Chapter 1

I inherited the family business. But I try to keep from letting the family business define me.

The business defined my father — and that definition was the death of my mother many years too early.

I believe the official term is "organized crime." But my business is known by many names: La Cosa Nostra, The Mob, Mafia, The Syndicate. But it is a new era. Many of my interests are legitimate.

My portfolio includes investments in restaurants, auto parts chains, grocery stores and manufacturing plants. My charitable contributions include donations to low-cost health clinics, no-kill animal shelters and safe havens for domestic abuse victims.

In short, I'm trying to be the man my father never was. I firmly contend that any single selfless act I commit is one more than he ever considered. Simply put, my father was not a nice man.

There is a portion of my domain that are somewhere on the south side of legal. As with many illegitimate concerns, those interests consume a large portion of my time. I have tried delegation with little success. The men and women who populate my profession are, to a person, immoral, greedy and power-hungry.

I can delegate my legitimate business far easier despite the fact that many people I deal with there are exactly the same: immoral, greedy and power-hungry. If the manager of a grocery store oversteps his bounds, I fire him. If the manager of my bookmaking business oversteps his bounds, I'm forced to take more drastic steps.

I'm really not cut out for the drastic portion of the business.

I do have a human side and it is the side of me I prefer. To that end, I have divested myself of any drug interests. I abhor drugs and their users. Drugs are the single largest thief of dignity in the world. I have seen drug dealers sell their product to 10-year-olds. I have seen drug users sell their 15-year-old daughters for their next fix. It is appalling.

There was no end to the offers when I made the decision to rid myself of my drug-funded holdings. Although drugs are the scourge of humanity, they are a cash-filled industry that requires very little skill except ruthlessness. If you are young, stupid and not afraid to kill someone, the drug trade is for you.

I am not quite young, educated and value human life so I avoid it. It really is that simple.

Although I am respectful of humanity, I do possess a touch of my father's ruthlessness. Unfortunately it is a necessity in my line of work.

When I find physical confrontation necessary I generally handle it myself. I believe it was my father's decision to delegate the parts of the job he found distasteful that made him such a bastard.

My father was a coward when it came to confrontation. He could sit back and order a man's death without batting an eyelash. He could pick up the phone and order the destruction of an entire family between the dinner and an aperitif. He lost his grasp on humanity.

That loss of humanity was the reason I found it necessary to kill him. His decisions and lack of valor led to my mother's death and, thusly, his. But there is no reason to dwell on the unpleasant.

I believe that it is in my long-term best interests — mentally, physically and spiritually — to hold myself to the same standards of those I employ. It keeps me grounded in reality and it allows me to maintain my civility.

It is that civility that is at the root of my story.

One of the portions of my life I like least is when it is necessary to "brace" someone. It rarely happens that I have to get involved personally. While it is true that any action more severe than a beating requires my intervention, it also is true that more often than not the threat of a beating is enough to convince a deadbeat to pay his debt — especially if it comes directly from me.

But alas, more often than not is not always. So there are times when I find myself where I found myself that rainy Monday night: outside some poor bastard's house because he had exhausted my patience.

In this case, the man was Leo Gomez. He had borrowed $25,000 from my agents and his payments had stopped arriving. He had been continually late. I often forgave late fees for one simple reason: if you're dumb enough to borrow money from a man who makes his living the way I do, you probably didn't have many other options.

Still, it is a matter of personal pride that I pay my debts. At the very least I expect to be notified if you can not pay your debts. Leo Gomez failed on both accounts — which meant my personal involvement in the matter.

I rang the doorbell of the small split-level house and waited. I was certain that I would wind up breaking down the door to gain entry so I was somewhat startled with the door flew open. It is rare that I enter these situations alone. But I had met Leo Gomez personally and I wasn't worried about him.

Instead of Leo, I was face to face with a small, blonde woman of about my age. There was a fire in her eyes. I was glad that I had my hand on my gun in my overcoat pocket. There was a younger version of her standing discreetly behind her.

"Good evening, Ma'am," I said politely. "I'm looking for Mr. Gomez."

The woman's gaze never flickered.

"If you're a bill collector you're just going to have to take a number," she said.

I smiled. I have been told my smile is disarming. I hoped it was true because disarming is what I was going for.

"I suppose you might say that I am a collection agent," I said noncommittally. "But Ma'am, people like me don't often wait in line to be paid. I have been very patient with Mr. Gomez. May I assume he is your husband?"

While she was processing the information I noticed a scent.

"Mrs. Gomez, could you and your daughter please step outside the house," I said. "I believe you have a gas leak."

"I told you I smelled gas, Mom!" the girl said sharply.

The woman glared at her.

"You're here to break my legs!" she said. It appeared as though my disarming smile had failed. "There is no way I'm stepping outside with you."

I decided honesty was the best answer.

"Actually Mrs. Gomez, we are past the leg breaking stage," I said. "I am willing to wait in my car while you and your daughter leave safely. I have no quarrel with you or her."

The woman laughed in my face.

"Yeah," she snarled. "We'll just make a break for it on foot in the rain while you chase us down. Look, pal, he's gone. He left us high and dry. He took all the money and the car and left me all the bills."

"Mrs. Gomez, at this point I care more about your safety than the return of my money," I said. She certainly wasn't expecting that reply. "Eventually, I will find your husband and I will get my donation back. Now please, the smell of gas is very strong. If you promise to vacate the house immediately, I will leave for now. Is there anyone else in the house that we need to get outside?"

The woman motioned for her daughter to follow her outside. I admit that I felt a sense of relief.

"If you would like, I will give you the keys to my car," I said as I pulled the keys and my cell phone from my pocket. "You can lock the doors or drive it to any place you need to go to feel safe. Right now, would you be so kind as to contact 411 and get the number to the gas company so you can notify them. I'm going to go around back and look for an emergency shut off."

The woman was still staring at me. But she took my keys and my phone and headed with her daughter in tow to the safety of my Mercedes.

The backyard was lit only by moonlight when I came around the corner. I am a naturally cautious man — in my business, it only makes sense — and my caution was rewarded.