Title: Per Fare Una Pace Fragile (To Make a Fragile Peace)

Author: Scribe

Fandom: The Godfather

Pairing: Sam/Wilmer

Series/Sequel: Sicilian Slash Series

Feedback: poet_77665@yahoo.com

Website: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles

Poetic series at http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, neither do I make any profit from this venture.

Summary: The Don is attacked. Michael, frightened, reaches out to a protector from his past.

Notes: With her gracious permission, I have borrowed Sam and Wilmer from Tinneantoo's excellent Maltese Falcon slash, What Dreams Are Made Of, to mingle in my Sicilian Slash universe. I highly recommend reading it at the WWOMB, or in the allslash or makebelieve list archives. She's an unbelievably talented writer.

This story takes place about twenty years after the incidents in What Dreams Are Made Of, about nine years after the events of Segretti Della Famiglia, and not quite a year after Anzechi Voi. Sangue Proteggi Sangue took place between Anzechi Voi and this one. Reading the others is not strictly necessary to understand this story, but it will add to it. They can be found in the archives of my yahoogroup, Scibe's Scribbles. If you need the url, drop me a line.

This is a little different in the Sicilian Slash Series, more ambitious. All the others were one parters, but this one has a little grander scope. Still, it shouldn't be more than two or three parts, not my usual epic. :)

Warnings: m/m sex

Rating: NC-17

Per Fare Una Pace Fragile (To Make a Fragile Peace)

by Scribe

Don Vito Corleone sighed as he pushed himself away from his desk. His eyes fell on the picture taped to his office door. It was in garish crayon, crudely but enthusiastically drawn, and it showed a lopsided Christmas tree, surrounded by brightly wrapped packages. There was also a meticulously drawn bicycle that was pictured almost as large as the tree. Vito shook his head fondly.

Little Rose Mary, his grand-daughter was not very subtle in her hints. She was ready to ride like a
'big girl', and Sonny's offer to just take the training wheels off her old bicycle had been met with
scorn. She'd have her new bike, of course she would. Of course, that meant that they'd have to get one for her twin sister, too...

Dano, the office manager entered, saw him pushed back from his desk, and said, "Eh, leaving early, Don Corleone? Christmas shopping?"

Vito hadn't really been considering leaving, but now that it had been suggested, it sounded good. "Yeah, Dano. No Christmas shopping. My wife would make my life miserable if I picked out things for the grandkids without her, but an early day sounds good."

He got up and went toward the door. Through it he could see Fredo sitting at his desk. He was leaning back in his seat, feet up on the blotter, head tipped back, staring up at the cieling. Don Vito frowned. While it was true that no piece of paper more important than the lunch order for the corner deli ever crossed Fredo's desk, he should TRY to look responsible. After all, he had the official position of vice president of Genco Olive Oil and Imports. How could the men who worked under him respect him if he didn't at least PRETEND to work?

He called, "Fredo." Fredo continued staring at the ceiling. Vito sighed, and raised his voice, "Fredo!" Fredo jerked and sat up abruptly, looking at his father questioningly. "Andiamo, Fredo. Tell Paulie to get the car. We're going." He took down his coat, and Dano took it from him, holding it open.

Fredo shuffled to his feet, getting his own coat. "I'll have to get it myself. Paulie called in sick."

The Don frowned. "Sick, huh?"

Fredo shrugged, smiling. "I don't mind. Paulie's a good kid."

Don Vito shook his head as Fredo went to wait by the outside door, but his expression softened with fondness. Fredo wasn't very bright, must have been that pneumonia when he was little, but he was a good boy. He meant well, he was just weak. Luckily he had two strong sons to look after the family if anything happened to him. Sonny was a hot head, but Micheal had brains, and he could use them to cool his brother down.

*If he will. Those two were so close when Micheal was little. What ever happened? They won't talk about it, both of 'em just claim there's nothing wrong. Could it have been a girl? It happened right about the time Micheal was getting to be a man. I wouldn't put it past Sonny to have tried to get a girl away from Micheal. He'd have thought it was a joke.*

He buttoned his coat as Dano finished adjusting the shoulders. "Grazie, Dano. Buon nateli."

They walked down the steps to the sidewalk together. Just outside the door, Vito glanced over at the grocery next door. It was mid-December, but there was a beautiful display of fruits and vegetables out in front. The propriator had connections with a good greenhouse, and he could charge premium prices for goods that were rare at this time of year. Vito said, "Aspetta, Fredo. I'm gonna get some fruit."

