Rubio had chosen the restaurant, a classy French bistro where waiters hovered nervously with tall varnished pepper mills and long straw baskets of crusty fresh bread. Rubio disliked the food, but he knew the maître d’, so he was assured a good table in a quiet corner. He brought his women there often.
“You’re quieter than usual tonight,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand. Nicole felt a shiver run through her body. She realized that she hated him for having that power over her, and she pulled her hand away. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“It’s been a difficult day,” she said.
“Ah,” he said with a sigh, “the price of working with snakes.” Rubio had no regard for Nicole’s law firm. “Why do you put up with them? Why don’t you let me take care of you instead?”
Nicole wondered how many other women had fallen for his line and then thrown away their careers to be with him.
“Don’t tempt me,” she said flirtatiously.
This surprised Rubio, who knew Nicole was devoted to her career. But this was what he had hoped. “Let me take care of you,”he repeated. “Besides, how many more corporations can you sue?”
One of the waiters opened a cold bottle of white wine, offered Rubio the cork, poured a small amount into an elegant crystal wineglass. Rubio tasted it and nodded. Then he turned his attention back to Nicole.
“I’d quit right now,” she said, “but there are some pro bono cases I want to see through.” She sipped her wine. “Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about banking.”
Rubio’s eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said, “lucky for you that banks run in the family.”
“Yes,” Nicole agreed, “but unfortunately my father didn’t believe women were capable of running a business. So I have to stand by and watch my crazy cousin screw things up.” She raised her head to look at him when she added, “By the way, Astorre thinks you’re out to get him.”
Rubio tried to look amused. “Really? And how would I accomplish this?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nicole said, annoyed. “Remember, this is a guy who sells macaroni for a living. He’s got flour on the brain. He says you want to use the bank for money laundering and who knows what else. He even tried to convince me that you were trying to kidnap me.” Nicole knew she had to be careful here. “But I can’t believe that. I think Astorre is behind everything that’s been happening. He knows that my brothers and I want to control the banks, so he’s trying to make us paranoid. But we’re tired of listening to him.”
Rubio studied Nicole’s face. He was proud of his ability to separate truth from fiction. In his years as a diplomat, he had been lied to by some of the most respected statesmen in the world. And now, as he looked deeply into Nicole’s eyes, he determined she was telling him the absolute truth.
“Just how tired are you?” he asked.
“We’re all exhausted,” Nicole said.
Several waiters appeared and fussed over them for long minutes in order to deliver their main course. When the waiters had finally retreated, Nicole leaned toward Rubio and whispered, “Most nights my cousin works late at his warehouse.”
“What are you suggesting?” Rubio asked.
Nicole lifted her knife and began to slice her main course, dark medallions of duck swimming in a light shimmery orange sauce. “I’m not suggesting anything,” she said. “But what is the controlling shareholder of an international bank doing spending all his time at a macaroni warehouse? If I had control, I’d be at the banks constantly, and I’d make sure my partners were getting a better return on their investment.” With that, Nicole tasted her duck. She smiled at Rubio. “Delicious,” she said.
Along with all her other qualities, Georgette Cilke was a very organized woman. Each Tuesday afternoon she volunteered exactly two hours of her time at the national headquarters of the Campaign Against the Death Penalty, where she helped answer the phone and reviewed pleas from lawyers of prisoners on death row. So Nicole knew exactly where to deliver her second important message of the day.
When Georgette saw Nicole walk into the office, her face brightened. She rose to embrace her friend. “Thank goodness,” she said. “Today has been dreadful. I’m glad you’re here. I can use the moral support.”
“I don’t know how much help I’m going to be,” Nicole said. “I’ve got something troubling that I have to discuss with you.”
In the years they had worked together, Nicole had never confided in Georgette before, though they maintained a warm professional relationship. Georgette never discussed her husband’s work with anyone. And Nicole never saw the point in talking about her lovers with married women, who always thought they had to offer advice on how to get a man to the altar, which was not what she wanted. Nicole preferred talking about the raw sex, but she noticed that this made most married women uncomfortable. Maybe, Nicole thought, they didn’t like hearing about what they were missing.
Georgette asked Nicole whether she wanted to talk in private, and when Nicole nodded, they found a small empty office down the hall.
“I’ve never discussed this with anyone,” Nicole began. “But you must know that my father was Raymond Aprile—the one known as Don Aprile. Have you heard of him?”
Georgette stood up and said, “I don’t think I should be having this conversation with you—”
“Please sit down,” Nicole interrupted. “You need to hear this.”
Georgette looked uncomfortable but did as Nicole asked. In truth, she had always been curious about Nicole’s family but knew she couldn’t bring it up. Like many others, Georgette assumed Nicole, through her pro bono work, was trying to make up for the sins of her father. How frightening childhood must have been for Nicole, growing up in the shadow of criminals. And how embarrassing. Georgette thought of their own daughter, who was embarrassed to be seen with either of her parents in public. She wondered how Nicole had survived those years.
