As he traveled back east, Ambruzzo thought of two things: the canary yellow shoes of Mrs. Fabrizio, waiting for him in his closet at home, and Louie Morona’s feet with the toes cut off— how demure they had seemed.

He began to wear suits. Double-breasted, with matching vests and wide ties. Nonna told him he looked handsome. She was pleased to have him home with her again. In the morning Ambruzzo tended the mixers and the ovens. Nonna worked till noon, then closed for lunch: warm bread, tomatoes, and hard strong cheese. In the afternoons she gossiped and ran the cash register, and Ambruzzo met Spordonza at the Sons of Italy.

Martin told him his new assignment over cappuccinos and a bag of M&M’s. He separated the candies into piles: dark brown, light brown, orange, yellow, and green. Each color designating a level of power. Dark brown were soldiers. Yellow, consiglieri. Martin slid a green candy across the table and Ambruzzo knew who was next: Rocco Briolli.

Rocco had been the head of the Briolli family for twenty-five years, controlling the flow, distribution, and sale of all produce in New York City. Eight million people needed their fruits and vegetables. Martin Spordonza wanted his share of the business.

Ambruzzo spent a month preparing. He tracked Briolli’s movements, his routines and pastimes, and found the perfect opening: a benefit for the restoration of North American mammal dioramas at the Museum of Natural History. Briolli, an amateur taxidermist, enjoyed strolling through the re-created scenes. He was a dedicated sponsor, on the board of trustees, and personally sent out the invitations.

A band was set in front of the mountain lions. The bar next to the wapiti. Hors d’oeuvres circulated in the small mammals corridor by the collared peccary and the red-backed vole. Ambruzzo wore a tuxedo. He sat on a bench in front of the bison. There were five of them behind the glass. Their coats looked dusty; the painted background depicting the rest of the herd was cracked and yellowing with age. Ambuzzo was amazed at their size and, despite their circumstances, the power they projected.

Yesterday he secretly installed an automatic weapon inside the head of the Alaskan brown bear, armed with a remote-control release. The control was now in his left jacket pocket, and as Rocco Briolli paused in front of the glass to point out the detailing that needed some work—the lips should be repainted, the bear was missing several claws—Ambruzzo sprayed him with a quick, short burst of fire.