But then the financial meltdown hit and everything changed. People panicked and went cold turkey, even stopping their spending on illegal activities that always gave them such joy.

There was great turmoil within the community as Guido sat down with his father, whose health was on the decline, for a heart-to-heart.

"The shit has really hit the fan, dad," Guido said as he backed up mentally for the first time in years.

"This is the perfect time to expand," the old man stated.

"Expansion, in this economy?" Guido questioned.

He had remained D.A. of New York in name only and was starting to run the business full time as his father withered. It also gave Guido an excuse to be closer to his kids, who were growing up so fast.

Don Vito looked at Guido in a "Don't make me come over there and smack that look off his face."

Guido held his hands up in surrender - only to his father - and said, "Sorry."

"Remember when I gave you all of those language lessons when you were a kid?" Don Vito said.

"Yes, of course," Vito replied.

"Now is why I did that, because I knew this day would come. Our numbers are dwindling and we need to combine forces."

Guido mulled over his father's proposition.

"We will rule the world!" Don Vito said quietly, but passionately.

Guido went back home that night and Francesca could see that he was troubled by something. The kids were over at their grandparents' house down the block and the couple was finally free for a night.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, don't worry," he replied.

"Are you sure?" she questioned, attempting to get into a bigger picture conversation.

"Yeah, don't concern yourself with my business," he stated, trying to dismiss her like any wise guy would.

Most wives in this sticky situation would have backed down, but Francesca had reached her breaking point after being snatched from her active life in the district attorney's office and then sequestered in the house to raise two kids.

"Your business?" she yelled. "Your business? My business is your business!" she went even louder, although what she said actually worked a lot better in her head in the formative stages.

"Fuck it is!" he defiantly shot back.

"Well, I don't want to be on the sidelines watching anymore!"

"What about the kids?" he asked, thinking that would neutralize his prosecutor of a wife and pretty much end the conversation.

But he underestimated the depths of her despair.

"Fuck the kids!"

Guido took a seat on a chair in the bedroom because he couldn't believe such a statement could come out of the mouth of an Italian mother.

"What did you just say?" Guido asked while he crossed himself.

"I need to be in again," she said with a tone that was bordering on defeat.

"Didn't I do right by you all of these years?" a still-shocked Guido asked.

"Yes."

"Isn't that enough?" he continued with his questioning.

"No," she simply replied.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want IN!"

Women never had a role in the day-to-day operations of the Cosa Nostra in its history, other than to take care of the house and kids and cook the meals.

"Don't get involved in my business, Franky!" he yelled trying to preserve everything that was holy and male dominated.

She wasn't the lead prosecutor in most of New York State's big cases for nothing.

"I am your business," she countered.

He waited for her next move.

"That lawyer your father has is getting pretty long in the tooth. Doesn't he walk around with an oxygen tank?"

Guido was about to shut the conversation down and consult his father on such matters, but he heard Don Vito say to him again, "It's the perfect time to expand." And then he realized that if he was willing to bring in outsiders to help grow the business, then why not his own capable wife? At least he could trust her...

"We are going to expand internationally. Do you think you can handle that?"

She smiled, "Are you saying that I can be family consigliore?"

"Can you handle it?" he joked.

And, just then, she had the strangest thought.

"You're not going to believe this, but I had the strangest thought. We need to bring someone in to work under me that is an expert in the field of international relations."

Guido scanned his mental database of potential matching lawyers and then came to the same stunning conclusion as his wife.

"Fuck, no!"

"Is he still alive?" she asked.

"I believe he is. And it's quite possible that he has been fully rehabilitated."

"Many times over," she joked.

"It's your ballgame. If you want him, then go get him. Let him live with his own kind and away from me," Guido stated.

"Thanks for listening to me," Francesca said as she removed her clothes seductively and then sat on his lap.

Guido smiled and echoed a sentiment his wife said moments earlier.

"Fuck the kids!" as they met in a passionate kiss.

