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Rosa admired herself in the mirror, in her room at the Holiday Inn Hasbrouck Heights-Meadowlands.

The Setchu dress looked even better on her than she’d hoped.

The clothes she’d left home in were now stuffed in the trash, along with her old shoes and the two duffel bags.

Her money and the other items she’d bought after she’d left her brother were in a new suitcase, sitting by the door.

She did a final twirl, then grabbed her suitcase and headed downstairs.

At seven p.m.

on the dot, a sedan picked her up at the front entrance and drove across the street to Teterboro Airport.

She had a seat booked with an airline company that specialized in luxury flights on small jets, each flight boasting no more than twelve passengers.

The company had a special service they did not advertise.

For an extra fee, one could have their luggage loaded without a security check.

It was just the perk she needed to get her newfound wealth out of the country without anyone asking questions.

The car took her directly to the plane, where a passport and immigration officer met her after she boarded.

She’d used a lot of her own money for her false passport but was still nervous she’d be found out, until the official stamped the booklet, handed it back, and left.

She turned to find her seat and realized there was no one else in the cabin.

There was still thirty minutes before they were scheduled to leave.

Perhaps showing up at the last minute was de rigueur for the luxury jet set.

She settled into her seat and was looking out the window when she heard someone else enter the cabin.

So much for the fantasy of being the only passenger.

She checked the time.

Six minutes and they should be on their way.

Another person boarded the plane.

She looked over this time, but he was turned away from her and appeared to be closing the door.

Perhaps he was the flight attendant or even the pilot, though his outfit looked more like a business suit than a uniform.

She looked out the window again and daydreamed about what her new life would be like.

“Good evening, Miss Gennaro.”

She turned, thinking it was the flight attendant, then realized he had used her real name, not the one from her passport.

The moment she saw him, she understood why.

“Do I need to introduce myself? Or do you know my name?”

Barely above a whisper, she said, “You’re Johnny Fratelli.”

“Oh, good. We don’t have to worry about that, then.” He motioned to the seat across the aisle.

“May I?”

He sat without waiting for her response.

“I have a few questions for you,” he said.

“How you answer them will determine what happens to you next.”

“H-how did you find me?”

“That would be my friend Stone’s department.” He motioned toward the seats in front and the man who’d been with Fratelli in the subway station stood up and walked down the aisle to join them.

“The exact method is classified, I’m afraid,” Stone said.

“I will say, once we knew where you were, it was simply a matter of a few calls to figure out what you were up to.” He leaned past her and pointed out her window.

“You see that hangar over there?”

She looked out and wasn’t sure which building he meant, but she nodded anyway.

“That’s my hangar. And the one next to it?”

He pointed again and she nodded again.

“That hangar belongs to one of the top three security companies in the world, Strategic Services, on whose board of directors I happen to serve. Among other things, Strategic Services is responsible for security for this plane and the company it belongs to. That is how we knew where you were.”

She gulped.

“I see.”

“I assume you know why we tracked you down,” Fratelli said.

“Because of the money my brother made you pay him.”

“Precisely, though we all know that money is now in your suitcase.”

“I-I-I had nothing to do with what he did,” she said quickly.

“I didn’t even know about it until a couple days ago. I just…just want to screw him over.”

“Your brother, you mean,” Stone said.

“Yes. I-I-I wanted him to suffer.”

“Mission accomplished, I’d say.”

“Very much so,” Fratelli said.

Her brow wrinkled.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your brother is dead.”

She stared at him.

“What?”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Stone said.

“You killed him?”

“Oh, no,” Jack said.

“Not us.”

“Truthfully, we’re not sure exactly who did,” Stone said.

“But it was either Pinkie Ramirez or one of his men.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth as a laugh escaped her lips.

“That’s funny?” Fratelli asked.

“I-I didn’t expect Ramirez would have him killed.”

“You don’t seem surprised that he was there.”

“I, um, I kind of tipped him off that Ricky was up to something he should know about.”

“That actually clears up a lot of questions,” Stone said.

“Questions?”

“It’s hard to know what happened when everyone involved is dead.”

“What?”

“Ramirez, his buddy, Miguel, and a couple of his men,” Stone said.

“Your brother did quite a bit of damage before he gave up the ghost.”

“Here’s the thing, Miss Gennaro,” Fratelli said.

“The mess at your brother’s house has left me unsatisfied. There were a few things I needed him to tell me, but the ability to do that has been taken from me. My only hope now lies entirely with you.”

“Me?”

“If you can tell me what I want to know and can satisfy me with the knowledge that you had nothing to do with harming my family and friends, I’m prepared to let you fly to Mexico on this very plane tonight. I will even let you keep two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of my money.”

“If you can’t do either of those things,” Stone said, “I have the New York City commissioner of police on speed dial, and I’m sure he’d love to talk with you.”

She looked between the two men, licked her lips, then said, “What do you need to know?”

Saturday morning, Brady Carter groaned as he regained consciousness.

The last thing he remembered was walking home from the bar around the corner from his apartment building.

Had he passed out on his way home?

He’d had more than a few drinks, so it wouldn’t be completely surprising.

He’d found out that Ricky Gennaro had been killed, dashing Carter’s dreams of the reward he’d been assuming he’d get.

He pried his eyes open only to find that his vision was hampered by a piece of cloth lying across his face.

He attempted to raise a hand to move it, but it was stuck behind his back and his wrists seemed to be tied together.

“What the hell?”

“Good. You’re awake.”

Carter jumped at the sound of the voice and startled again when the cloth was pulled off his head.

He was in the back of what appeared to be a panel van, and crouched in front of him was none other than Johnny Fratelli.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered.

“I have one question for you,” Fratelli said.

“What happens next depends on your answer. What do you think Ricky Gennaro wanted to do when he found me?”

“W-what?”

“I’m not going to repeat the question.”

“Uh…uh, I don’t know. Talk to you, I guess. He never said what he wanted you for.”

Fratelli locked onto Carter’s eyes and stared as if he were reading Carter’s soul.

“I swear,” Carter said.

“I have no clue why he wanted you.”

“And yet you thought it was okay to tell him you saw me?”

That was two questions, but Carter didn’t think he should point that out.

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me. Please.”

“What I want is for you to never come within one hundred miles of where I am. If you do, I will end you. Do you understand?”

Carter nodded.

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good.”

Fratelli raised a syringe Carter hadn’t realized he was holding and stuck the needle into Carter’s neck.

The next time Carter woke, there was no cloth over his face.

In fact, he had no clothes on at all.

And he was in the middle of a desert with no roads in sight.

Murray Hatcher locked the back door of his auto repair garage and walked over to his classic ’69 Mustang.

It had been a long but satisfying day.

He’d accepted a couple new hit jobs and had leads on a few others.

It was a big improvement over what his mood had been for the last few weeks.

He’d been pissed off at Gennaro for getting himself offed in a shoot-out with Pinkie Ramirez before Gennaro had paid Murray the rest of the money he’d promised him for causing the accident that put that Coulter lady in the hospital.

“To hell with that guy,” Murray said as he climbed behind the wheel.

“He got what he deserved.”

Murray stuck the key into the ignition and turned it.

The explosion could be heard from ten blocks away.

Those closer, such as Jack Coulter, who was just down the street, also witnessed the ball of fire that propelled the hood of the Mustang a hundred feet into the air.

It turned out Murray Hatcher got what he deserved, too.