Nicole knew Georgette would never betray her husband in any way, but she also knew Georgette was a compassionate woman with an open mind. Someone who spent her free time as an advocate for convicted murderers. Now Nicole looked at her with a steady gaze and said, “My father was killed by men who have a close relationship with your husband. And my brothers and I have proof that your husband accepted bribes from these men.”
Georgette’s first reaction was shock, then disbelief. She said nothing. But it was only seconds before she felt the first clear flush of anger. “How dare you,” she whispered. She looked Nicole squarely in eyes. “My husband would rather die than break the law.”
Nicole was surprised by the intensity of Georgette’s response. She could see now that Georgette truly believed in her husband. Nicole continued: “Your husband is not the man he seems to be. And I know how you feel. I just read my father’s FBI file, but as much as I love him, I know he kept secrets from me. Just as Kurt is keeping secrets from you.”
Then Nicole told Georgette about the million dollars Portella had wired into Cilke’s bank account and about Portella’s dealings with drug kingpins and hit men, who could only do their work with the tacit blessing of her husband. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” Nicole said. “All I hope is that you’ll ask your husband whether I’m telling you the truth. If he’s the man you say he is, he won’t lie.”
Georgette betrayed no hint of the turmoil she was feeling. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” Nicole said, “your husband has a vendetta against my family. He’s going to allow his associates to murder my cousin Astorre and take over control of our family’s banking business. It’s going to happen tomorrow night at my cousin’s macaroni warehouse.”
At the mention of macaroni, Georgette laughed and said, “I don’t believe you.” Then she got up to leave. “I’m sorry, Nicole,” she said. “I know you’re upset, but we have nothing more to say to each other.”
That night, in the sparsely decorated bedroom of the furnished ranch house where his family had been moved, Cilke fa
ced his nightmare. He and his wife had finished dinner and were sitting across from each other, both of them reading. Suddenly, Georgette put down her book and said, “I need to talk to you about Nicole Aprile.”
In all their years together, Georgette had never asked her husband to discuss his work. She didn’t want the responsibility of keeping federal secrets. And she knew this was a part of his life Cilke needed to keep to himself. Sometimes, lying in bed next to him at night, she would wonder how he did his job—the tactics he used to get information, the pressure he must have to put on suspects. But in her mind she always pictured him as the ultimate federal agent, in his neatly pressed suit, with his thumbed-over copy of the Constitution tucked into his back pocket. In her heart she was smart enough to know this was a fantasy. Her husband was a determined man. He would go far to defeat his enemies. But this was a reality she never chose to examine.
Cilke had been reading a mystery novel—the third book in a series about a serial killer who raises his son to become a priest. When Georgette asked her question, he immediately closed the book. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Nicole said some things today—about you and the investigation you’re conducting,” Georgette said. “I know you don’t like to talk about your work, but she made some strong accusations.”
Cilke felt the rage rising within him, until he was in a blind fury. First they had killed his dogs. Then they had destroyed his home. And now they had tarnished his purest relationship. Finally, when his heart stopped racing, he asked Georgette in the calmest voice he could manage to tell him exactly what had happened.
Georgette repeated her entire conversation with Nicole and watched her husband’s expression carefully as he absorbed the information. His face betrayed no hint of surprise or outrage. When she was finished, Cilke said, “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m sure it was very difficult for you to tell me. And I’m sorry you had to do it.” Then he rose from his chair and walked toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Georgette asked.
“I need some air,” Cilke said. “I need to think.”
“Kurt, honey?” Georgette’s voice was questioning; she needed reassurance.
Cilke had sworn he would never lie to his wife. If she insisted on the truth, he would have to tell her and suffer the consequences. He was hoping she would understand and decide it was better to pretend these secrets did not exist.
“Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I would do anything for you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. But I need to know. For us and for our daughter.”
Cilke saw there was no escape. He realized she would never look at him the same way again if he told her the truth. At that moment, he wanted to crush Astorre Viola’s skull. He thought of what he could possibly say to his wife: I only accepted the bribes the FBI wanted me to? We overlooked the small crimes in order to focus on the big ones? We broke some laws to enforce more important ones? He knew these answers would only infuriate her, and he loved and respected her too much to do such a thing.
Cilke left the house without saying a word. When he returned, his wife pretended to be asleep. He made up his mind then. The following night he would confront Astorre Viola and reclaim his own vision of justice.
Aspinella Washington did not hate all men, but she was repeatedly surprised by just how many of them turned her off. They were all so . . . useless.
After she had taken care of Heskow, she was briefly interrogated by two officers in airport security, who were either too dumb or too intimidated to challenge her version of events. When the cops found $100,000 taped to Heskow’s body, they figured his motive was obvious. They decided it was appropriate to reward themselves with a service fee for cleaning up the mess she’d made before the ambulance arrived. They also gave Aspinella a clump of blood-stained bills, which she added to the $30,000 Heskow had already given her.
She had only two uses for the money. She locked all but $3,000 in her safe-deposit box. She had left instructions with her mother that if anything ever happened to her, all of the money in the box—over $300,000 in payoffs—should be put in a trust for her daughter. With the remaining $3,000, she took a cab to Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street, where she entered the fanciest leather-goods store in the city and took an elevator to a private suite on the third floor.