Fredo said, "Sure, Pop. I'll go warm up the car." As his father went to greet the bowing grocer, Fredo walked a few yards down the street and got into the driver's seat.

Don Vito began to examine the goods on display. "Hi, merry Christmas. Those are some nice peppers. I'll have some of those. Mama can roast them. Those oranges or tangerines? Good, I'll have three." He held the brown paperbag open sniffing the tart-sweet citrus scent that rose from it's depths, as the little grocer busily polished red and green peppers before putting them in a sack.

Vito smiled to himself, thinking of a trick he could play with the orange rinds, something to tease the grandchildren. You sliced the peel into jagged points, then held it under your upper lip, and you looked like you had hidious orange fangs. As he was thinking this, he heard footsteps coming around the corner. They sped up into a run.

Vito Corleone had survived a long, long time in his chosen profession, and he was no fool. The bag hit the concrete and split as he turned to run for the car, calling, "Fredo! Fredo, the car!"

The two men who burst around the corner had hats pulled low, and guns in their hands. Fredo watched in frozen horror as they shot at his running father. Vito staggered, his hands thrown up in the air, his body jerking repeatedly, then fell. The moment that he struck the pavement, the men whirled and ran back toward the corner.

Fredo managed to move. He struggled out of the car, trying to draw his gun. It tangled in the fabric of his coat, and he dropped it. When he tried to pick it up, he kicked it under the car. He stood up just in time to see the gunmen pile into a dark sedan, which sped away, disappearing down a sidestreet.

Stunned, Fredo staggered around the car. His father wasy lying facedown on the sidewalk. The back of his fine camelshair coat was punctured by at least three dark holes. A red pool was oozing out from underneath the Don. The street was slightly slanted. One of the oranges, from the ripped sack, rolled slowly downhill, passing through the expanding puddle of blood. It drew a wavering trail till it dropped off into the gutter, and stopped.

Fredo crept toward the still figure as the near hysterical grocer dashed into his store to call the police--anonymously. Fredo crouched beside Don Vito. "Papa?" He reached out, gingerly, touching the bigger man's shoulder. "Pape?"

The shoulder moved, and there was a weak groan. Fredo flopped down into the blood and dirt, and pulled his father over onto his lap, cradling him. He started crying. "I'm sorry, Papa. I can't, I can't..." He threw his head back and cried like a little boy. "PAPA!"

*****

Micheal and Kay came out of Radio City Music Hall. They'd just been to see The Bells of St. Mary's, and Kay was teasing him. It half amused, half exasperated Micheal. She was the only woman he saw these days, so why did she have to be so insecure? He even told her that he loved her--sometimes.

He wasn't really sure about that. He was FOND of Kay. He thought that maybe that was the most he was capable of. He was messed up, he knew that. He had been, ever since...

Micheal sighed. He'd promised himself that he wasn't going to think about that again. The only way he'd ever have any peace was to let it go. The problem was, IT didn't want to let go of HIM. They said that you never forgot your first time. *Just my luck that my first time has to be when I got drunk and got fucked by my older brother, and it's my SHITTY luck that it had to be the most intense sexual experience I've ever had.*

Kay was asking him if he'd like her better if she were a nun? "No."

They were strolling along the street, window shopping. "Well, how about if I was Ingrid Bergman?"

There was an opportunity too good to pass up. "Now there's a thought!"

"Micheal!"

"Aw, don't get so upset, Kay. You know I..." She was staring past him, face white. "What is it?" He turned and followed her gaze.

She was looking at a newstand. The vendor was just stacking the latest edition of the paper, and there was a huge headline. Feeling surreal, Micheal went over and picked one up.

VITO CORLEONE FEARED MURDERED. His guts twisted as he opened the paper to the story. Another, smaller headline read 'Assasins Gun Down Underworld Chief'. He read frantically. When Kay put her hand on his shoulder, he mumbled, "They don't say if he's dead or
alive."

Together they ran to a phonebooth. Micheal plugged a nickel into the slot, then dialed a number--one that he realized with a sinking heart that he hadn't used much lately. After a few rings it was picked up, and he heard a familiar voice say, "Yeah?"

Micheal's throat felt tight, but he managed to say, "Sonny, it's..."

