Pietro beamed his approval and left the room.

Stone started to take a seat next to the fire.

“Not there,” Dino said. “That’s the old man’s perch. He’d have Pete cut your throat on the way out.”

Stone chose another chair. “The man obviously doesn’t like to be called Pete, Dino; why do you do that?”

Dino sat down. “Twenty years ago, he was Little Pete Drago, a button man for the boys on Mulberry Street. He’s probably got twenty notches on his piece, and I don’t want him to forget it.”

“Twenty years? You certainly know how to hold a grudge, Dino.”

“I’m Italian; it’s what we do.”

Pietro returned with the drinks. “Mrs. Bacchetti is dressing; Mr. Bianchi is in the garden with Ben and will join you shortly,” he said.

“Thanks, Pete,” Dino replied, sipping his scotch.

Pietro left the room and closed the door behind him.

“Be sure you don’t make any sudden moves in Eduardo’s direction,” Dino said to Stone, “or Pete’ll slip a dagger between your ribs before you know what’s happening.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The door opened, and two women entered the room. First, came Mary Ann, and she was followed by a woman so beautiful that Stone was transfixed. It took him a moment to get to his feet.

Mary Ann came over and planted a kiss on Stone’s cheek. “Hey, baby,” she whispered, then she turned and indicated her companion. “Stone, this is my sister Rosaria; in the family we call her Dolce. Sweetie, this is our friend Stone Barrington.”

Dolce Bianchi glided across the room and placed her hand in Stone’s. She was half a head taller than Mary Ann and clad in a perfectly cut black dress that accentuated her full breasts and her narrow hips. “Hello, Stone,” she said in a husky voice.

Stone was nearly unable to speak. “Hello,” he finally managed to mumble. The woman looked like a Sicilian princess, he thought. Her hair fell in black waves to her shoulders, and she wore a single piece of jewelry, a diamond necklace that looked like something out of Harry Winston’s window.

Before anyone could say anything else, Eduardo Bianchi entered the room. He came in so silently, almost stealthily, that Stone did not at first notice him. When he did, he was being greeted by a tall, handsome man, apparently around fifty years of age, with iron gray hair, white at the temples, and wearing a double-breasted, chalk-striped suit that had never known a wrinkle.

“How do you do, Mr. Barrington? I am Eduardo Bianchi.” The voice was well modulated, cultured, accentless.

“How do you do, Mr. Bianchi?” Stone thought that the man could host Masterpiece Theater.

“Dino,” Bianchi said, “you may wish to say good night to Ben; he’s in his room.”

Dino left the room.