A woman wearing designer glasses and a navy pin-striped suit took her payment and escorted her down the hall, where she bathed in a tub filled with fragrant oils imported from China. She soaked herself for about twenty minutes and listened to a CD of Gregorian chants while she waited for Rudolfo, a licensed sexual-massage therapist.
Rudolfo received $3,000 for a two-hour session, which, he was delighted to point out to his very satisfied customers, was more than even the most famous lawyers received per hour. “The difference,” he said with a Bavarian accent and a sly grin, “is that they just fuck you over. I fuck you over the moon.”
Aspinella had heard about Rudolfo during an undercover vice investigation she conducted in the city’s elite hotels. One concierge was worried that he might be asked to testify, so in exchange for not being summoned, he gave her the tip about Rudolfo. Aspinella thought about making the bust, but once she met Rudolfo and experienced one of his massages, she felt it would be an even bigger crime to deny women the pleasure of his extraordinary talents.
After several minutes he knocked on the door and asked, “May I come in?”
“I’m counting on it, baby,” she said.
He walked in and looked her over. “Great eye patch,” he said.
During her first session, Aspinella had been surprised when Rudolfo entered the room naked, but he had said, “Why bother getting dressed just to get undressed?” He was an extraordinary specimen, tall and taut, with a tattoo of a tiger on his right biceps and a silken mat of blond on his chest. She particularly liked the chest hair, which separated Rudolfo from those magazine models who’d been plucked, shaved, and greased so carefully you couldn’t tell whether they were male or female.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“You don’t wanna hear about it,” Aspinella said. “All you need to know is that I need some sexual healing.”
Rudolfo began with her back, pressing deep, honing in on all her knots. Then he gently kneaded her neck before turning her over and lightly massaging her breasts and stomach. By the time he began to caress between her legs, she was already moist and breathing hard.
“Why can’t other men do this to me?” Aspinella said with a sigh of ecstasy.
Rudolfo was about to begin the premium part of the service, his tongue massage, which he did expertly and with remarkable stamina. But he was struck by her question, which he had heard many times. It always amazed him. It seemed to him that the city was exploding with sexually undernourished women.
“It’s a mystery to me, why other men can’t do it,” he said. “What do you think?”
She hated to interrupt her sexual reverie, but she could tell Rudolfo needed pillow talk before the grand finale. “Men are weak,” she said. “We’re the ones who make all the important decisions. When to get married. When to have kids. We rein them in and hold them accountable for the things they do.”
Rudolfo smiled politely. “But what does that have to do with sex?”
Aspinella wanted him to get back to work. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just a theory.”
Rudolfo began to massage her again—slowly, steadily, rhythmically. He never seemed to tire. And each time he brought her to great heights of pleasure, she imagined the terrible depths of pain to which she would bring Astorre Viola and his gang of thugs the following night.
The Viola Macaroni Company was located in a large brick warehouse on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. More than one hundred people worked there, unloading giant burlap bags of imported Italian macaroni onto a conveyor belt, which then automatically sorted and boxed it. br />
A year before, inspired by a magazine article he’d read about how small businesses were improving their operations, Astorre had hired a consultant straight out of Harvard Business School to recommend changes. The young man told Astorre to double his prices, change the brand name of his macaroni to Uncle Vito’s Homemade Pasta, and fire half of his employees, who could be replaced by temporary help at half the price. At that suggestion Astorre fired the consultant.
Astorre’s office was on the main floor, which was roughly the size of a football field, lined with shiny stainless-steel machines on both sides. The back of the warehouse opened to a loading dock. Video cameras had been placed outside the entrances and inside the factory, so he could keep track of visitors and monitor production from his office. Normally, the warehouse closed down at 6:00 P.M., but on this night Astorre had retained five of his most qualified employees and Aldo Monza. He was waiting.
The night before, when Astorre had told Nicole his plan at her apartment, she was adamantly opposed to it. She shook her head violently. “First of all, it won’t work. And second, I don’t want to be an accessory to murder.”
“They killed your assistant and they tried to kidnap you,” Astorre said quietly. “We’re all in danger, unless I take action.” Nicole thought of Helene, and then she remembered her many dinner-table arguments with her father, who would certainly have sought vengeance. Her father would have said that she owed this to the memory of her friend, and he would have reminded her that it was reasonable and necessary to take precautions to protect the family.
“Why don’t we go to the authorities?” she asked.
Astorre’s response was curt: “It’s too late for that.”
Now Astorre sat in his office, live bait. Thanks to Grazziella, he knew that Portella and Tulippa were in the city for a meeting of the syndicate. He couldn’t be sure that Nicole’s leak to Rubio would force them to pay a visit, but he hoped they might try one last attempt at persuading him to turn over the banks before resorting to violence. He assumed they would check him for weapons, so he didn’t arm himself, except for a stiletto, which he stored in a special pocket sewn into his shirtsleeve.