Chapter One The Bar

He had said business was bad and asked for two weeks. The answer was a shot fired close enough to put powder on his shirt. The police wrote robbery. The neighbors lowered their eyes and said they were sorry. The Morettis sent a bill the next morning and explained that debt did not die with the debtor. Ethan was twenty-three, a college dropout, hauling freight at the docks by day, delivering food in the evening, washing dishes in Manhattan after midnight. He was lean, sleepless, and quiet in a way that made people mistake him for weak. When Vito Moretti first came for him, he smiled and slapped Ethan's cheek. "Little Russo," Vito said, "your father knew when to bow his head. Do you?" Ethan did not move. "I'll pay." "And if you don't?"