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    Iron House: A Novel
    Iron House: A Novel
    Iron House: A Novel
    Ebook591 pages7 hours

    Iron House: A Novel

    By John Hart

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    An old man is dying.

    When the old man is dead they will come for him.

    And they will come for her, to make him hurt.

    John Hart has written three New York Times bestsellers and won an unprecedented two back-to-back Edgar Awards. His books have been called "masterful" (Jeffery Deaver) and "gripping" (People) with "Grisham-style intrigue and Turow-style brooding" (The New York Times). Now he delivers his fourth novel—a gut-wrenching, heart-stopping thriller no reader will soon forget.

    HE WOULD GO TO HELL

    At the Iron Mountain Home for Boys, there was nothing but time. Time to burn and time to kill, time for two young orphans to learn that life isn't won without a fight. Julian survives only because his older brother, Michael, is fearless and fiercely protective. When tensions boil over and a boy is brutally killed, there is only one sacrifice left for Michael to make: He flees the orphanage and takes the blame with him.



    TO KEEP HER SAFE

    For two decades, Michael has been an enforcer in New York's world of organized crime, a prince of the streets so widely feared he rarely has to kill anymore. But the life he's fought to build unravels when he meets Elena, a beautiful innocent who teaches him the meaning and power of love. He wants a fresh start with her, the chance to start a family like the one he and Julian never had. But someone else is holding the strings. And escape is not that easy. . . .

    GO TO HELL, AND COME BACK BURNING

    The mob boss who gave Michael his blessing to begin anew is dying, and his son is intent on making Michael pay for his betrayal. Determined to protect the ones he loves, Michael spirits Elena—who knows nothing of his past crimes, or the peril he's laid at her door— back to North Carolina, to the place he was born and the brother he lost so long ago. There, he will encounter a whole new level of danger, a thicket of deceit and violence that leads inexorably to the one place he's been running from his whole life: Iron House.

    Now with an excerpt of John Hart's next book The Hush, available in February 2018.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateJul 12, 2011
    ISBN9781429990318
    Iron House: A Novel
    Author

    John Hart

    John Hart is the New York Times bestselling author of The King of Lies, Down River, The Last Child, Iron House, Redemption Road, and The Hush. The only author in history to win the Edgar Award for Best Novel consecutively, John has also won the Barry Award, the Southern Independent Bookseller’s Award for Fiction, the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award, and the North Carolina Award for Literature. His novels have been translated into thirty languages and can be found in more than seventy countries.

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    Reviews for Iron House

    4/5

    387 ratings59 reviews

    What did you think?

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    • 5/5
      Although much grittier than my tastes, I devoured this book. Main character, a killer by trade falls in love but soon becomes embroiled in a dark war with the mob. Good writer.
    • 4/5
      I guess every author's got to have that one book that isn't quite as good as the others. Hart's an unbelievably good writer and, overall, this novel took a few turns I truly didn't expect, but overall, there was just something...slightly off? Is that the term I'm looking for? It didn't quite grab me like his others have.

      I think, even though Hart goes to great lengths to set it all up, that these characters came across as just a little too broken this time around. Or maybe it was just that Julian didn't get the screen time I felt he was owed.

      Still, for all of that, I still marveled at Hart's insights into this broken world of ours, and his lovely turns of phrase.

      At his worst, he's so many miles above most other authors.
    • 3/5
      The story takes off with Michael and the only woman he has ever loved running for their lives. The book is filled with evil people and violent death. Michael...whose story this is .. presents us with a life story is that is filled with violence and sadness. He finds true love, and tries to leave the life of crime...but he is unable to do that when the only man and mentor he has ever loved or cared about... dies...leaving him to deal with the vicious men who want him dead. I didn’t care at all for Michael’s love interest...Elena. She came across as weak and idiotic and I soon lost interest in any part of the dialogue between her and Michael. It all seemed unrealistic to me. I have really liked other books by this author so I really put effort into liking this one. I hoped the story would gain some renewed interest when Julian...Michael’s brother... was introduced...but unfortunately that didn't happen. By the end (480 pages later), I really couldn’t work up any interest in any of them. I have read several books by this author and have always enjoyed them. I guess everyone has a bad day sometimes.
    • 4/5
      I received this book for free from the goodreads first reads program.
      This book grabbed me from the beginning and held my interest all the way through. The story of Michael and his struggles to protect his love Elena and his brother Julian was fast paced and exciting. The world Michael lives in is harsh and violent. I want to believe that life is not that horrible, but I guess for some people it is. The torment and abuse towards children in this book is hard to read, and you can see why some of them grow up so screwed up. Although it was hard to read at times, I still wanted to keep reading, to find out what happened to Michael, Elena and Julian. The books ending was satisfying for me.
    • 3/5
      Three stars means I Liked It.. yeah, that' about right. This will be a fun summer movie when it's optioned. The characters are all right (though the women are really really really one-dimensional, and worse in the audiobook voicing); the plot is pretty predictable, but the pacing is fantastic. It's enjoyable with these limitations.
    • 4/5
      Iron House is a complex page turner in every sense. John Hart is a fantastic storyteller, he draws the reader in with a wonderful narrative that is effortless to read.

      The first couple of chapters set the tone for the entire book and its pace doesn't let up throughout. Just when you think you know what’s going to happen, you find out you really had no idea.

      The characters are also impressive. While there is a main character, Iron House isn’t just about him. Relationships play a key role in shaping how the book begins and ends.

      A book that deserves to be devoured, Iron House is one of those books that will leave you wanting more.

      This is a First-Reads review of an ARC edition.
    • 5/5
      I have enjoyed every book I've ever read by this author, and this one ranks in the top two for sure.
    • 5/5
      I absolutely loved every part of this book. Someone recommended it to me, and I wish I could remember who so that I could thank them. It's about the love of family. It's about organized crime. It's about psychological disorders. It has heart, survival, murder, mystery, brutality, beauty...I could go on and on. Iron House is full of so many consuming parts. I really, really, really LOVED it. This was my first read from this author. I can't wait to check out more.
    • 3/5
      Michael and Julian were orphaned brothers sent to the same brutal North Carolina institution, Iron House, until Michael runs away after a violent incident, and Julian is adopted by a senator and his wife. Many years later, Michael has become a professional killer, but when he tries to leave the business the killers try to turn on him. Michael's on the run to protect himself and his long lost brother from a whole host of violent and nefarious threats.
    • 3/5
      I loved The Last Child; it broke my heart and was also a great story. Alas, I didn't love this one. Moving at times, it was mostly a cinematically written action tale.
    • 5/5
      I don't think there are enough words to tell you how much I loved this book. I have now read all of John Hart's novels, and they are getting better and better. This is a story of two brothers that were raised in an orphenage. Very bad things happen at this dismal place until one of the brothers gets adopted by a rich Senator's wife. The other brother lives a rough, distraught life on the streets. The crux of this novel is when they are adults and their lives intertwine unexpectantly. I hate reviews that give away most of the story, so just trust me and go buy this book. Be prepared to not move for a few days!
    • 3/5
      Read for "Books, Movies, TV and Life" group as the September, 2013 Southern Mystery read.