"Micheal! Where you been?"

"Is he all right?"

"We don't know yet. There's all kinds of stories." He sighed. "He was hit bad." There was silence. "You there, Mikey?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Where you been?" A pause, then he said, his voice low, "I was worried."

"I called. Didn't Tom tell you?"

"It ain't the same, Mikey. You know that. Look, you come home, kid. Mama needs you. We ALL need you."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, Sonny." He hung up, and looked at Kay. "I'm going home, Kay. But first I have to call someone else. It's long distance. How much change do you have?"

"Oh, honey, are you lucky you're with me!" She emptied her change purse on the little shelf. Micheal dialed the long distance operator. "Yeah, I need the west coast operator. No, I have the number." He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card. He ignored the printing on the front, turned it over, and read the number that was pencilled there.

*****

Sam's POV

"The phone's ringing."

"I noticed."

"So let go of my dick so I can answer it."

"Aw, Cookie..."

"Sam, let go. You know damn good and well that it must be important. There aren't that many people who have this number, and they all know not to bother us unless it's life or death."

I sighed, and flopped back on the bed as my lover reached for the bedside phone. "Yeah?" I looked up as Wilmer's voice brightened. "Hey, Mikey! Ah, gee, kid, it's good to hear from you!"

I scowled, but turned over on my stomach so that Wilmer wouldn't notice it. Wilmer hated it when I acted jealous, and I TRIED not to, but... Well, dammit, I was getting older, and Wilmer was a good dozen years younger than me. In a soft light he looked just like the kid that had come out to San Francisco over twenty years ago. And me...

There was no doubt about it, I looked DAMN good for a man my age, but that age was still past fifty. Gravity was starting to take over. I could feel my muscles beginning that gradual sag toward earth. My hair was still thick, but there was a good bit of grey in the brunette, and, as I lay there, I could feel just the tiniest bit of a paunch pushing down into the mattress, and my beloved Cookie was still as whipcord slender as he ever was, still quick. His ass was still just as smooth and tempting, and he could still either fuck me into the middle of next week, or take me into his body and squeeze me till I thought I was going to die, and I was happy about it.

Still, when Wilmer spoke to a young man in that bright, fond tone, it just made me feel old, sour, and grumpy. *Stop it, Sam. You know how he feels about Micheal Corleone. That kid is the closest thing Wilmer's ever had to a child of his own, and he's had so little chance to be around him.*

Micheal had still been tiny when Wilmer crossed the country to do a little job for the boy's father--Don Vito Corleone. That was when Wilmer and I had met, and sparks had flown. The incident of the Black Bird ended with Wilmer being 'given' to me, the mafia Don formally turning over the young gunsel's services in gratitude for what he saw as my involvement in doing away with an enemy who had killed a dear friend of the his.

Wilmer had told me of how he had often been given charge of the Don's youngest son, as a combination babysitter/bodyguard, and how much he had enjoyed the job. Micheal was smart, funny, ballsy, loving... That was most of it--loving. He accepted and loved Wilmer with no reservations, and there had been very little of that in Wilmer's short life.

A few years after the move, Wilmer had been overjoyed to receive a crudely printed letter in the mail. "Hi Wilmur. This is Mikey. Do you rmembre me? I mis you. I love you. Rite me. Love Mike." A second sheet was from Don Corleone, telling Wilmer that the first thing Micheal had wanted to do after he started learning his letters was to write Wilmer, even before Santa Claus. Would Wilmer mind writing back to the boy? It would make him very happy.

So, off and on, Wilmer had kept up a correspondence with Micheal Corleone. It had tapered off as the boy got older. Wilmer never said anything, but I knew that he missed it.

I had only met Micheal once. About seven years ago the boy had come out to the coast to visit on his first spring break from college. Wilmer had been so happy, almost like a boy himself. I had studied him closely when we were introduced. Michael Corleone was a handsome young man--almost beautiful with his smooth, pale olive skin, thick black hair, and dark, liquid eyes. But I could tell that, though something very like love shone in Wilmer's eyes when he looked a the boy, it wasn't the same kind that he felt for me, and I was content.

And there had been something wrong with the boy. He'd been so quiet, when a young buck, out from under his family's eye for the first time should have been bursting with energy and the hunger to get out and experience life. Wilmer had sensed it, too, and asked Micheal quietly what had happened--what he needed? Micheal's eyes had been like wounds, and he had said, just to talk.

