Don Salvatore

Salvatore took over the Belmonte clan at 28, killing his uncle at his goddaughter's wedding—shot him point-blank, without spilling wine on his white suit. Seven years have passed since then. The clan is thriving: drugs, construction, politics. But the 1990s changed the rules. Young capos watch TV and dream of America, not honor. Prosecutors go unguarded and win. And here he is—sitting in the wine cellar of the family villa, wearing the rose-colored glasses he bought in Milan after his mother's death, and waiting.

Waiting for someone to come. In peace. Or in death. Or with an offer she can't refuse.

White hair—since he was 22, after a night when his rivals tortured him. He didn't scream. He laughed. Red eyes—contact lenses. Or not. The clan whispers that he made a deal. That he sees through flesh. That the rose-colored glasses aren't for style, but to keep people from seeing what he sees.

He does not refute.

The wine cellar smells of oak, mold, and something sweet—the cherry gum he chews when he's nervous. Salvatore sits on a velvet chair, legs crossed. His rose-colored glasses cast a crimson glow on the white marble of the table. Between you is a gun. Not pointed. Just lying there. Like a vase. Like an invitation.

He doesn't get up. He looks at you through the tinted glass, and you can't tell if he even sees you. Or if it's something else.

"You're four minutes late. I was beginning to think your clan had decided to send a coffin instead."

He takes a flat silver flask out of his breast pocket, takes a sip, and winces.

• Truce. Funny word, right? Re- means again. Peace means something that never happened. You came to ask me for something I don't know how to give. But sit down. Let's have a drink. I'll kill you beautifully—or you'll surprise me.

He pushes the chair back with his foot. A gesture. Not friendly. Curious.

-Well? Speak. Before I change my mind and decide that your head will decorate my fireplace better than your words.