Fox said, 'You're okay for a couple of hours.' He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. 'You two go and eat. I'll call you on my mobile when I need you.'

'Sure.' Falcone walked him to the entrance. 'Please convey my respects to Don Solazzo.'

Fox patted him on the shoulder. 'Hey, Aldo, he knows he has your loyalty.'

He turned and went in.

The maid who admitted him to the top floor apartment was very Italian, small and demure in black dress and stockings. She didn't say a word but simply took him through to the enormous sitting room with its incredible view of Manhattan, where he found his uncle sitting by the fire reading Truth magazine. Don Marco Solazzo was seventy-five years of age, a heavyweight in a loose-fitting linen suit, his face very calm, and his eyes expressionless. A walking stick with an ivory handle lay on the floor beside him.

'Hey, Jack, come in.'

His nephew went forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. 'Uncle, you look good.'

'So do you.' The Don offered him the magazine. 'I read the piece. You look nice, Jack. Very pretty. Savile Row suits. Big smile. They talk about the hero stuff, decorated in the Gulf War, that's all good. But then they have to mention the other stuff. That in spite of a name like Fox your mother was Maria Solazzo, the niece of Don Marco Solazzo. God rest her and your father. That isn't good.'

Fox waved his hand. 'It's innocuous stuff. Everybody knows I'm related to you. But they think I'm legit.'

'You think so? This journalist, this Katherine Johnson, you think "innocuous stuff" is all she's after? Don't delude yourself. She knows who we are, in spite of our Wall Street interests. So we're respectable — property, manufacturing, finance — but we're still Mafia, that's what gives us our power. That side is not for people such as her. No, she's after something — and you… you're a good boy. You've done well, but I'm not a fool. I know, beside the family business, that you have this factory in Brooklyn, the one that processes cheap whisky for the clubs.'