Eritrea had no idea precisely what had put Bolan on the Mafia's case. It was so long ago, the stories handed down by word of mouth so jumbled and distorted. No one who had been there when it started was alive today, as far as he could tell, and in the end, it hadn't mattered how the war began so much as how it seemed about to end. Bolan moved too fast and hit too hard for anyone to waste time studying his goddamned roots.
But that was over now. The soldier had flamed out, and there Eritrea sat, with one wrist handcuffed to a metal cot. Waiting to die.
As if in answer to his thoughts came the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. Then someone fumbled with the lock, and the door was opened briefly and as quickly closed.
Minelli stood beyond Eritrea's reach, regarding him with an expression that was composed equally of loathing and concern.
The loathing he might feel for any turncoat who informed against the brotherhood.
The concern was in case Eritrea should cheat him, foil his plans by dying sooner than desired.
"You really ought to eat," Minelli said.
"I haven't had much appetite."
"I understand. It's safe, you know. I don't intend to poison you."
Eritrea smiled, surprised at how easy it came. "Just trying to fatten up the turkey, huh?"
Minelli's shrug conveyed supreme indifference. "It's up to you. Tonight we finish it, regardless."
Just like that. Eritrea felt his stomach churning.
"So. You finally found your nerve," he said.
The laughter chilled Eritrea.
"That's good. I hoped you'd be a man about it."
"That'll be one man between us."
Laughter died, but Don Minelli's face remained serene.
"You can't provoke me, David. Sorry. I need you. Just until tonight. You're my ace in the hole."
Eritrea frowned. He had no feel for what was coming, just a vague and growing sense of apprehension.
"I don't follow you."
Minelli raised an eyebrow, frowned.
"Of course not. And why should you? I keep forgetting that you've... been away."
Minelli started pacing, careful to remain outside the radius of Dave Eritrea's grasp.
"No reason why you shouldn't know." His captor paused, almost dramatically, for maximum effect. "You're going to my coronation, David. Not exactly guest of honor... no, I'd say you fall more in the line of entertainment."
Bits and pieces of the puzzle came together in Eritrea's mind. He knew Minelli was ambitious, but...the boss of bosses? That would take some doing. A gift to la commissione, perhaps — like Dave Eritrea's head — but even then...
Eritrea knew there must be more.
"A present doesn't make a coronation," he informed Minelli.
"Ah, but that depends on who delivers it. I haven't just got you. I've got the blood right, David."
Eritrea frowned. "Minelli? I don't..."
His captor interrupted him.
"The name is Marinello, David."
And Eritrea could not head off astonishment before it reached his face. Minelli's words had struck him like a fist above the heart.
"You understand now."
"Anyone can claim..."
"Enough!"
The eyes of the man he knew as Minelli were flashing at him, color rising in the swarthy cheeks. For just an instant, he was ready to attack, to step within Eritrea's reach, but then the mafioso caught himself and prudently stood clear.
"Everyone believed my father childless... and he was, from all appearances. His wife was barren, but he craved an heir. A man of his virility..."
Minelli hesitated, wrestling with private feelings for a moment, finally continuing.
"My mother bore two children for him. One, a girl, was stillborn. I survived. The church forbids divorce, and there were still appearances to be maintained. I never met my father formally. Barney Matilda made all the arrangements for our home, the schools."
It made a crazy kind of sense to Dave Eritrea now. Matilda, unacknowledged father of the deadly Taliferro twins, had long experience hiding secrets of his own. And Augie...
"He was bringing me along, inside the family, and teaching me the ropes. In time, I would have been the old man's consigliere, or an underboss, in line to claim his chair on la commissione. When Bolan took him out..."
The words trailed off and Dave Eritrea could see it now. The young man waiting to fill his father's shoes someday. Except the shoes and legs and all were blown away in Jersey, after Marinello Senior lost round one to Mack the bastard, way back when. Round two-came down in Pittsfield, and there hadn't been enough of Augie left to bury in a sandwich bag.
The sudden topside vacancy had caused a scramble for succession, with Minelli still too far removed from power to have a decent shot. Eritrea himself had won the toss, and others had succeeded him in turn, as Bolan, Mother Nature and the federal strike force whittled down the ranks.