I had not protested when they had gone into the bedroom. I waited patiently in the front room, drinking and smoking one hand rolled cigarette after another. After a while, I'd heard the boy crying. Wilmer had come out, grim faced, and taken the bottle, then returned to the room without a word.

I had slept on the couch. When I'd awakened, Wilmer was at the kitchen table with the empty bottle in front of him, and Micheal, his face damp and flushed, was sleeping heavily in our bed. Wilmer had looked up at me bleakly, fist clenched around an empty glass, and answered the question in my eyes. "I can't tell you exactly what it was, Dream, but someone hurt him. Someone hurt him BAD. The physical part was over a long time ago, but the rest of it..."

There was a crack, and Wilmer had opened his hand to stare in dull surprise at the cut in his palm. I took away the broken glass and quietly got the iodine and guaze. As I bandaged my lover's hand, I asked quietly, "Cookie, am I gonna have to worry about you running off and doing something that might get you in trouble?"

Wilmer's eyes had remained cold, but his lips had twisted in annoyance. "He asked me not to, so no, you don't have to worry about that." His eyes had turned toward the room where the boy had started to make tiny snuffling sounds. His look had softened, then hardened again. "Not now, anyway."

Now I lifted my head when I heard Wilmer say, "No, I hadn't heard that. We're ahead of you here, kid, so the news may not reach us till tomorrow morning. How is he?" His tone was no longer cheerful--it was hard and businesslike. "Right, they won't want to let too much information out. I'll catch the first flight out. I should be there by tomorrow evening. Look, Mike, listen to me... No, LISTEN to me. You don't do anything till I get there, right? I know, I know, and I know you have balls, but this is different from anything you've been up against. This is what I do. Leave it to me, okay? I'll be there soon. Yeah." His voice softened. "Take care of yourself."

He hung up, then dialed. I heard him speaking to someone at the airport, finding out departure times for flights to New York, then he dropped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly. I waited. Finally Wilmer said, "They shot Don Corleone."

I sat up quickly. "Shit!" I knew what this could mean--mob war. Nasty, nasty business, and it looked like Wilmer was preparing to fly right into the middle of it.

"You said it."

"And you're going." He looked at me. "I know, I know. I'd have to tie you to the bed to keep you here..." I ran a hand over his lean belly. "and I like to save that for special occasions." I knew what he was going to say before I spoke, but I said it anyway. "I'll go, too."

"No, you won't." His tone was flat, but he softened the statement by rolling over and nuzzling my neck. "You need to stay here and pull in some dough for your retirement, old man."

It was a running joke with us. Thanks to some investments, and this, and that (mostly that), I had a nice nest egg. Retirement... wasn't likely. I'd give up more and more of the vigorous parts of our work to Wilmer, and he might eventually hire on a younger helper, but I was never going to retirel. I was going to drop in the traces.

"But..." He was tracing patterns on my chest. Wilmer never seemed to notice the few gray hairs that had crept into the thatch. He moved down and started licking my nipples, one after the other. I sighed. "No fair trying to distract me, Cookie."

He nipped one of the now firm nubs. "What do you mean 'TRYING'?" His hand slid down my belly and fastened around my quickly stiffening cock. "I'd say I'd already managed it." I growled and rolled over on top of him.

He immediately wrapped his lean legs around my waist, and threw his arms around my neck. "I don't know how long I'm gonna be gone, Dream, and there won't be a flight for another couple of hours. One for the road?"

"I'd like to see you make it out that door WITHOUT it." He laughed softly as I stretched over to the nightstand for the little pot of cold cream. Wilmer squirmed and hummed as I prepared him, gently working one, two, then three fingers into his back passage.

By the time I was done we were both hard as stone. I took a moment to lovingly stroke Wilmer's beautiful cock, moving the velvety skin over the firm core, and smearing pre-come over the satin of his glans. He reached down and wrapped a hand around my shaft, tugging till my cockhead reasted against the slick, slightly spread ring of his anus. "Impatient brat!" I scolded softly as I entered him, listening with pleasure to his long, low whimper of lust.