      This was a fun, twisty tale with a lot of interesting people & nonstop action. The story unfolds in bits & pieces, plenty of clues, but never quite enough to make it obvious. And everyone lies, even to themselves. There was a lot of graphic violence that was well done, too. Unfortunately, everything was a little too overdone.

      The hero was interesting, but a little too close to perfect. He was handsome to the point of prettiness (Long eye lashes? Seriously?!!!), super cool, accurate & fast under fire, & smarter than everyone else, but sets everything off by making an obviously bad decision without planning for it. He's part of a gang & he wants to quit 'the life' & KNOWS they won't let him, but he sticks around & hopes for the best. He works as a dishwasher for love, yet has millions, & doesn't tell his girl anything. Blech! He also tosses around way too much money which makes him very visible, yet he's supposed to be the invisible killer, the left hand of the old man.

      The bad guys have no endearing traits at all, although there are a few half-hearted attempts in this direction. A couple of characters could have used some more rounding out, too.

      I did like the way some characters had hidden strengths & assets. Some of that was cloaked in the mystery, other parts were unbelievable, though. Still, I set my suspension of belief on high & had a pretty good romp through the book. It's a quick read, too.
    • 4/5
      Wow. I'm afraid I can't say much in way of a review for this without giving anything away, so I'm just going to go with WOW! This is one of those books that you know would make a great movie, but you also know that the movie would never do the book justice and you'd end up hating it. I still want it to be movie; deep down, I think it'd be great.

      Michael is a wonderful, solid, well developed character. Visualizing him and really understanding him is easy with the detail Hart goes into about his thinking and actions. The rest of the characters are developed as well, but open for interpretation in ways that I feel as if Michael isn't. That doesn't detract from any of them in any way though, and I like how they can be interpreted. There are options.

      The story is full of twists and turns that don't exactly leave you guessing, but definitely keep you hooked. I think I enjoyed the ending the most. Not just the very end though, the last half a dozen chapters or so are quite wonderful, borderline sweet.

      In closing, I would strongly recommend this book to any and all.

      Seriously though, can someone make this into a movie?
    • 5/5
      Michael and his brother, Julian, find themselves orphaned and growing up behind the imposing gates of Iron House, an orphanage where the children must often fend for themselves. Decades later, Julian is living with the Vanes, a political family with loads of money and power…while Michael has found his place among criminals in New York City. But Michael wants more in life and thinks he has found it in Elena. When he tries to leave the crime family, his life … and Elena’s… is threatened. Julian, a boy who has grown into a fragile and sensitive man, also seems in danger and Michael takes Elena and flees to North Carolina to protect his brother. When bodies begin turning up on the Vane estate, Michael is left to wonder if his brother has slipped over the edge, or if something more sinister is brewing. Deep secrets must be uncovered to solve the mystery and give Michael (and Julian) a second chance. When Michael returns to Iron House, he discovers not only the ghosts of his past, but the answers to his future.John Hart’s latest literary thriller is edge of your seat reading. As in his previous books, Hart creates memorable and well-developed characters who drive the plot. The dark family secrets and brutal violence of the mob make for some gruesome reading at times. Michael is clearly the character to watch in this novel about family, love, and the ties that bind.I’ve read two previous novels by this author: Down River which was gritty and atmospheric, and The Last Child where Hart explores good vs. evil and supernatural power. Iron House, in my opinion, is the best of the three with strong characters, a twisty plot, and plenty of action.Readers who love literary fiction but crave the excitement of a good thriller, will find much to love in Iron House. With this effort, Hart has become one of my favorite authors in the genre.Highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      This book is ok, Its fast paced has lots of twists and turns. The main character is Michael who tries and succeeds in giving up his life of crime, Along the way he kills baddies, finds his long lost brother and a sister loses his pregnant girlfriend but gets her back in the end.
    • 5/5
      Two brothers abandoned and left to die end up in the orphanage from hell: Michael escapes to a life a hit man the other, Julian, adopted to a life of wealth and power as a Senator's son. Michael's desire to quit the life and start anew with his pregnant girlfriend does not go over well and threats are made to those he loves, including his long lost brother. This book speaks to those of us who know all too well the importance of the family you choose and the strength of those bonds. But the action takes you on a thrill ride as the bodies start stacking up, and you find you just can't turn the pages fast enough.
    • 1/5
      Kept me listening for a long drive, but very poorly written. It was so over the top or perhaps it was the reader. Brothers in the orphanage Iron House. Boy is killed by one brother and the other takes the blame. One gets adopted and becomes a famous children's book author and the other is a gangster. Lots of dead bodies and the pregnant girlfriend and white trash in the mountains. It was not my type of book.
    • 5/5
      This is a book that grabs you from the first page and doesn't release you until the last.John Hart tells the tale of two young brothers raised in an orphanage where you have to be tough to survive. Michael, the eldest, is the strong one and self-proclaimed protector to his younger brother, Julian. A killing within the orphanage sends Michael off on his own while Julian is adopted by Abigail, wife of a wealthy senator.The paths taken by these two brothers are very different. Michael begins working for a crime boss while Julian becomes a writer of dark children's books.The story is wonderful and the dialogue is perfect. This is one of the best books I've read in a while and I strongly recommend it.
    • 5/5
      I read the reviews on the back of the book, and thought that this book had to be overhyped, until I opened the book, and was captured from the start. This is the Best book that I have read for awhile, and I have read some pretty good books.

      The plot layout, the character development are both top notch. I knew Michael was a cold blooded killer, but felt sorry for him, and wanted things to work out. The distress that Julian and Abigail are going through come across immediately.

      I hated when I would have to put the book down to go accomplish something else, because I wanted to finish the book in one sitting. Thanks John Hart for the excellent book.
    • 4/5
      This one got off to a shaky start as far as I was concerned. Nothing to do with plot or story, mind you, just that some of the dialogue read trite and stilted, and little things like that can put me off a novel very quickly. There are some writers, though, for whom I expect a pay-off satisfying enough to get me over those humps.

      About a quarter of the way in, the weak spots just disappeared, and Hart did not disappoint me. Once again, as in his other award-winning novels (King of Lies, Down River, and The Last Child, Hart balances heart-in-your-throat action with glimpses of the very best (and the very worst) of humanity, and leaves the reader gasping for breath and reaching for something with which to wipe their eyes.

