"I'd say that is unique. Does she know what is on the digital storage device?"

"She does," Paul said, aware the engines had come to a near stop. Through the window, he could see from the distant lights along the shore that they had essentially come to a stop. Looking out the other direction, he could see the illuminated Statue of Liberty.

"Was there anyone else involved in either preparing the eight-K or just knowledge of its existence? I don't want to worry about some would-be whistle-blower who might be in the process of filing the damn thing before you do in order to get a few bucks, claiming it wasn't going to be filed."

"No one that I know," Paul said. "The CFO could have told somebody, but I doubt it. He was very clear he didn't want the information to get out."

"Terrific," Vinnie said.

"Mr. Dominick," Paul said, "I think you will have to talk to your men again about getting me back to the marina."

"What?" Vinnie questioned with exaggerated disbelief. "Let me talk to one of those lumpheads."

Paul was about to call out to Angelo and give him the phone when Franco noisily descended, as if on cue, from the bridge deck and approached Paul with his hand outstretched. Paul was surprised at the timing. It seemed that Franco might have been listening in on the conversation.

While Franco stepped away to talk, Angelo stood up. He couldn't have been happier about the prospect of heading back to the marina. Even though he had to make frequent trips on the Full Speed Ahead, he had never become accustomed to being on the boat. It was always at night and usually to pick up drugs from ships coming from Mexico or South America. The problem was that he couldn't swim, and being out on the water, particularly in the darkness, made him more than uneasy. What he needed at the moment was a stiff drink.

At the bar, Angelo took out an old-fashioned glass and poured himself a knuckle of scotch. In the background, he could hear Franco on the phone repeating over and over "yeah" and "okay" and "sure," as though he was talking to his mother. Angelo tossed down the drink and faced back around into the room at the moment Franco said, "Consider it done," and flipped the cell phone closed.

"Time to get you home," Franco said to Paul.

"It's about time," Paul grumbled.

"Finally" Angelo silently mouthed as he slipped his hand under his jacket's lapel and allowed his fingers to close around the butt of his shoulder-holstered Walther TPH.22 semiautomatic.

At age thirty-seven, Angela Dawson was no stranger to adversity and anguish, despite having grown up in an upper-middle-class family in the affluent suburb of Englewood, New Jersey, where she had enjoyed all the associated material advantages, including the benefit of an extensive Ivy League education. Armed with both M.D. and MBA degrees as well as excellent health, her life on this early April night in the middle of New York City should have been relatively carefree, especially considering that she had every advantage of a wealthy lifestyle at her fingertips, including a fabulous city apartment and a stunning seaside house on Martha's Vineyard. But such was not the case. Instead, Angela was facing the biggest challenge of her life and suffering significant anxiety and distress in the process. Angels Healthcare LLC, which she had founded and nurtured during the previous five years, was teetering on the edge of either mind-numbing success or utter failure, and its outcome was to be decided in the next few weeks. The outcome rested squarely on her shoulders.

As if such an enormous challenge was not enough, Angela's ten-year-old daughter, Michelle Calabrese, was having a crisis of her own. And while Angela's CFO and COO, the presidents of Angels Healthcare's three hospitals, and the recently hired infection-control specialist waited impatiently in the boardroom down the hall, Angela had to deal with Michelle, with whom she'd been talking on the phone for more than fifteen minutes.

"I'm sorry, honey," Angela said, struggling to keep her voice calm yet firm. "The answer is no! We have discussed it, I've thought about it, but the answer is no. That's spelled n-o."

"But Mom," Michelle whined. "All the girls have them."

"That's hard to believe. You and your friends are only ten years old and in the fifth grade. I'm sure many parents feel the same as I do."

"Dad said I could. You are so mean. Maybe I should go live with him."

Angela gritted her teeth and resisted the temptation to respond to her daughter's hurtful comment. Instead, she swiveled in her chair and glanced out the window of her corner office. Angels Healthcare was located on the twenty-second floor of the Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue. Her private office faced both south and west, with her desk oriented to the north. At the moment she was looking south, down the length of Fifth Avenue, chockablock with traffic. The receding red taillights appeared like a thousand radiant rubies. She knew her daughter was responding to her own anger about life with divorced parents and was trying to use Angela to get her way. Unfortunately, such hurtful comments about her ex-husband had worked several times in the past and had gotten Angela furious, but Angela was determined to try to keep it from happening. Especially under the strain she was, she had to keep herself calm for her upcoming meeting. Parenting and running a multimillion-dollar business were often at odds, and she had to keep them separate.

"Mom, are you still there?" Michelle questioned. She knew she'd crossed the line and already regretted her comment. There was no way she wanted to live with her father and all his crazy girlfriends.

"I'm still here," Angela said. She swung back around to face her sparsely furnished, modern office. "But I did not like your last comment one bit."

"But you are being unfair. I mean, you let me pierce my ears."

"Ears are one thing, but belly-button rings are something else entirely. But I don't want to talk about it anymore, at least at the moment. Have you had supper?"

"Yeah," Michelle said dejectedly. "Haydee made paella."

Thank God for Haydee, Angela thought. Haydee Figueredo was a gracious Colombian woman Angela had hired as a live-in nanny right after Angela had separated from her husband, Michael Calabrese. Michelle was only three at the time, and Angela was six months away from finishing her internal medicine residency. Haydee had been like a gift from heaven.

"When are you coming home?" Michelle asked.

"Not for a couple of hours," Angela said. "I'm going into an important meeting."

"You always say that about meetings."

"Maybe I do, but this one is more important than most. Do you have homework?"

"Is the sky blue?" Michelle said superciliously.

Angela wasn't happy about the disrespect Michelle's comment and tone suggested, but she let it go.

"If you need any help with any of your subjects, I'll help you when I get home."

"I think I'll be asleep."

"Really! Why so early?"

"I have to get up early for the field trip to the Cloisters."

"Oh, yes, I forgot," Angela said with an exaggerated grimace. She hated to forget events that were important to her daughter. "If you are asleep when I get home, I'll sneak in, give you a kiss, and then I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay, Mom."

Despite the conversation's earlier tone, mother and daughter exchanged heartfelt endearments before disconnecting. For a few moments, Angela sat at her desk. But the phone conversation with her daughter had reminded her of a time and an episode that had been equally as challenging and distressing as the current situation. It had been when she had to deal with both divorce proceedings and the bankruptcy of her inner-city primary-care practice, and the fact that she had survived them gave her confidence in her current circumstance.