We moved together in a slow, easy rhythm. We knew each other so well, knew exactly the motion, the look, the noise, that would bring our partner the greatest pleasure. I held Wilmer's head between my palms and kissed him, softly and deeply, while I moved inside him. I thought of all the years of just sex, often with people I'd barely liked, let alone loved. *So much time wasted. God, Cookie, you have to be careful. I need you around a long, long time.*

It lasted a long time. Oh, we still got 'frisky' on occasion. There were knee tremblers in odd places, quick humps on the desk with the office door locked, lest some client wander in (Effie had more sense), blowjobs exchanged at some 'lookout point' (which occasionally ended in laughter when one or the other of us bumped his head on the dash)... But in the last few years I had really, REALLY come to appreciate my own bed, and the time to do it right.

I didn't get much faster, but at the end my strokes became more forceful, till I was scooting him up against the headboard with each lunge into his body. He was bucking and arching and making those little noises that drive me crazy. I wrapped a hand around his erection and stroked him in counterpoint to my strokes, and he banged his head back, wailing, as his seed spilled out to puddle on his own belly. Then he reached between us and stroked the narrow spot where we were joined, and I came. My toes curled. *Dear God, Cookie.*

When we were done he got the damp cloth we'd placed on the nightstand long before the phone rang. It wasn't all that warm, but it did the job. After we were clean, he moved into my arms and laid his head on my chest. "I have to go to the airport in three hours. Let me sleep for two, huh, Dream?"

"Sure, Cookie." I stroked his hair. After a moment I said, "Cookie?"

"Yeah, Dream?"

"This trip to New York--it's to see if you can help the Don, keep him safe, maybe look into who did this, right?"

"Sure."

"Is that all it is?" He was silent. "Cookie, is that the only reason you're going back?"

He lifted his head and looked at me. His blue eyes were calm, but cool. I knew that was the only answer I was going to get. I tucked his head back down under my chin and said, "Go to sleep. You need to be fresh when you get there."

And that was the closest I was going to come to telling him to be careful.

Part Two

There were men at the gates when Michael arrived at his father's house. One of them came to the driver's side window and leaned down to study Michael. When his jacket swung open, Michael could see the gun. The other man, still by the gate called, "Hey, it's Michael. It's the Don's youngest. Get outta his face." The other man gave him a sheepish smile and went back to the gate to help the other man open it.

Up at the house, another man took his car to park it, as Michael went to the door. He couldn't just walk in, because it was locked now, of course. Michael took out his key ring and sorted through the keys till he came to one. He ran his thumb over it. It had been years since he had used it, not since he'd gone away to college. Would it still work?

It turned smoothly in the lock, and he opened the door. He saw Clemenza peering at him from a sofa in the living room, his hand thrust deep between the cushions. When he saw Michael his tensed bulldog face relaxed. "Jesus, Mikey! You carryin'?" Michael didn't need to ask 'carrying what'? He shook his head. Clemenza drew his hand from between the cushions, and Michael saw that he was holding a large, ugly gun. "Good. I wouldn't wantya to blow me away, like I almost did YOU. Knock when shit like this is goin' down, Mikey. KNOCK!"

The older man got up and came over to Michael, giving him a hug. "It's good to see you, kid. Your mama, she's over in the hospital with your papa. It looks like he's going to pull through, thank God, but we need you here now. C'mon, Sonny an' Tom are in the study." Michael started down the hall, and Clemenza said, "Hey. Lock the fuckin' door, okay?"

Michael followed Clemenza down the hall to his father's study. Sonny was sitting behind the desk, talking to Tom, who stood nearby. Tessio and Paulie sat on a sofa by the wall. Clemenza said, "Hey, look who's here."

Tom came to Michael and embraced him warmly. "Mike. I'm glad you're here. The Don has asked for you. You'll go see him tomorrow, eh?"

"Sure, Tom. They're sure he's gonna be all right?"

"He'll be good. He's a tough old bird, Mike."

Sonny had come from behind the desk, and as Tom released Mike, he stepped forward. Micheal quickly held out his hand. Sonny stared at it for a moment, then slowly took it. He didn't shake, he just held it, staring into Michael's eyes. "It's good you're here, Mikey. This is were you belong. You belong with us." His eyes said, *You belong with ME.* Sonny felt the slight tremble in his younger brother's hand. He didn't know whether to smile, or cry. Did it mean Michael feared him, hated him, or felt something much, much different? He let go. "Paulie, don't sit there like a lump. Take Michael's coat." He spoke to Michael again. "You'll stay here."