      Highly recommended.
    • 4/5
      At the Iron Mountain Home for Boys, there was nothing but time. Time to burn and time to kills, time for two young orphans to learn that life isn't won without a fight. Julian survives only because his older brother, Michael, is fearless and fiercely protective. When tensions boil over and a boy is brutally killed, there is only one sacrifice left for Michael to make: He flees the orphanage and takes the blame with him. Two decades later, Michael is an enforcer in New York's world of organized crime, a prince of the streets so widely feared he rarely has to kill anymore. But the life he's fought to build unravels when he meets Elena, a beautiful innocent who teaches him the meaning and power of love. He wants a fresh start with her, the chance to start a family like the one he and Julian never had. But someone else is holding the strings. And escape is not that easy. . . The mob boss who gave Michael his blessing to begin anew is dying, and his son is intent on making Michael pay for his betrayal. Determined to protect the ones he loves, Michael spirits Elena - who knows nothing of his past crimes, or the peril he's laid at her door - back to North Carolina, to the place he was born and the brother he lost so long ago. There, he will encounter a whole new level of danger, a thicket of deceit and violence that leads inexorably to the one place he's been running from his whole life: Iron House.
    • 4/5
      This was a pretty good story with lots of angles. I would have rated it higher but I found it to be a bit cliche in places. Not enough to ruin the book for me but I just couldn't bring myself to give a higher rating because of it. Be warned there are a few pretty gruesome parts.
    • 5/5
      I was pleasantly surprised with this book. Excellent mystery/action books are few and far between, but Hart shows us why he's won numerous awards for his writing - and this is only his fourth offering.Iron House is a story about two orphaned brothers, Michael and Jullian, who are "trapped" in an orphanage where the children are virtually left to fend for themselves, with little or no adult oversight. Jullian, in particular, is victimized on a regular basis until he snaps and kills one of his tormentors. Michael takes the blame for the killing and runs away, while Jullian is adopted by Senator Randall Vane and his wife, Abigail.Michael becomes a favorite of a New York Mobster, and leads a life of crime as, basically, an enforcer. He seeks to leave the criminal life when his girlfriend becomes pregnant, and the mobster agrees to let him go; the mobster dies, however, and his son holds a grudge against Michael.What follows is an action-packed thriller and mystery with twists and turns aplenty. Red Herrings abound; deep, dark, family secrets turn up every which-way. Bloody mayhem becomes the trend of the day. Hart pulls all of this off with mastery; the book is well structured, the characters are developed quite well, and the tension is maintained most effectively. Add to this the fact that Hart writes extremely well, and you have a nearly flawless book - there is only one contrivance that annoyed me.An excellent read, even if you're not a fan of the genre.
    • 3/5
      I have not read this author but now want to read more! This novel was about two brothers who were in an orphanage and were abused. The one brother becomes a killer for the mafia but wants to go staight after fallinf in love. This is an excellent book with many twists and turns.
    • 4/5
      My book group review:We received the books as part of a promotion:We were all given the choice between Iron House and Last Child and everyone started with Iron House. I say started with because after reading Iron House, many of the girls are ready to read Last Child.The Group comments, as a whole:- a fast read- "How are you not done?! I couldn't put it down!"- very entertaining- "Oh! He's a lawyer! No wonder!" (that was a compliment :))- "How did you find this? I've never even heard of him! It was really good!"- "How many books has he written?"- "The Last Child is even better!"Overall, the group was very pleased with the book and, as I said, many are ready to read The Last Child. The pace was great and we felt that he moved the story along quickly. One member did not love the beginning, but by page 30 or 40, was wrapped up in the plot, the characters, and the story.Without offering any spoilers: It's about a career killer who attempts to "go straight" for his love and his baby. Unfortunately, his past life has no interest in letting their golden killer walk away and he is chased while the people that he loves are put in grave danger, all of their lives being upended and, in some ways, completely destroyed. There are twists and turns along the way, keeping the story interesting and the reader reading.Many agreed that, once reading, it was difficult to put the book down.Overall, the group was PLEASED! And would recommend to anyone who likes a good story, a good thriller, a Grisham/King (mild) story.
    • 5/5
      Read this book in a day and a half. What a thriller.Will be looking for more by this author.
    • 4/5
      Iron House is a beautifully written mystery/suspense novel that delves into the psychological effects of a childhood of violence and abuse. Michael is an orphan who, after running away from a violent scene at an orphanage, grows up to be an enforcer for a powerful mobster. When he falls in love with a beautiful waitress and retires from organized crime, he is suddenly thrown into a violent mystery leading him to explore things he had left behind. Despite my need to suspend disbelief a few times (and to frown upon a few clichés), I feel that Hart kept up the action (and mystery) throughout the book, making for an engaging read. This is an excellent book for people who enjoy mystery/thrillers (assuming they don’t mind violence). I gave the book 3.5/5 stars…it lost points for violence and small clichés.
    • 5/5
      This is John Hart's 4th book. I have read 2 of them, and I have to say, his writing style is beautiful. Iron House is a facepaced thriller/mystery, so I give kudos to Mr. Hart for being able to write about abuse, mobsters, and lies, with such beauty.The main character of this book, Michael, wants out of a mobster lifestyle. His 'coworkers' want him dead, and threaten to kill his girlfriend and his brother. Brother? Where did that come from? Oh yeah, here's one of many twists and turns that book takes. Michael's brother was adopted from an orphanage, called Iron House(!), and Michael ran away and began his life of crime. Throughout the book, Michael tries to keep his girlfriend and his brother safe. And, neither one of them make that task very easy. The brother, Julian, was adopted into a wealthy state Senator's family. This adds more twists and turns.Overall, it was a great read, and I look forward to reading more of Mr. Hart's work.
    • 3/5
      I have found that I usually do not like to read books from the mystery/suspense genre, but listening to them is a different story! I love the action that these stories provide for my listening pleasure. I have read several great reviews from other bloggers who read this book, so I was looking forward to it. I have to tell you that the audioversion fell a bit short for me though.Michael and his younger brother Julian were raised at an orphanage in a remote community in North Carolina. When Michael flees the orphanage to make a life of his own, Julian stays on and is eventually adopted by a family that holds substantial political influence. Although Julian grows up with a privileged lifestyle, the ghosts of the Iron House orphanage will haunt him forever.Michael starts his life over in New York City and finds himself in a lucrative career within the circle of organized crime. A life containing all of the crime and deceit can only last so long, and when it is over, it ends quickly. Michael eventually flees the city and returns to the only home he has ever known in a quest for answers. Little does he know that he will unravel secrets that were never meant to revealed from years ago.So this audiobook had a great plot, but like I said, it just didn't measure up for me. I found my attention wandering quite often and although I was able to get caught up with the family drama between the two brothers, there were still parts of the book that I missed and just didn't understand certain parts of the storyline because of that. With themes family, love, and crime, this story may be of interest to fans of the thriller genre.
    • 4/5
      hated this novel when I started it. I thought it was another B grade action violent flick with dim characters and exploding cars. But it quickly became impossible to walk away from. John Hart is an expert at building suspense into a well crafted story. The main character is anything but stereotypical. He is a self acknowledged killer, a harden man who is also filled with regret and a desire to change his life. Circumstances and a commitment to family keep pulling him back down. He has a mystery to solve, which takes him deep into the Tennessee Hills and some of the most despicable people imaginable.While the novel creeps into the fantastical, with like 90 million dollars just waiting to be taken by the right criminal, and the bombshell beauty with all the right moves, there still remains a compelling edge. The violence inflicted on a minor character is extradionary, almost a distraction. But I think that is what sets this story apart from just another predictable, boring action story. The writing is unexpectedly good.

