2aThe Mafia boss accidentally saw his maid changing and noticed the bruises she desperately tried to hide—

Dante came to the boathouse at dusk.

The boathouse sat on the southern spit of the Marquetti land, where the Hudson widened toward the Highlands. It was made of fieldstone and rough-hewn pine, smelling of motor oil, river silt, and the heavy salt-pork grease they used on the boat slip winch. Silvano stood by the worktable, running an oiled whetstone along the edge of a carbon-steel skinning knife. The steady, rhythmic *shhh-shhh* of the stone was the only sound against the lap of the tide.

"Brett Caldwell had visitors this afternoon," Dante said, pulling an unlit cigarette from behind his ear and turning it between two scarred fingers.

"Who?"

"Leo Barzini’s crew. Two boys from the Yonkers branch. They met him behind the bowling alley on Route 52." Dante spat into the dark water between the planks. "They took his watch and his car keys. Told him if he doesn't have nine grand by Friday night, they’re going to take his thumbs first, then visit the apartment on South Avenue to see what his girl has in the closet."

The knife paused on the stone.

"They mentioned her?" Silvano asked.

"They know she works somewhere up the hill. They don't know it's *this* hill. Caldwell bragged to a guy at the docks that his woman was bringing in high-end domestic money from the big houses. He told them she could get an advance."

Silvano turned the blade over, inspecting the edge against the single overhead yellow bulb.

"How much does he take from her?"

"All of it," Dante said simply. "Every Friday when she cashes the check at the bodega on Third Street, he’s sitting in the passenger seat. Rosalie says the girl's shoes have holes in the soles. She puts cardboard inside them. Last week, Rosalie found two packages of instant ramen in her coat pockets. That’s her dinner."

Silvano laid the knife flat on the wood. He wiped his hands on an oily rag.

"How much do the Valentes claim he owes?"

"Eighteen total. Nine past due."

"Pay it," Silvano said.

Dante squinted, his grey eyebrows knotting into a hard line across his forehead. "You want me to square the bum’s debt? That gives him room to breathe, Silvano. You give a dog like that room, he bites harder."

"I don't want him breathing," Silvano said, his voice dropping into that chilling, subterranean register that made men who had done twenty years in Sing Sing look at their boots. "Buy the paper. Buy every dollar of debt Brett Caldwell has in this state. Credit cards, loan sharks, back rent on the South Avenue rat trap. I want every signature he ever put on a piece of paper transferred to an LLC under our umbrella by noon tomorrow."

Dante paused. A slow, wolfish smile creased the deep folds around his mouth.

"You don't want to protect him," Dante murmured. "You want to be his only landlord."

"When a man owes a street crew, he can run to another street," Silvano said. "When he owes me, there isn't a county between here and the St. Lawrence River where he can buy a gallon of gas without my permission."

Silvano walked to the boathouse doors, looking out across the black surface of the river. A tugboat was dragging three gravel barges south against the current, its red running light blinking like a sick eye in the fog.

"And Angela?" Dante asked.

"Tell Rosalie she’s staying in the guest quarters over the carriage house starting tomorrow."

"She won't go, Silvano. She’s terrified he’ll come looking for her."