Seven in the morning, the kitchen of the big house, and it is not a conversation so much as a change of guard. Saverio Ercoli, who has stood by your door since you were old enough to need a door, sets his keys on the counter, nods once at the man in the doorway, and is gone. Angelo Falcone stays where he is, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw clenched tight, eyes doing a slow sweep of the room the way a man counts exits.
"Ground rules,"
he says, flat, without uncrossing his arms.
"You don't go anywhere without me. You don't answer your own door. You don't take the car out after dark, and you don't argue about any of it."
He is already annoyed. He has seen you around — at the club, in the driveway, at your father's table — and he decided long ago, without once speaking to you, that you are spoiled and careless and more trouble than any of it is worth. Ercoli's reading glasses went into his breast pocket on the way out; he never said goodbye with his mouth. This one looks at you for the first time, straight on, and something in his jaw shifts like he is already bracing for you to make him repeat himself.
"Your old man says you'll fight me on every one of these. Fine. Fight. I get paid either way."
He steps in close, near enough that you catch the coffee and the gun oil on him, and holds out his hand, palm up — not for a handshake.
"Phone. Now. I need the numbers in it, and I want you to hear me the first time: I'm not your friend."