    Book preview

    Iron House - John Hart

    Trees thrashed in the storm, their trunks hard and black and rough as stone, their limbs bent beneath the weight of snow. It was dark out, night. Between the trunks, a boy ran and fell and ran again. Snow melted against the heat of his body, soaked his clothing then froze solid. His world was black and white, except where it was red.

    On his hands and under his nails.

    Frozen to the blade of a knife no child should own.

    For one instant the clouds tore, then darkness came complete and an iron trunk bloodied the boy’s nose as he struck a tree and fell again. He pulled himself up and ran through snow that piled to his knees, his waist. Branches caught his hair, tore skin. Light speared out far behind, and the sound of pursuit welled like breath in the forest’s throat.

    Long howls on the bitter wind …

    Dogs beyond the ridge …

    CHAPTER ONE

    Michael woke reaching for the gun he no longer kept by the bed. His fingers slid over bare wood, and he sat, instantly awake, his skin slick with sweat and the memory of ice. There was no movement in the apartment, no sounds beyond those of the city. The woman beside him rustled in the warm tangle of their sheets, and her hand found the hard curve of his shoulder. You okay, sweetheart?

    Weak light filtered through the curtains, the open window, and he kept his body turned so she could not see the boy that lingered in his eyes, the stain of hurt so deep she had yet to find it. Bad dream, baby. His fingers found the swell of her hip. Go back to sleep.

    You sure? The pillow muffled her voice.

    Of course.

    I love you, she said, and was gone.

    Michael watched her fade, and then put his feet on the floor. He touched old scars left by frostbite, the dead places on his palms and at the tips of three fingers. He rubbed his hands together, and then tilted them in the light. The palms were broad, the fingers long and tapered.

    A pianist’s fingers, Elena often said.

    Thick and scarred. He would shake his head.

    The hands of an artist …

    She liked to say things like that, the talk of an optimist and dreamer. Michael flexed his fingers, and heard the sound of her words in his head, the lilt of her accent, and for that instant he felt ashamed. Many things had come through the use of his hands, but creation was not one of them. He stood and rolled his shoulders as New York solidified around him: Elena’s apartment, the smell of recent rain on hot pavement. He pulled on jeans and glanced at the open window. Night was a dark hand on the city, its skin not yet veined with gray. He looked down on Elena’s face and found it pale in the gloom, soft and creased with sleep. She lay unmoving in the bed they shared, her shoulder warm when he laid two fingers on it. Outside, the city grew as dark and still as it ever got, the quiet pause at the bottom of a breath. He moved hair from her face, and at her temple saw the thread of her life, steady and strong. He wanted to touch that pulse, to assure himself of its strength and endurance. An old man was dying, and when he was dead, they would come for Michael; and they would come for her, to make Michael hurt. Elena knew none of this, neither the things of which he was capable nor the danger he’d brought to her door; but Michael would go to hell to keep her safe.

    Go to hell.

    Come back burning.

    That was truth. That was real.

    He studied her face in the dim light, the smooth skin and full, parted lips, the black hair that ran in waves to her shoulder then broke like surf. She shifted in her sleep, and Michael felt a moment’s bleakness stir, a familiar certainty that it would get worse before it got better. Since he was a boy, violence had trailed him like a scent. Now, it had found her, too. For an instant, he thought again that he should leave her, just take his problems and disappear. He’d tried before, of course, not one time but a hundred. Yet, with each failed attempt, the certainty had only grown stronger.

    He could not live without her.

    He could make it work.

    Michael dragged fingers through his hair, and wondered again how it had come to this place. How had things gone so sour so fast?

    Moving to the window, he flicked the curtain enough to see down into the alley. The car was still there, black and low in the far shadows. Distant lamplight starred the windshield so that he could not see past the glass, but he knew at least one of the men who sat inside. His presence was a threat, and it angered Michael beyond words. He’d made his bargain with the old man, and expected the deal to be honored. Words still mattered to Michael.

    Promises.

    Rules of conduct.

    He looked a last time at Elena, then eased two silenced forty-fives from the place he kept them hidden. They were cool to the touch, familiar in his hands. He checked the loads and a frown bent his face as he turned from the woman he loved. He was supposed to be beyond this, supposed to be free. He thought once more of the man in the black car.

    Eight days ago they’d been brothers.

    Michael was at the door and almost out when Elena said his name. He paused for a moment, then lay the guns down and slipped back into the bedroom. She’d shifted onto her back and one arm was half-raised. Michael…

    The name was a smile on her lips, and he wondered if she was dreaming. She shifted and a warm-bed smell rose in the room. It carried the scent of her skin and of clean hair. It was the smell of home and the future, the promise of a different life. Michael hesitated, then took her hand as she said, Come back to bed.

    He looked into the kitchen, where he’d left the guns next to a can of yellow paint. Her voice had come as a whisper, and he knew that if he left, she would ride the slope back into sleep and not remember. He could slip outside and do the thing he did well. Killing them would likely escalate matters, and others would certainly take their place; but maybe the message would serve its purpose.

    And maybe not.

    His gaze traveled from Elena to the window. The night outside was just as black, its skin stretched tight. The car was still there, as it had been the night before and the night before that. They would not move against him until the old man died, but they wanted to rattle him. They wanted to push, and every part of Michael wanted to push back. He took a slow breath and thought of the man he desired to be. Elena was here, beside him, and violence had no place in the world they wished to make. But he was a realist first, so that when her fingers flexed on his, his thoughts were not just of hope, but of retribution and deterrence. An old poem rose in his mind.

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood …

    Michael stood at a crossroad, and it all came down to choice. Go back to bed or pick up the guns. Elena or the alley. The future or the past.

    Elena squeezed his hand again. Love me, baby, she said, and that’s what he chose.

    Life over death.

    The road less traveled.