TWENTY-ONE

Scott McNulty was put in the same jail as Don Vito in New Jersey because of overcrowding in the New York correction facilities - at least that was the explanation - but really because the family wanted to keep an eye on him to make sure that he was constantly uncomfortable but continually alive.

Francesca wasn't sure which situation would be less attractive for McNulty, because he would be someone's bitch in either scenario. She was escorted to a different area than the open room where she and Guido met his father. This room was typical of most jails with a plexiglass center and phone on either side. Francesca sat down and then immediately looked for the sanitary wipes that she always carried in her purse.

McNulty, looking a little frailer than when she last saw him, entered the room and was instantly pissed off at the sight of his old colleague. No one had visited him in all the years he was in prison, so he should have been a little more enthused by the drop-by. He cursed under his breath and then sat down in the chair across the glass from Francesca and picked up the phone.

Francesca was sickened by the thought of picking up the germ-carrying receiver and wiped it down thoroughly before putting it near her ear and mouth. She was on him from the get-go.

"What the fuck did you just say under your breath?"

"Fuckin' Scallini!" he grunted without hesitation.

"For your information, my name is Garrafolo, asshole!" she yelled and then stood up, slammed down the phone and got up and walked away from the table in one fluid motion. McNulty was playing it cool like he couldn't give a crap if she left for the first two steps and then he panicked, standing up and yelling, "Francesca! Francesca! Come back!"

She honestly didn't know what to expect when McNulty first appeared. The real question of the day: "Was it possible to be the obnoxious out of a human being?" And the initial returns registered an answer of "NO!" although the final verdict was still somewhat in flux.

Francesca turned around when she heard the muffled desperation in his voice that she needed to hear. She looked at him and he continued to plead and motion for her to return, so she eventually obliged. Luckily, she had an ample supply of wipes and used another to repeat the sweep of the area.

"Are you ready to talk now, or are you going to continue to treat me like shit?"

"I am ready to talk. Thank you for coming to visit me!" he said in an uncharacteristically-enthusiastic voice.

She sized him up, "Still have interest in international relations and law?"

"I could do without the relations part, being in here, but I have stayed current with the law. Why do you ask?"

"I have a project I might need your attention on."

He had always been a master negotiator, and time and hardship had done little to diminish his skills.

"Short-term or long-term?" he asked, looking for a lifeline to be sprung from his self-induced hell.

"Well, that entirely depends on you," she countered.

His eyes started watering, "Whatever you need."

"Boss-lady," she stated.

"Boss-lady," he replied.

"Then let's get the fuck out of this shit-hole!" she exclaimed as she hung up the phone and then used another wipe on her hands, while mumbling to herself, "There isn't enough disinfectant in the world to clean this place.

Francesca was such a germaphobe that she made alternative transportation plans once they hit the parking lot. McNulty reached for the handle of her car door and she yelled, "Touch that door and I'll put you right back in there!"

Just then, a black Town Car pulled up and she said, "You get in this one."

He looked at the two goons in the front seat and hesitated getting into the back seat at first.

"What? They're not gonna' kill you!" Francesca stated and the he looked at the men again and she asked, "Right? You're not going to kill him?"

Georgie "Knuckles" Vitello looked McNulty up and down and replied, "Well, that all depends on him."

Francesca shook it off, "Well, try not to kill him on the way home."

"Are you sure?" Vitello joked. He looks like the kind of asshole that should be whacked."

"Yes, he is a huge, gaping asshole, but he is the kind of asshole that is going to help us all make lots of money."

She reached into her purse and pulled out four fresh $100 bills and handed them to Vitello.

"Get him something to eat after you wash him thoroughly, burn his clothes and then get him some new clothes. And of that asshole resurfaces in any way, then you have my permission to torch him along with his clothes."

"Yes, boss, "Vitello obediently replied.

And then she looked over at McNulty with a confident smirk that only real, raw power could provide.

