Michael had grown up watching his father slaving his life away for pennies, and Michael had resolved that would never happen to him. He had known what he wanted from the time he had first heard talk about his famous distant cousin Antonio Granelli. There were twenty-six Mafia Families in the United States, five of them in New York City, and his cousin Antonio’s was the strongest. From his earliest childhood, Michael thrived on tales of the Mafia. His father told him about the night of the Sicilian Vespers, September 10, 1931, when the balance of power had changed hands. In that single night, the Young Turks in the Mafia staged a bloody coup that wiped out more than forty Mustache Petes, the old guard who had come over from Italy and Sicily.

Michael was of the new generation. He had gotten rid of the old thinking and had brought in fresh ideas. A nine-man national commission controlled all the Families now, and Michael knew that one day he would run that commission.

Michael turned now to study the two men seated at the dining room table of the New Jersey farmhouse. Antonio Granelli still had a few years left but, with luck, not too many.

Thomas Colfax was the enemy. The lawyer had been against Michael from the beginning. As Michael’s influence with the old man had increased, Colfax’s had decreased.

Michael had brought more and more of his own men into the Organization, men like Nick Vito and Salvatore Fiore and Joseph Colella, who were fiercely loyal to him. Thomas Colfax had not liked that.

When Michael had been indicted for the murders of the Ramos brothers, and Camillo Stela had agreed to testify against him in court, the old lawyer had believed that he was finally going to be rid of Michael, for the District Attorney had an airtight case.

Michael had thought of a way out in the middle of the night. At four in the morning, he had gone out to a telephone booth and called Joseph Colella.

“Next week some new lawyers are going to be sworn in on the District Attorney’s staff. Can you get me their names?”

“Sure, Mike. Easy.”

“One more thing. Call Detroit and have them fly in a cherry—one of their boys who’s never been tagged.” And Michael had hung up.

Two weeks later, Michael Moretti had sat in the courtroom studying the new assistant district attorneys. He had looked them over carefully, his eyes traveling from face to face, searching and judging. What he planned to do was dangerous, but its very daring could make it work. He was dealing with young beginners who would be too nervous to ask a lot of questions, and anxious to be helpful and make their mark. Well, someone was certainly going to make his mark.

Michael had finally selected Jennifer Parker. He liked the fact that she was inexperienced and that she was tense and trying to hide it. He liked the fact that she was female and would feel under more pressure than the men. When Michael was satisfied with his decision, he turned to a man in a gray suit sitting among the spectators and nodded toward Jennifer. That was all.

Michael had watched as the District Attorney had finished his examination of that son-of-a-bitch, Camillo Stela. He had turned to Thomas Colfax and said, Your witness for cross. Thomas Colfax had risen to his feet. If it please Your Honor, it is now almost noon. I would prefer not to have my cross-examination interrupted. Might I request that the court recess for lunch now and I’ll cross-examine this afternoon?

And a recess had been declared. Now was the moment!

Michael saw his man casually drift up to join the men who were crowded around the District Attorney. The man made himself a part of the group. A few moments later, he walked over to Jennifer and handed her a large envelope. Michael sat there, holding his breath, willing Jennifer to take the envelope and move toward the witness room. She did. It was not until he saw her return without it that Michael Moretti relaxed.

That had been a year ago. The newspapers had crucified the girl, but that was her problem. Michael had not given any further thought to Jennifer Parker until the newspapers had begun recently to feature the Abraham Wilson trial. They had dragged up the old Michael Moretti case and Jennifer Parker’s part in it. They had run her picture. She was a stunning-looking girl, but there was something more—there was a sense of independence about her that stirred something in him. He stared at the picture for a long time.

Michael began to follow the Abraham Wilson trial with increasing interest. When the boys had celebrated with a victory dinner after Michael’s mistrial was declared, Salvatore Fiore had proposed a toast. “The world got rid of one more fuckin’ lawyer.”

But the world had not gotten rid of her, Michael thought. Jennifer Parker had bounced back and was still in there, fighting. Michael liked that.

He had seen her on television the night before, discussing her victory over Robert Di Silva, and Michael had been oddly pleased.

Antonio Granelli had asked, “Ain’t she the mouthpiece you set up, Mike?”

“Uh-huh. She’s got a brain, Tony. Maybe we can use her one of these days.”

10

The day after the Abraham Wilson verdict, Adam Warner telephoned. “I just called to congratulate you.”

Jennifer recognized his voice instantly and it affected her more than she would have believed possible.

“This is—”

“I know.” Oh, God, Jennifer thought. Why did I say that? There was no reason to let Adam know how often she had thought about him in the past few months.

“I wanted to tell you I thought you handled the Abraham Wilson case brilliantly. You deserved to win it.”

“Thank you.” He’s going to hang up, Jennifer thought. I’ll never see him again. He’s probably too busy with his harem.

And Adam Warner was saying, “I was wondering if you’d care to have dinner with me one evening?”

Men hate overeager girls. “What about tonight?”

Jennifer heard the smile in his voice. “I’m afraid my first free night is Friday. Are you busy?”

“No.” She had almost said, Of course not.

“Shall I pick you up at your place?”

Jennifer thought about her dreary little apartment with its lumpy sofa, the ironing board set up in a corner. “It might be easier if we met somewhere.”

“Do you like the food at Lutèce?”

“May I tell you after I’ve eaten there?”

He laughed. “How’s eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock is lovely.”

Lovely. Jennifer replaced the receiver and sat there in a glow of euphoria. This is ridiculous, she thought. He’s probably married and has two dozen children. Almost the first thing Jennifer had noticed about Adam when they had had dinner was that he was not wearing a wedding ring. Inconclusive evidence, she thought wryly. There definitely should be a law forcing all husbands to wear wedding rings.

Ken Bailey walked into the office. “How’s the master attorney?” He looked at her more closely. “You look like you just swallowed a client.”

Jennifer hesitated, then said, “Ken, would you run a check on someone for me?”

He walked over to her desk, picked up a pad and pencil. “Shoot. Who is it?”

She started to say Adam’s name, then stopped, feeling like a fool. What business had she prying into Adam Warner’s private life? For God’s sake, she told herself, all he did is ask you to have dinner with him, not marry him. “Never mind.”

Ken put the pencil down. “Whatever you say.”

“Ken—”

“Yes?”

“Adam Warner. His name is Adam Warner.”

Ken looked at her in surprise. “Hell, you don’t need me to run a check on him. Just read the newspapers.”