    *   *   *

    The New York dawn came scorching hot. The guns were hidden and Elena still slept. Michael sat with his feet on the windowsill and stared down into the empty alleyway. They’d left at around five, backed from the alley and sounded a single blow of their horn as the sightlines collapsed. If their goal had been to wake or scare him, they’d failed miserably. He’d been out of the bed since three and felt great. Michael studied his fingertips, where flecks of yellow paint stained them.

    What are you smiling at, gorgeous? Her voice surprised him and he turned. Elena sat up in bed, languorous, and pushed long, black hair from her face. The sheet fell to her waist and Michael put his feet on the floor, embarrassed to be caught in a moment of such open joy.

    Just thinking of something, he said.

    Of me?

    Of course.

    Liar.

    She was smiling, skin still creased. Her back arched as she stretched, her small hands fisted white. You want coffee? Michael asked.

    She fell back against the pillows, made a contented sound, and said, You are a magnificent creature.

    Give me a minute. In the kitchen, Michael poured warm milk in a mug, then coffee. Half and half, the way she liked it. Café au lait. Very French. When he came back, he found her in one of his shirts, sleeves rolled loosely on her narrow arms. He handed her the coffee. Good dreams?

    She nodded and a glint sparked in her eyes. One in particular seemed very real.

    Did it?

    She sank into the bed and made the same contented noise. One of these days I’m actually going to wake up before you.

    Michael sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on the arch of her foot. Sure you will, baby. Elena was a late sleeper, and Michael rarely managed more than five hours a night. Her climbing from bed before him was a near impossibility. He watched her sip coffee, and reminded himself to notice the small things about her: the clear polish she preferred on her nails, the length of her legs, the tiny scar on her cheek that was her skin’s only imperfection. She had black eyebrows, eyes that were brown but could look like honey in a certain light. She was lithe and strong, a beautiful woman in every respect, but that’s not what Michael admired most. Elena took joy in the most insignificant things: how it felt to slip between cool sheets or taste new foods, the moment’s anticipation each time she opened the door to step outside. She had faith that each moment would be finer than the last. She believed that people were good, which made her a dash of color in a world blown white.

    She sipped again, and Michael saw the exact moment she noticed the paint on his hands. A small crease appeared between her brows. The cup came away from her lips. Did you paint it already?

    She tried to sound angry but failed, and as he shrugged an answer to the question he could not keep the smile from touching every part of his face. She’d envisioned them painting it together—laughter, spilled paint—but Michael couldn’t help it. Too excited, he said, and thought of the fresh yellow paint on the walls of the tiny room down the hall. They called it a second bedroom, but it was not much larger than a walk-in closet. A high, narrow window was paned with rippled glass. Afternoon light would make the yellow glow like gold.

    She put the coffee down and pushed back against the bare wall behind her. Her knees tented the sheet, and she said, Come back to bed. I’ll make you breakfast.

    Too late. Michael rose and went back into the kitchen. He had flowers in a small vase. The fruit was already cut, juice poured. He added fresh pastry and carried in the tray.

    Breakfast in bed?

    Michael hesitated, almost overwhelmed. Happy Mother’s Day, he finally managed.

    It’s not… She paused, and then got it.

    Yesterday, she’d told him she was pregnant.

    Eleven weeks.

    *   *   *

    They stayed in bed for most of the morning—reading, talking—then Michael walked Elena to work in time to get ready for the lunch crowd. She wore a small black dress that accented her tan skin and dark eyes. In heels, she stood five-seven and moved like a dancer, so elegant that beside her Michael looked angular and rough, out of place in jeans, heavy boots, and a worn T-shirt. But this was how Elena knew him: rough and poor, an interrupted student still hoping for a way back to school.

    That was the lie that started everything.

    They’d met seven months ago on a corner near NYU. Dressed to blend in and carrying heavy, Michael was on a job and had no business talking to pretty women, but when the wind took her scarf, he caught it on instinct and gave it back with a flourish that surprised him. Even now, he had no idea where it came from, that sudden lightness, but she laughed at the moment, and when he asked, she gave him her name.

    Carmen Elena Del Portal.

    Call me Elena.

    She’d said it with amusement on her lips and a fire in her eyes. He remembered dry fingers and frank appraisal in her glance, an accent that bordered on Spanish. She’d tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her right ear and waited with a reckless smile for Michael to offer his name in return. He almost left, but did not. It was the warmth in her, the utter lack of fear or doubt. So, at two fifteen on a Tuesday, against everything he’d ever been taught, Michael gave her his name.

    His real one.

    The scarf was silk, and very light to land with such force on two lives. It led to coffee, then more, until emotion came in its wildness, and the coming found him unprepared. Now here he was, in love with a woman who thought she knew him, but did not. Michael was trying to change, but killing was easy. And quitting was hard.

    Halfway to work, she took his hand. Boy or girl?

    What? It was the kind of thing normal people asked, and Michael was dumbfounded by the question. He stopped walking, so that people veered around them. She tilted her head.

    Do you hope it’s a boy or a girl?

    Her eyes shone with the kind of contentment he’d only read about in books; and looking at her then was like looking at her on the first day they’d met, only more so. The air held the same blue charge, the same sense of light and purpose. When Michael spoke, the words came from the deepest part of him. Will you marry me?

    She laughed. Just like that?

    Yes.

    She put a palm on Michael’s cheek, and the laughter dwindled. No, Michael. I won’t marry you.

    Because?

    Because you’re asking me for the wrong reasons. And because we have time. She kissed him. Lots of time.

    That’s where she was wrong.

    *   *   *

    Elena worked as the hostess for an expensive restaurant called Chez Pascal. She was beautiful, spoke three languages, and at her request, the owner had hired Michael, eight days ago, to wash dishes. Michael told her that he’d lost his other job, that he needed to fill the days before he found a new one or the student loan finally came through, but there was no other job, no student loan, just two more lies in a sea of thousands. But Michael needed to be there, for while no one would dare touch him while the old man breathed, Elena was under no such protection. They’d kill her for the fun of it.

    Two blocks from the restaurant, Michael said, Have you told your family?

    That I’m pregnant?

    Yes.

    No. Emotion colored her voice—sadness and something dark. Michael knew that Elena had family in Spain, but she rarely spoke of them. She had no photographs, no letters. Someone had called once, but Elena hung up when Michael gave her the phone; the next day, she changed the number. Michael never pushed for answers, not about family or the past. They walked in silence for several minutes. A block later, she took his hand. Kiss me, she said, and Michael did. When it was done, Elena said, You’re my family.

