The old man wasn’t taking chances. He let the boat’s engine idle to cover his conversation with his nephew.

“You’re flying to Vegas gonna solve this problem or make it worse?” he asked. “It’s something you should consider.”

It was a hot afternoon in mid-July. A stiff ocean breeze pulled at the umbrella shading the two men sitting on the back of the boat. The old man sucked on his twisted cigar, a DeNobli. He removed it to speak again.

“We got more important things to discuss than your personal vendetta with some mameluke broke your jaw,” he said. “This Russian thing, for instance, it needs to come to fruition.”

The nephew, Nicholas Cuccia, was forced to speak without moving his mouth from a broken jaw he had suffered the week before. He leaned forward and pointed at his chin.

“He’s gotta answer for this,” he whispered.

The old man frowned as he sipped club soda from a glass. He watched as a pair of jet skiers raced under the bridge about a hundred yards from Donna Bella. When the jet skiers were out of view, he turned to his nephew again.

“That’s gotta mend, your jaw,” he said. “What are you gonna do out there wired up like that? What’s the point?”

The nephew closed his eyes in frustration.

“It’s also a far reach, Las Vegas,” the old man continued. “It isn’t like the old days. There’s protocol involved. Protocol takes time.”

The nephew strained to speak. “I need a green light here,” he said. “I want this guy whacked.”

The old man stared into his nephew’s eyes.

“There are rules,” the nephew said. “Wiseguys don’t get touched. What’s it all about, we let a guy get away with this? Where does it stop? I had my jaw broken. I’m a skipper, for Christ sake.”