McNulty nodded to her that he understood his place and wouldn't fall out of line, because it was apparent that his next act of defiance would certainly be his last.

TWENTY-TWO

"Walk through the fuckin' car wash," Vitello ordered without a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Since his life would be on the line from this moment on, McNulty complied with the request without hesitation.

The driver reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a $50 bill and slapped it into Vitello's palm.

"I told you he would do it!" Vitello exclaimed in pure joy as he folded the bill neatly in half and then tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"All right, I'll give you a chance to make your money back," he stated. "Let's go double or nothing on whether he's circumcised."

After driver Marino and goon Vitello got finished with McNulty, he was finally ready for his first meeting at Sonoma Valley. He was dropped off at the main headquarters, which was located in a house on Mulholland Drive, and he walked up the steps and knocked on the front door.

A juicehead opened the door and smiled briefly before jumping back into character.

"You must be McNulty," he said in a low bass voice. "Come in, we've been expecting you."

Since it was the middle of the day and sunshine repelled the night-walkers like they were vampires - unless they were at the Jersey Shore slathered in baby oil - most of the work was done in recesses of the basement, so McNulty was escorted downstairs. The lower level was closer to the underground tunnels and it gave much easier access to the gates of hell once the Grim Reaper came calling.

A group of guys were playing poker at a gaming table in the back of the room, and a few other people were scattered in the spacious expanse of the basement, including a bartender and Francesca, who appeared to be impatiently waiting to start the meeting.

"Go get 'em," she said to the goon as McNulty walked into the light and then received quite the greeting.

"There goes the neighborhood," someone said from the card table.

"If that guy's a gangsta' then I'm King Fuckin' Kong!" another guy stated before he yelled, "Put your fuckin' cards face down on the table, Claudio! I don't want a repeat of that card-swapping fiasco we had here last month!"

"My cards are on the table!" Claudio yelled back. "You're the one that has an extra deck in your pocket!"

Gino smiled, "Never leave home without it," as he revealed the pack of cards from the inside of his jacket pocket.

"Nice outfit," Francesca said to McNulty.

"The guys picked it out for me at the Shore Store," he replied, trying to keep whatever he said as close to the vest as possible.

McNulty dried off from the car wash, thanks to a bunch of workers who toweled him off, and then he was handed an 'OG' ensemble complete with and Original Gangsta' t-shirt, an 'OG' hat, a pair of purple leopard workout pants and some slip-on sneaker shoes.

He was receiving comments and sarcastic pats on the back until the boss came down the stairs and the room grew quieter. McNulty turned to see what all of the big deal was about and then walked into a knuckle sandwich that sent him crumbling unconscious on the carpet.

"He had that one coming!" Guido said to his wife, who wanted to get the meeting started but really couldn't find fault her husband's actions.

"Okay, but let him talk when he wakes up and then you can punch his lights out again if you want," she replied.

"I'll see what he has to say," Guido replied.

Ten minutes later, Guido said, "Wet towel!" and one of his guys got up and placed a cold, wet towel on McNulty's face. He didn't move at first, but then came back to life all startled when his breathing and vision were restricted. He frantically rolled around until he located the towel and removed it from his face, as everyone in the room got another laugh at his expense.

Guido looked McNulty over as he stood up and said, "You guys shopping at the Shore Store again? I never thought I would see the day that the great and powerful former New York District Attorney would be so humbled."

Normally, Scott McNulty would have told Guido to go fuck himself, but he thought better of it as the blood from his nose would certainly have set off a feeding frenzy in this pool of sharks.

Once he regained his senses he stood outside of the circular table and chair and listened to the conversation.

"Half the people in this fuckin' community have either defaulted on their mortgages, are about to go down, or can't sell," ancient accountant Artie Grecco stated.

Guido's business partner Sal Pugliese clarified their position.

"We can 'fix' the people that are underwater and the other sellers, but we have to fill the empty units to at least give the appearance of stability."