    At the restaurant door, a blue awning offered narrow shade. Michael was slightly in front, so he saw the damage to the door in time to turn Elena before she saw it, too. But even with his back to the door, the image stayed in his mind: splintered wood, shards of white that rose from the mahogany stain. The grouping was head-high and tight, four bullet holes in a three-inch circle, and Michael could see how it went down. A black car at the curb, gun silenced. From Elena’s apartment, the drive was less than six minutes, so it probably happened just after five this morning. Empty streets. Nobody around. Small caliber, Michael guessed, something light and accurate. A twenty-two, maybe a twenty-five. He leaned against the door and felt splinters through his shirt, a cold rage behind his eyes. He took Elena’s hand and said, If I asked you to move away from New York, would you do it?

    My job is here. Our lives…

    If I had to go, he tried again, would you come with me?

    This is our home. This is where I want to raise our child… She stopped, and understanding moved in her face. Lots of people raise babies in the city…

    She knew of his distrust for the city, and he looked away because the weight of lies was becoming too much. He could stay here and risk the war that was coming, or he could share the truth and lose her. Listen, he said, I’m going to be late today. Tell Paul for me. Paul owned the restaurant. He parked in the alley, and had probably not seen the door.

    You’re not coming in?

    I can’t right now.

    I got you this job, Michael. A spark of rare anger.

    Michael showed the palm of his hand, and said, May I have your keys?

    Unhappy, she gave him the set Paul let her use. He opened the restaurant door and held it for her. Where are you going? she asked.

    Her face was upturned and still angry. Michael wanted to touch her cheek and say that he would kill or die to keep her safe. That he would burn the city down. I’ll be back, he told her. Just stay in the restaurant.

    You’re being very mysterious.

    I have to do something, he replied. For the baby.

    Really?

    He placed his hand on the plane of her stomach and pictured the many violent ways this day could end. Really, he said.

    And that was truth.

    CHAPTER TWO

    There comes a time. Michael did not know how long the words had been there, but they ran through his head as he walked, a refrain timed to the sound of his shoes on concrete. He’d tried to do it right and respectful. He’d tried to be nice.

    But there comes a time.

    Michael hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in Alphabet City. When they arrived, he pushed a fifty through the glass and told the man to wait.

    Michael’s apartment was a third-floor walk-up with two bedrooms, bars on the windows, and a reinforced steel door. Elena had never been there, and he planned to keep it that way. The second bedroom closet held rifles and handguns, body armor, and stacks of cash. There was a long shelf of knives and edged projectiles, neat coils of shiny wire. Things that might be difficult to explain.

    Michael disengaged the alarm and crossed the large living room. Tall windows let in midday light, but he ignored the things it touched: the wall of books, the fine furnishings and original art. He made for the short hall at the back, walked past the room that held his gear and into the bedroom beyond. The bed was large, but clean-lined and spartan, and on the dresser sat the only photograph he owned. Pressed between glass, faded and cracked, the picture was of two boys in a snowy field splotched with mud. Not sure that he would ever see the apartment again, Michael slipped the photograph from its frame and carried it with him to the closet. It was the only thing he owned that really mattered.

    At the closet door, Michael stripped out of his clothes and left them in a heap. From a long cedar rack he selected a pair of hand-tooled English shoes, then a custom suit from a row of twenty. The suit was English, too, as were the shirts. He slipped into a cream-colored one and a tie dark enough to mirror the occasion of his visit. The old man appreciated a good suit. He considered it a matter of respect, and so did Michael. He put the photograph in the jacket’s inside pocket, then returned to the cab, where he gave the driver another address. They rode north and east to where the river touched the upper fifties. If you were rich and wanted privacy, Sutton Place was a good area to call home. Celebrities and politicians lived there, and no one looked twice at long cars with mirrored glass. The old man owned the entire building in which he planned to die, and while the FBI undoubtedly knew who lived in the five-story town house with a view of the river, none of the neighbors had a clue; that was the point. After a life in the press and in the courts, after three incarcerations, forty-seven years of persecution, and public scorn, the old man wanted to die in peace.

    Michael didn’t blame him.

    He had the cabbie drive by the residence, then stop a full block north, near the defunct Sixtieth Street heliport. The space was a dog run now, and when Michael stepped from the cab he saw well-dressed women chatting while small dogs played. One of the women saw him and said something to her friends, so that all three turned as Michael paid off the cab. Michael nodded, then turned to walk twice past the house, once moving south, then coming back north. A portico drive led to private parking in the back. When he stopped before the door, he stood with his palms up, eyes moving between the security cameras mounted at the corners and above the main door. Someone moved behind a third-floor window. Curtains stirred at the ground level, too.

    Eventually, Michael knocked, and after a long minute the door swung open to reveal four men. Two were low-level soldiers whose names Michael had never bothered to learn. In their twenties, they wore dark pants and shirts that shone like silk under their suit jackets. One chewed gum, and both stood with fingers inside their coats, as if Michael needed to be told they carried. Under slicked hair their faces were lean and frightened. They’d heard stories of Michael, of the things he’d done. He was a fighter and a killer, a prince of the street so widely feared he rarely had to kill anymore. His presence alone was sufficient. His name. The threat of his name.

    The third man was a stranger, young and calm and lean, but the fourth, Michael knew well.

    Hello, Jimmy.

    Jimmy stood an inch taller than Michael, but weighed thirty pounds less, narrow-shouldered and thin to the point of desiccation. Dapper in bottle-green pants and a brushed velvet coat, he was forty-eight years old, balding on top and vain enough to care. Michael knew from long acquaintance that his arms and chest carried more than a dozen scars. Knife wounds. Bite marks. Bullet holes. Eighteen years ago, he’d shown Michael things that would make a grown man faint. Michael was fifteen years old at the time, hard but not cruel; and Jimmy was all about cruel. He was about message and fear, a hard-core, brutal sadist who even now was the most dangerous man Michael had ever known.

    May I come in? Michael asked.

    I’m thinking.

    Well, think faster.

    Jimmy was a complicated man, equal parts appetite, ego, and self-preservation. He respected Michael, but didn’t like him. Jimmy was a butcher, Michael a surgeon. The difference caused problems. It was an ego thing. Matters of principle.

    Their gazes held for long seconds, then Jimmy said, Whatever.

    He moved back a pace and Michael stepped into the dim interior. The entry hall was massive, with white and black marble floors and a red-carpeted stairway that curved up both sides of the room before meeting on a landing twelve feet higher. A billiards room filled the space to Michael’s right, and he could see through into the formal parlor, the small study beyond. He sensed movement deeper in the house, saw food on a long table, other men, other guns, and Michael knew then that they were marking time, waiting in stillness for the old man to die.

    I’d like to see him, Jimmy.

    He can’t save you.

    No one’s asking.

    Jimmy shook his head. I’m disappointed in you, Michael. All these years, all the things you’ve been given. Opportunity. Skills. Respect. You were nothing when we found you.

