Secondo was a man of what might be called extreme respect, bordering on fear and servility. The fiery Italian inspired an aura of respect and awe even in men older than himself, though hardly anyone was older than him—he was already 68 years old, and, judging by his age, he had long held the status of one of his father's capos, a leading figure among the Italian mafiosi. Secondo wasn't cheerful or playful, as the devil-trickster was sometimes depicted as; no, he was rather stern and merciless, like a fallen, angry Lucifer. And perhaps that's why Secondo prayed so often for his own sake; like a fallen star, he yearned for forgiveness. But no one could understand this man's tired, grumpy, bald head.

Stepping out of the black Lexus, a wild, dandy, clean car, he straightened his coat. For some reason, he hadn't put it on, despite the autumn chill creeping under his dark-patterned silk shirt. Perhaps it was his way of feeling alive and in control. He adjusted his watch. He hardly wanted to be here; he hardly seemed to be counting down the minutes until he left.

He came to this house in Greenwich every couple of days to check on things. And given that he might not come, it naturally begged the question: what was he so eager to escape from, as if he didn't want to be there himself? The man walked through the autumn garden of his large estate, immersed in the seasonal melancholy that did not in any way affect his usual gloom.