"We have an influx of new Russian, Japanese, Brazilian and Irish business partners," Artie added.

"Fuck the Irish!" a few guys said until they looked at Guido, who was back at the table and ready to chime in.

"Yeah, fuck the Irish!" he yelled as he pounded his fist on the table. "Give them the shitty older units near the back, and make sure you keep them away from my father."

Everyone supported the boss's decision and then had a good laugh until he looked across at McNulty and asked, "You got a problem with that, McNulty?"

All heads swiveled toward McNulty, who replied without hesitation, "No, fuck the Irish!"

Everyone pounded the table and laughed, and then Guido asked another question to see if his wife's new recruit would be a good fit. He circled the available units, 30 in all, and questioned, "What do you think about placement?"

Francesca's head swiveled back toward McNulty like she was sitting at center court of the U.S. Open watching a tennis match.

"Japanese people can be put anywhere. They adopt like cockroaches. Brazilian's tend to always be running hot, so I would keep them near the pool. And Russians - well Russians - they don't get along with anybody. I would keep them away from your people. They are dark and moody and their food tastes like rubber balls in gravy. Sort of like the shit I've been eating before I got here."

The room grew eerily quiet after McNulty's analysis, mostly because the crew usually waited to see how Guido reacted before jumping ahead of him.

Guido looked at the map, then his wife, and then smiled at McNulty and said, "Rubber balls in gravy, that's a good one! We have to get this guy some of our gravy!" he said looking around the table.

Everyone was talking it up as Guido got up from his chair and nodded to McNulty to meet him half-way. He put his arm around him and whispered in his ear.

"So, we are now done with all that business from the past. You now know where the line is."

He stepped back and McNulty said, "Yes, boss. Thanks for the second chance. I won't let you down."

"No you won't," Guido said before he left the room so his wife and her team could complete plans to solidify the community.

TWENTY-THREE

The reshuffling of the community gave it a renewed sense of balance and effectively calmed the fears of the homeowners. It also injected a shot of adrenaline into Guido's crew, who learned a few more illegal tricks while teaching a few new one's of their own.

Guido earned the respect of the new crew members because he could literally speak their language and was able to relate to their varied customs through the help of Francesca and McNulty, who became even more adept in their international relations.

Revenues, which had faltered mightily at the onset of the recession, had picked up again in 2010 and 2011, and the family was experiencing some of its most profitable years. Don Vito was happy that his business had survived the transition and difficult economic environment and was now flourishing under the firm hands of his son Guido.

The old man was in his late 80s and, although his health was failing, he was still able to get around on good days and fuck with the neighbors every now and then.

A new couple had moved in next door with their teenage son and had not been given the lay of the land according to Vito Garrafolo. The Garrafolo family had a close relationship with the local garbage company. In fact, they actually owned the garbage company through indirect/direct ownership, even though state law prohibited ownership of such companies by private individuals or corporations.

Of course, the benefits of such ownership was not the sparse profits these trash collection trucks produced, it was the opportunity to transport items acquired through less than legal methods. So, in a sense, garbage was used to shield the fencing of stolen goods and other illegal contraband.

Directly across the street from the new family, Corin, Rory and Alex Barton - who were undercover Jews renting from an Irish prick of a landlord that also worked for Don Vito, distributing product to much of Europe, except for Italy - was an empty house that the family utilized to store all of their stolen property in preparation to be transported via garbage trucks.

Simply parking the truck in front of the unit and having men load the item would have been too obvious and roused suspicion from the scattered neighbors that actually weren't on the take. The elder members of the crew would put out a handful of items two times a week on Monday and Thursday when the garbage was collected.

Corin Barton was an avid resale and estate sale shopper and she used just about every opportunity to unearth a down-on-its-luck item and then turn it around and sell it for a sizable profit. While most people used conventional garbage cans to rid themselves of refuse, including the Barton's, the gentlemen of the empty house that were supposedly moving and trying to rid themselves of some non-essential items (like the store that is always 'GOING OUT OF BUSINESS'), left their trash without containers and often left items in their original boxes.