    You don’t have the right to feel that way, Jimmy.

    I have every right.

    He was angry and barely hiding it. Michael tilted his head to see the men behind him, then looked back at Jimmy. The opportunity came from the old man, not you; the respect I earned on my own. Some of the skills may have started with you, but that’s all it was, a start. I’ve made my own way since then.

    And yet, I helped choose you.

    For good reasons.

    Are you really so arrogant?

    Are you?

    The silence held until Jimmy blinked. Michael said, I want to see him.

    Do you still think you have that right?

    Step back, Jimmy.

    Jimmy shrugged, half-smiling, then moved back and allowed Michael to enter all the way. In the light of the chandelier, Michael saw how wired Jimmy looked, how taut. His dark eyes pulled in light, and there was emptiness there, the same vacuum-behind-glass look Michael had seen so many times. It was the look he got before people died.

    The old man released me, Jimmy. He gave standing orders that I was to be left alone. I’d say I still have the right to see him.

    Jimmy blinked, and the look faded. Tell Stevan that.

    Stevan was thirty-six years old, with degrees from Columbia and Harvard, not because he cared about the education, but because he craved respectability in a city that knew his name too well. The old man’s only son, he and Michael had been friends once—brothers—but that bridge was burnt to smoke and ruin. Eight days had passed since Michael quit the life. One week and a day. A world of change.

    How is my brother? Michael masked the rage with sarcasm. Stevan drove a black Audi, and Michael knew for a fact that he kept a twenty-five in the glove compartment.

    How’s Stevan? Jimmy mimicked the question, rolling the words on his tongue as if tasting them. His brother’s a traitor and his father is dying. How do you think he is?

    I think he’s making mistakes.

    I won’t let that happen.

    Where was he at five o’clock this morning?

    Jimmy rolled his shoulders, turned his lips down. Stevan has offered to forgive you, Michael—how many times, now? Three times? Four? All you have to do is repent. Come back to us.

    Things have changed. I want out.

    Then you leave him no choice.

    Michael pictured the bullet holes in the door of Chez Pascal. Two double-taps. Head height. Nothing personal, right?

    Exactly.

    And the wishes of his father? The man who built this from nothing? Who built you from nothing? What about him?

    The son is not the father.

    A moment’s irony touched his eyes. At fifteen, the old man had made Michael Jimmy’s student, and in that capacity he became a mirror to Jimmy’s vanity, something Jimmy could point to and say, Look at this instrument I’ve made. The old man’s business had thrived with the two of them on the street, for as effective as Jimmy had been by himself, it was nothing compared to what they’d done together. They’d killed their way from one river to the other, north to south and over into Jersey. Russian mob. Serbians. Italians. It didn’t matter. If somebody crossed the old man, they took him down. But after all these years, that’s all Michael was to Jimmy, a weapon.

    Disposable.

    Michael looked from Jimmy to the man he’d never met. He stood three feet behind Jimmy’s right shoulder, a spare man in linen pants and a golf shirt tight enough to show straps of lean, hard muscle. Who’s he? Michael asked.

    Your replacement.

    Michael felt a pang that was neither loss nor hurt, but one more broken strand. He looked the man over and noticed small things he’d missed. Fine white scars on both forearms, one finger that lacked a nail. The man stood six feet tall, and looked vaguely Slavic, with wide-spaced eyes and broad planes of cheekbone. Michael shrugged once, and then dismissed him. I would never turn on people who trust me, he said to Jimmy.

    No? How long have you been with this woman of yours? Three months? A year?

    What does it matter? It’s personal.

    It matters because you only told us about her eight days ago. You kept her a secret, and keeping secrets from us is one step away from spilling ours. It’s two sides of the same coin. Secrets. Lack of trust. Priorities.

    I said I would never turn.

    And yet, you made your choice.

    So did the old man. When he let me go.

    Maybe the old man’s gone soft.

    That was Michael’s replacement—a crisp voice with a slight accent—and Michael could not believe the disrespect, here in the man’s own house. He held the man’s Slavic gaze, then stared hard at Jimmy and waited for him to meet his eyes. I’ve seen you kill a man for less, Michael said.

    Jimmy picked daintily at the nail of his smallest finger, then said, Maybe I don’t disagree.

    I want to see him. Michael’s voice grated. Every man here owed his life to the old man. What they had. Who they were. Honor the old man and the old man honors you. That’s the way it was done, old school and proper.

    In some ways, Jimmy agreed. Nobody walks away, Michael. That’s how it’s always been. The old man was wrong to tell you that you could.

    He’s the boss.

    For now.

    Michael’s heart beat twice as he considered that. You were in the car last night. With Stevan.

    Pretty night for a drive…

    You bastard.

    Jimmy saw the anger and rolled onto the balls of his feet. It had long been a question between them, who could take who. Michael watched the glint come into Jimmy’s eyes, the cold and narrow smile. He wanted it, was eager; and Michael knew, then, that there would be no easy out, no graceful exit from a life he no longer desired. For too many people, the matter was personal.

    Fingers tightened on holstered weapons and the moment stretched; but before it broke, there was movement on the stairs, a nurse on the landing. In her forties, she looked like a smaller version of Jimmy, but vaguely female. When Jimmy turned and lifted his chin, she said, He wants to know who’s here.

    I’ll be right there, Jimmy told her, and cold touched his face when he looked back at Michael. Stay here. He motioned to the young Slavic man. Watch him.

    Where’s Stevan? Michael demanded.

    Jimmy offered a second slit of a smile, but otherwise ignored the question. He mounted the stairs on light feet, and when he came back down, he said, He wants to see you. Michael moved for the stairs, but Jimmy stopped him. Not yet. He twisted a finger like he was stirring tea, so Michael lifted his arms, and let the man pat him down. He checked Michael’s legs to the groin, his arms to the wrist. He smoothed fabric over Michael’s chest and back, then fingered the collars of his jacket and shirt.

    None of this is necessary, Michael said.

    Jimmy’s gaze moved from low to high, and the gaze lingered. I don’t know you anymore.

    Maybe you never did.

    A hand flapped on his wrist. Enough. Go. Up.

    On the second floor Michael saw a nursing station filled with monitors tinted green. Cables snaked down the stairs and under the table that held the equipment. The nurse sat with her feet flat on the floor, eyes glued to the monitors. In a small room behind her, an iron-haired priest sat in a comfortable chair, eyes slightly closed, fingers crossed in his lap. He wore shined shoes and black clothing with a white collar at the throat. When the nurse looked up, Michael asked, Are we that close?

    She glanced at Jimmy, who nodded in permission. We’ve resuscitated him twice, she said.

    What? Michael’s anger flared. The old man wanted to die. Resuscitating him was a cruelty. Why? Michael demanded. Why would you put him through that?

