Dead silence, and no one among them dared to clear his throat, thereby attracting notice to himself. The time had come to spell it out. He swallowed hard and went ahead.
"I say we need a leader, like we used to have. Somebody who could guide the brotherhood. We use to have a man like that. You all know who I mean."
"Damn right." The rumble came from Bonadonna, on his right. "That Augie Marinello was a man."
The capo nodded, using all the strength of will to keep the smile off his burning face.
"We need a man like that today. We need what he can give us, right up front, the way it used to be."
Down at the far end of the table, Patriarcca cleared his throat loudly.
"You got some way to raise the dead that we ain't heard of, Ernie?"
L.A. Lester snickered, joined by several of the others. Minelli kept his face impassive, fighting the urge to snap back at the Washington capo.
"That won't be necessary, Jules. The Marinello line is still alive."
For a moment the silence was deafening, then it broke, and everyone was babbling. Halfway down the table, old Tom Gregorio was pounding on the woodwork with his fist, shouting the others down, demanding the floor, and it was several moments before the noise died and he could be heard. When he got his chance he lurched erect, leaning toward his host with both fists on the tabletop.
"You're movin' kinda fast for some of us, Ernesto. Last I heard, Augie didn't leave no sons."
"His wife was childless, Tom. That doesn't mean he died without an heir."
So where's this heir?" Gregorio demanded. "Let him show himself."
"You're looking at him, Thomas."
"Bullshit!" Patriarcca shouted from his seat, and then the other voices drowned him out, all clamoring at once with questions, exclamations, statements of surprise or disbelief. The capo raised both hands, waiting a full five minutes before he had the chance to speak below a shout.
"I realize how difficult this is for some of you to handle, but I have the evidence you need, and all of you will be permitted, naturally, to check it out before you leave. I've got letters, written to my mother in the don's own hand, along with other papers and a diary left by Barney Matilda. Some of you know how close he was to Augie; they came up together through the ranks."
Gregorio was still on his feet, but his hands were no longer clenched into fists. They hung by his sides, and he had a stunned expression on his face.
"Supposing what you say is true... supposing, now... how come you been hidin' your light under a bushel all these years?"
"My father kept on hoping for an heir that he could claim until... the day he died. After that, well, with our friend Eritrea in the saddle, and some others I could name, I wanted some security before I stuck my neck out. That make sense to you, Tom?"
"Yeah." The older don still sounded bewildered. "It makes sense, but..."
Minelli smiled.
"Again, I understand your reservations... and I hope the evidence I have will answer them. If not..."
Patriarcca leaned across the table, jabbing a finger toward Minelli. He was pale, but his resistance was unshaken.
"Let's cut through all the hearts and flowers here," he snarled. "Suppose you are exactly who you say. So what? What makes you think you're fit to guide this thing of ours?"
Minelli stiffened.
"I've got the blood," he answered. "When I bagged Eritrea, I proved I had the brains. If it comes down to that, I've got the troops."
"Aha!"
Patriarcca lurched to his feet, but before he could make his point, the muffled sound of an explosion reached their ears from somewhere outside. A minor shock wave rattled the curtained windows in their frames. An instant later, automatic weapons joined the chorus, firing from the direction of the bungalows.
"What kind of shit is this?"
"Hey, what the hell..."
Minelli left his place, moving down the length of the table, motioning for the Aces to follow. As he passed among the other dons, he raised his voice, trying to sound reassuring.
"Nothing to worry about," he told them, wishing he believed it as he spoke the words. "If it's the bastard who hit us today, we'll have two heads instead of one."
The second blast was closer — close enough, in fact, to smash the giant picture window, spraying fractured slivers through the drapes and peppering the walls, the guests, with flying glass.
And Don Ernesto Minelli saw his world begin to teeter on its axis, tilting, slipping through his fingers just as he began to think it was secure. He reached the door, the Aces on his heels, and he was running in the direction of the gunfire, his pulse hammering inside his skull.
He would not lose it now, when he was this close.