There would never be any trash outside the house on adverse weather days, and stuff would only be put out 10 minutes before the garbage men came because they were alerted of the impending arrival by the driver via text message.

It was a beautiful late spring Tuesday morning and the Barton house was flush with activity. Rory was getting ready to go to work in beautiful and safe Newark, New Jersey, and his wife and son were scrambling to get the garbage together before Alex went to middle school and Corin made an all-out assault on the local resale shops.

Corin and Alex hustled to the curb with the rolling garbage pail and then she looked across the street and saw a treasure trove of items that the guy across the street was throwing out.

"It can't be," she beamed and then said to Alex, "C'mon, let's check this out."

The family had moved from the Midwest and mother and son had never been exposed to such things, but father had grown up on Long Island around some suspicious characters and had seen and heard of all kinds of nefarious activity.

"You gotta' check this out!" came over the mob radio, as men in various houses around the location peaked out the window, including an intrigued Don Vito, who struggled to get out of his chair and walk over to the view of his world.

Corin eyed two items on this day - a huge post-modernist painting in an elaborate gold frame, which was a one-of-a-kind painting stolen from a Connecticut museum, and a brand new cappuccino machine that was still in its original box. The two garbage thieves scurried across the street with the hot items and put them in the family's two-car garage next to Rory's car before closing the garage door.

Rory had finished showering and getting dressed for work, so he came down the stairs to eat breakfast and was greeted by nothing but pride.

"You can't believe what people are throwing out around here!" Corin beamed.

"Yeah!" Alex added. "A lot of the stuff is new!"

Alarms sounded all around Rory's head and his brain almost imploded from the implications of taking someone else's stuff that they already stole from another person.

"What?" he asked, trying to get his bearings. "You did what?"

"We picked some really cool stuff out of the garbage!" Corin exclaimed.

Rory needed some visual confirmation of his worst nightmare, "Where is the stuff?"

"It's in the garage near your car," she replied.

Rory walked past his wife and son and down the three stairs to the garage. He sped to the other side of his car and saw a museum-quality painting hanging out next to a restaurant-quality cappuccino machine.

"Oh god," he said under his breath. "You can't keep this!" he said as he walked back into the house and toward the front door, which he opened to see if there was still time to right the wrong.

The green garbage truck cruised by and the driver gave Rory the stink-eye, which he took as a sign that death was now at his door.

"You can't do that!" he yelled.

"Why not?" she countered, thinking that he was trying to restrict her shopping patterns.

He tried to reason with her and teach his son a lesson.

"Who puts new and very valuable things out at the curb?"

Mother and son looked at each other but couldn't come up with the answer.

Rory was ready to explode, "The mob! People that steal things and then want to fence them through the garbage man!"

Corin was still proud of her early morning haul.

"We can sell them and make lots of money."

Rory shook his head in disbelief and turned and walked into the kitchen, "If they don't kill us first."

"Boss, do you want me to retrieve the items and then take those people out?" the elderly gentleman in the vacant house - who used to be a hit man and was looking to satisfy his killing jones - asked.

Don Vito gave serious thought to ordering the act and then remembered that the very safety of the commoners in the community was crucial to their operation - even if the people were renters, not owners.

"No, that's okay Suzio. I'll take care of this one myself. I have another job I want you to do, anyway." And Martin Suzio was in his window moments later and was shooting any squirrel that dared to make contact with Don Vito's lawn.

As for the Barton family, Don Vito waited until Saturday to exact his revenge. While his wife and son slept soundly, Rory Barton slept with one eye open all week and by the time the weekend came, he was exhausted. The lights went off in the Barton master bedroom at 11:00 p.m. on Saturday night, although Rory had passed out at 10:15 and was in a deep sleep by the time midnight rolled around.