    She glanced at Jimmy. The son—

    It’s not up to the son! He made his wishes plain. He’s ready.

    The nurse raised her hands and looked horrified. I can only—

    Michael cut her off. How bad is the pain?

    The morphine can barely touch it.

    Can you give him more?

    More would kill him.

    Is he lucid?

    In and out.

    Michael stared at the priest, who stared back, terrified. How long does he have?

    Hours. Weeks. Father William has been here for five days.

    I want to see him. Without waiting for a response, Michael moved to the next landing and stopped beside broad, double doors. Jimmy leaned a shoulder against the frame and flicked a piece of lint from his velvet jacket. Michael said, It’s wrong, Jimmy. He wants to die.

    It’s Stevan’s choice. Let it go.

    And if I can’t?

    Jimmy shrugged.

    I’m not your enemy, Michael said. I just want out.

    Jimmy examined his other sleeve. There’s only one way out, and you know it. When the old man dies, so do you. Either that or you convince us to trust you again.

    That’s two ways.

    He shook his head. One is a way out, one is a way back in. Different animals.

    Convince you, how?

    He blinked a lizard’s blink. Kill the woman.

    Elena’s pregnant.

    Listen. Jimmy leaned closer. I understand you have this misplaced sense of responsibility, but the old man won’t live much longer. He gestured, taking in the house, the men below, then lowered his voice. Stevan can’t hold this together. He’s weak, sentimental. He doesn’t have what we have. He let that sink in, then said, You can be my number two. I’ll give you a percentage, free reign on the street.

    Michael shook his head, but Jimmy didn’t stop.

    People might challenge me alone, but no one would risk the two of us—

    I don’t want it.

    We all know how the old man feels about you. The street would accept it. The men. We could do this together.

    She’s pregnant, Jimmy.

    Jimmy’s eyes drooped. That’s not my problem.

    I just want out.

    "There is no out."

    I don’t want to kill you.

    Jimmy put his hand on the knob. You think you can?

    He pushed the door wide, grinned.

    And Michael went in to see the old man.

    CHAPTER THREE

    Michael stepped in and Jimmy left him alone with the dying man who’d all but saved his life. A Persian rug stretched to far windows and a coffered ceiling rose fifteen feet above the floor. No lamps burned, and all the curtains but one were drawn, so that pale light ghosted in to touch a chair, the bed, and the wasted man in it. The space was long, narrow, and the gloom made it feel hollow. Michael had spent countless hours in the room—long months as the old man failed—but eight days had passed since his last visit, and change lay like a pall. Airless and overly warm, the room smelled of cancer and pain, of an old man dying.

    He crossed the room, steps loud on wood, then soft when he hit the rug. The room looked the same except for a six-foot-tall cross that hung on the wall. It was made of smooth, dark wood and looked very old. Michael had never seen it before, but put it out of his mind as he stopped by the narrow bed and looked down at the only man he’d ever loved. Fluids ran into the old man’s veins through needles slipped under his skin. The robe he wore was one Michael had given him eight years ago, and in it he looked as light and weak as a starved child. His head was a death’s-head, with bones that were too prominent and veins that showed like thread through wax. Blue-black skin circled his eyes. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, and Michael wondered if the pain, ever-present, had become insidious enough to find him even as he slept.

    He stood for long seconds, bereft, then took the man’s hand, sat in the chair, and studied the cross on the wall. The old man did not have a religious bone in his body, but his son professed to believe. In spite of his sins, and there were many, Stevan attended mass every week, a conflicted man twined in self-deception. He feared God, yet was too weak to sacrifice the things violence brought, the money and power, the pleasures of pale-faced models and society widows who found his name and good looks too compelling to resist. Stevan loved the notoriety, yet agonized over his father’s lack of contrition; it was for this reason, Michael suspected, that the old man had been resuscitated twice. Stevan feared that his father, unrepentant, would go to hell. Michael marveled at the depth of such hypocrisy. Actions had consequence; choice came with cost. The old man knew exactly who he was, and so did Michael.

    He lifted a framed photograph from the table near the bed. Taken a decade and half earlier, it showed him with the old man. Michael was sixteen, broad-shouldered but skinny in a suit that could not hide the fact. He leaned against the hood of a car, laughing, the old man’s arm around his neck. He was laughing, too. The car against which they leaned had been a birthday present: a 1967 Corvette, a classic.

    Michael put the photo where the old man could find it, then stood and walked to the wall of books on the north side. The shelves ran the length of the room and held a collection the man had been working on for over thirty years. They shared a love of the classics, and many of the books were first editions, including several by Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald. Michael removed The Old Man and the Sea, then sat back down.

    Through the window, he saw the river and then Queens. The old man had been born there to a prostitute with no interest beyond folding money and the next bottle it could buy. Shut up for years in a basement tenement, he’d been left alone for days at a time, unwashed and half-starved until he was orphaned at age seven. He told Michael once that he’d never known a childhood harder than his until their paths crossed. That fact made them family, he said. Because no one else could understand the loneliness they’d known, the fear. He said it gave them clarity, made them strong. And Stevan hated Michael for that, for having that bond with his father.

    But Michael cherished it, not just because he was so otherwise alone in the world, but because the similarities did make a difference; because not even Stevan grasped the scope of deprivation that defined his father’s early days. He did not know that the scars on the old man’s feet came from rat bites in the crib, or that his missing fingers came from frostbite in the days before his mother died. The old man spoke of those things only to Michael, because only Michael could understand. He was the only one who knew the full story, the only person aware that the old man had chosen this room for the view, so that his last earthly sight would be the place from which he’d dragged himself one brutal day at a time. Michael found an undeniable elegance in this. The tenement house that almost killed the man was a river’s breadth away, and a lifetime apart.

    The sun moved higher and light slipped from the old man’s face. So sunken were his eyes that Michael missed the moment they opened. One instant they were hidden, and the next they were simply there, pinched and deep and shot with red. Stevan?

    It’s Michael.

    The frail chest rose and fell in small, desperate pants and Michael saw pain bite deeper. Skin gathered at the corners of the old man’s eyes and his brows compressed at the center. Michael… His mouth worked. Something glinted in the sun that still touched his neck, and Michael realized that he was crying. Please…

    Michael turned his face away from the thing he was being asked to do. For months, now, the old man had begged to die, so eager was the pain. But Stevan had refused. Stevan. His son. So the old man had suffered as Michael watched the illness take him down. Weeks stretched to months, and the old man had begged.

    God, how he had begged.

    Then, eight days ago, Michael had told him about Elena. He explained that life had become more than the job, that he wanted out, a normal life. And listening, his pain-filled eyes so very intent, the old man had nodded as hard as such a sick man could. He said he understood just how precious

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