Chapter 12: The Signora

The bonded warehouse in Oswego smelled of lake water and old rope.

I walked in through a side door at midnight, alone, in a black coat and flat shoes.

The gold ring was in my fist.

It was a big, ugly thing with a falcon cut into the face, and it cut into my palm with every step.

Dominic was a quarter mile away in a van with his men and the engine off.

I had made him promise to stay there until I sent a signal.

He had agreed with a face.

The warehouse was a long hall of stacked crates with a single lamp burning at the far end.

Under the lamp, Aldo Pellegrino sat on a folding chair with his coat on his knees.

Thirty men stood in a half circle behind him, rifles slung low.

He gave me a tired, friendly smile.

"Signora," he said.

"You came."

"You have my son."

"Your son is fine. I've told you, he's eating cookies."

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere safe, and warmer than this," Aldo said.

"Now, the ring."

I walked toward him slowly, and the half circle closed around me.

I could see their faces in the lamplight, hard and curious, some of them bored.

Aldo held out his thick hand.

"For five years I've watched you," he said.

"The wife who sits behind the husband and looks pretty."

"Dominic Ferraro is a man who doesn't want to be a Don, and everyone knows it."

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