There was a thunderous bang on the front door, but neither Corin nor Rory heard it right away. The walls of the house were paper thin, but the couple had become adjusted to the rampant noise of the community. The second set of knocks woke them up and startled Rory, who was already paranoid by nature, grunted "What's that noise?"

"I think it's the front door," Corin replied.

Rory scratched his head and then reached for his aluminum baseball bat, which was suitably positioned next to the side of his bed. He then walked downstairs after putting on a light as he rubbed the crust from his eyes as he approached the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's the police! Please open the door!" Officer Steadman said in his sternest police voice. It was the ultimate staged game of cops and robbers for the local police force, who lounged in their brand new headquarters and handed out the occasional driving tickets while the town's library was located in a 1,000 square foot space in the basement of their processing building that was built in 1954.

Rory opened the door and two policemen shining flashlights in his face stood in front of him as he used his long reach to place the baseball bat in a more non-threatening place behind the door.

Steadman said, "We have reports of a drunken teenager walking in people's backyards and peeing on their deck furniture. We were told that the youth lives in this house. Do you know where your son is?"

"Peeing on deck furniture? Fuckin' Italians!" Rory thought when he realized that the Don living next door was getting back and him and his wife for taking some of his shit. He figured that it was better than having a real gun to his head, so he confidently replied, "He's up in his room sleeping," not thinking for a moment that his introverted son would be saucing it up and using the neighbor's recliner as his personal toilet.

"Can you please bring him to me?" Steadman firmly asked in his best cop voice.

Rory thought about the time he and his wife heard gun shots outside one weekend before they went to sleep months earlier. Someone was obviously trying to get to Don Vito but was unsuccessful in the attempt.

"What was that?" Corin asked on that night of the shooting.

Rory didn't flinch, "They're protecting the Don."

"You and your mob theory. You're crazy!" she whispered as she walked down the stairs to take a peek out the front door.

"Let the cover-up begin," he said to himself as his wife, the detective, needed answers.

Corin opened the door and was greeted by a mob wife at the bottom of their steps.

"Nothing to see here! Everything's all right! Go back inside!"

What Jackie Minzetti really meant was, "Mind your own fuckin' business, Blondie!"

Corin saw a grouping of police cars and their flashing lights on the scene and thought better of asking a series of questions she had loaded up, in favor of keeping whatever innocence she had left.

"That wasn't a firecracker!" she exclaimed and then walked back into the bedroom.

Rory shook his head, "No it wasn't."

The flashback was a lot quicker in real time as Corin questioned Rory at the top of the stairs.

"What do they want?"

"They're saying that Alex is drunk."

"That kid doesn't fart without me knowing about it," she thought as Rory went through the motions and walked to Alex's room and opened the door.

"Alex, are you drunk?" he asked sarcastically but in a serious tone to his now-awake son.

Thirteen year-old Alex staggered to the doorway of his room and his father thought for a moment that the kid indeed resembled a drunken person.

"Have you been drinking?" Rory repeated his query again.

"No, I have been sleeping."

Officer Steadman did not set foot in the house because the legal ramifications of such a staged act would have been vast.

"Son, have you been drinking tonight?"

"No, I have been sleeping," Alex replied.

Then Corin remembered that a Brazilian family had lived in the house before them, so she conveyed the information to Rory.

"Who are you looking for?"

Steadman looked at his note pad, "Romero Frito."

"They used to live here before us."

"Okay, thank you. Don't go anywhere. We're gonna' check the rest of the neighborhood and may have to ask you further questions."

Rory walked down the stairs and closed the front door. He then looked at Alex and said, "Go back to sleep you alcoholic."

And then he looked at his wife and said, "Fuckin' Italians."

Corin looked out of the bedroom window and saw the same police car passing the house at least three more times in the next hour before Don Vito finally had a good laugh and was satisfied that the theft would never happen again, so he called off the dogs.

Before they went to sleep, Rory said to his wife, who was lying on his chest.

"For god's sake, please don't touch anybody else's garbage."

She countered, "Anywhere?"

