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the Lucchesi family, the most powerful mob in the five boroughs.
    Johnny bounded up the row house steps, taking three at a time, then rapped on the door, checking the dimly lit street while he waited. He didn't see anything suspicious, but you never knew these days. The feds and the NYPD detectives had gotten slicker lately, gotten better at blending in. They were constantly on his ass, but so far they hadn't been able to prove a thing. They'd hauled him into court a couple of times but never had enough to make the charges stick. No body, no murder weapon, and never a partner who could testify against him in exchange for immunity. He always worked alone. Always had, always would.
    Of course, the Lucchesi family retained good lawyers, too. Harvard boys. Best that money could buy.
    After a few moments the door opened and Johnny moved into the modest home. The young soldier standing inside was named Nicky. Nicky's only job was to protect this entrance--to the death. It was a high honor in the Lucchesi family, and it meant the bosses had big things in store for him.
    "Hi, Nicky."
    "Hey ya, Deuce."
    "Yeah, yeah, hey. Look, the number's twenty-seven tonight, right?" Johnny was there to see Angelo Marconi, the number two man in the entire Lucchesi organization. Marconi was paranoid about everything and everyone, and you had to know the two passwords of the day or you didn't get in to see Marconi no matter who you were--no exceptions.
    "Okay?"
    "Yeah, okay," Nicky answered, head tilted slightly forward out of respect. "You know where you're going, right?"
    "Yup."
    Johnny brushed past Nicky and headed up the creaky stairs toward the back bedroom where Marconi conducted business: settling territorial disputes within the family, getting his cut on every transaction, approving bribes for city officials. And directing executions. Which was the thing he was mostly responsible for. Making sure the Lucchesi family maintained its terrifying reputation for violence and vengeance. The Double V's, as they were called by the family council. The council was the Lucchesi governing body. It met once a week somewhere in Queens, though never the same place twice in a row.
    Despite all his power, Marconi lived modestly. He didn't own big houses around the world, didn't have a yacht moored in an exclusive Hamptons marina, didn't take luxurious vacations to exotic destinations. In fact, he almost never left this house. A few times a summer to see a Yankee game and to attend council meetings, and that was it. He was worth tens of millions, but he lived like any other blue-collar senior citizen. Like he couldn't wait for his next Social Security check.
    When he wasn't conducting business, he watched television. He didn't read, didn't do crossword puzzles, didn't bother with the Internet. He just watched TV. Liked reruns of old sitcoms the best-- I Love Lucy, The Dick Van Dyke Show, Leave It to Beaver --but he'd watch almost anything. Except soap operas. Not because he thought they were stupid. Because he didn't want to become addicted to one of them, didn't want to start planning his day around Guiding Light or General Hospital. Didn't want to have to explain that one to the brotherhood at a council meeting.
    In front of the closed bedroom door was another sentry, a huge guy nicknamed Goliath. The guy's hands were clasped behind his back, and the bulge of a pistol was obvious beneath the lapel of his dark blazer. Johnny had no idea what the guy's real name was. No one in the family seemed to. But that was always how it was with the guy standing right outside Marconi's door. No one ever knew his real name.
    "Noah's Ark," Johnny said loudly.
    This was always the way. One password at the front door, one when you got to Marconi's door. The old man was bonkers about security.
    Goliath gestured for Johnny to put his hands in the air--which Johnny did without hesitation or complaint--then patted him down. The procedure was entirely unnecessary because Johnny would