He was exhausted, "Just in our neighborhood," he conceded.

"Good!" she replied.

"Oh boy," he thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

TWENTY-FOUR

Don Vito had taught his last lesson to gavones that took money out of his pocket. In earlier days he would have applied repeated pressure until the couple either moved out of the neighborhood or were carried out in body bags.

It was amazing that Don Vito's health held out this long, because he had abused his body over the years with cigarettes, drugs and alcohol, in addition to about a decade of extensive Viagra use.

"What are all of these cars for?" Corin Barton asked as she looked out her busy bedroom window.

"The Don must be sick," Rory replied. "People are coming to say goodbye to him."

"How do you know?"

"Because if he was dead, half of New Jersey would be lined up for his wake. He's like royalty in this place."

The first few days of visits were for wise guys in general to pay their respects to a great man in their industry. Both allies and enemies alike lined up to kiss the ring of a legend in the business. And for the people that had been hearing about Guido but hadn't met him, it was an opportunity to size up the man that was already the leader of the family but was days away from officially becoming the next Don.

The crowds dwindled as Don Vito's body prepared to cease functioning. He requested to be put in his favorite chair and sit upright, because lying flat in a bed would have given the appearance of weakness. The Don wanted to look everyone in the eye when they bent down to kiss his ring.

It was his wife's job to make sure the essential elements were in place, which meant that all of her children had to come home and the rest of her husband's close family and friends had to converge on the Sonoma Valley community.

But it was really Guido he wanted to talk with in his final breaths. There was no more time to waste in order to impart whatever wisdom he had left, for there would be no tomorrows.

"You have been my greatest gift in life," Don Vito whispered in his horse voice into Guido's ear as he knelt down on one knee and hugged his father.

The room was quiet but the remainder of the house was abuzz with activity, as preparations for a significant life change were well underway.

"I only wanted to make you proud," Guido whispered back. "There were so many years when I was confused and turned my back on the family," he added.

"Never apologize for what has happened, only focus on the present and future and change things if you fucked up," the Don stated.

"But never, ever, admit you were wrong, unless your wife's really angry and she's holding a frying pan."

While Don Vito's energy and focus had waned in recent days, he had been afforded a window of extreme clarity before taking his last breath.

"I have been lucky to be doing something I love for so long, but there will be tough times and other people will want what you have. Never back down but have the stones to know when to fight and when to put the guns away and take advantage of a trend, like I did with Francesca's father and his expertise in computers."

Guido had the feeling that his father must have had something to do with his coupling with Francesca.

"Thank you for bringing her to me, papa. I was too blind in my own pursuits to see what was right in front of me."

Don Vito thought for a moment how it would be best to tell his boy that control was everything in life, so he went for his usual direct approach.

"You can never leave anything to chance. Chance will get you killed in a heartbeat. Always control your world to make sure of the outcome. The life that we lead does not happen naturally. There is no flipping a coin and wondering what the outcome will be. Rely on your instincts and your life will be as sweet as mine was. I love you Guido," Don Vito said and then happily faded off with a soft smile on his face. His life was complete and he had accomplished everything he set out to do, so there was no more.

Guido didn't know at first that his father was gone. He hugged the skin and bones and said, "I love you too, papa," and then realized that he was the only one breathing in the room. He kissed his father on the forehead and whispered, "Riposte in pace, papa," which translated into "Rest in peace."

The soul of Don Vito rose above Guido on its way to one of two destinations, but then the Don cut a deal and floated back into his son's body because he wasn't down with the pleasures of this earth and wanted to share it with his alter ego, his son.

A few days later, Don Guido was sitting outside of the funeral home with his son Vito, Jr.

Vito, Jr. marveled at the huge crowd that had gathered to pay respects to his grandfather, so he innocently asked, "Why are there so many people here? What did papa do?"

Don Guido smiled and replied, "Anything he wanted, Vito." And he patted his son on the back and repeated, "Anything he wanted."