Michael hesitated. The others were watching him expectantly. What else could he say? He'd never be able to explain his reluctance. "Yeah, sure." Paulie slipped Michael's coat from his shoulders.

"Hang that up in the front hall, Paulie. Hey, you all right? I hear you were sick."

Paulie fidgeted, then coughed. Michael looked at him curiously. That hadn't been a very convincing cough. It sounded like something one of Sonny's eight-year-old twins might have come up with on the day they had a math test. "Yeah, but I'm all right. Gettin' better."

"You hungry? We got plenty of food here--you could check the fridge. What is that, feed a cold, starve a fever?"

"No, thanks."

"How about a drink? Couple of brandies, sweat it out of you."

"That sounds good. I may do that."

"Yeah, you do that." When Paulie left, the smile left Sonny's face, and he spoke coldly to Clemenza. "I want you to take care of that son of a bitch right away. Paulie sold out the old man, the bastard. I don't want to see him around here again. You make that your number one priority, you hear?" Clememza nodded.

Sonny took his seat again behind the desk. "So, Tom, you're consiglieri now, what do you think?"

Clemenza spoke up. "There's a lot of bad blood here--Sollozzo, Philip Tattaglia, Bruno Tattaglia, Garbone..."

Tom shook his head. "This is getting much too personal."

Michael had been leaning against a bookcase, watching in silence as the men discussed the situation. He spoke up. "You should kill all of them."

The other men grew quiet for a moment, surprised. Michael had always kept himself far away from this side of the family. He'd always been 'the citizen'. Such a blood-thirsty statement from him was startling. But they looked in his eyes and saw that he meant it.

Sonny's voice was soft. "Hey, Mikey, do me a favor--stay out of it."

Tom spoke up. "Sollazzo's the key. If we get rid of him, everyone else falls in line. What about Luca? Sollazzo thinks he may turn. If he does, I promise you that we are in a LOT of trouble. What about him?"

Clemenza shrugged. "I been tryin' to get ahold of him all night, but there's no answer. Maybe he's shacked up somewhere."

"Luca? No, he never sleeps over with a broad. Mikey, do me a favor and try to ring him up, huh?" Sonny pitched him a small notebook. "Number's in there." Michael began to leaf through the notebook, reflecting that there were probably several law-enforcement agencies that would love to get their hands on it. "So Tom... Geez, I hate sayin' this, but I have to consider everything. What do we do if, God forbid, the old man don't make it?"

Tom rubbed his face. "If the Don goes, we lose our political connections and half our strength. The other New York Families might throw their support behind Sollazzo, just to avoid a long, destructive war. This is almost 1946, and we just got OUT of one war, and no one wants more bloodshed. You know these people--they're like jackles. They circle, looking for weakness. They smell weakness, they come in and rip you apart. If your father dies, I say make a deal, Sonny."

"That's easy for you to say, Tom. He's not your father," Sonny snapped.

Tom started to say something, but Michael, not looking up from the notebook, said softly, "He's as much Pop's son as you or me, Sonny."

Sonny looked a little embarrassed. "Gimme the notebook, kid." Michael handed it over. "Screw the phone. Tomorrow you take a couple of the boys and go hang around Luca's apartment--see if he shows up."

Tom said, "Maybe we shouldn't get Mike involved in this too directly."

Sonny said, "Maybe you're right. Mike, you should just..."

Michael gave them both a hard stare. "I should do what? Just hang around the house and answer the phone, dust a few knick-knacks? Be a big fucking help? Don't shut me out of this. I'm a Corleone."

Sonny nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, you are."

The door opened and Paulie peeked in. "Yo, Sonny. The guys on the gate sent up a package."

Sonny frowned. "A package? What kind of package?"

Paulie shrugged. He came and placed a brown paper parcel, about the size of a pillow, on the desk. It was crude, wrapped in numurous loops of knotted string. "Some guys in a car."

"Some guys in a car? Jesus Christ, what kind of fools did you put on the gate, Clemenza?" Sonny took a letter opener and began to snap the cords. "Fucking clowns at the circus are guys in cars. What the fuck is this? The funk could knock you out."

Wjem the paper was ripped off, he came upon what looked like another layer of wrapping--some sort of dark, quilted material. "It's some sort of clothing."

Clemenza came closer, prodding it. He lifted a corner and said, "Heavy." Clemenz's eyes widened, and his florid face drained of color. "Son of a bitch. It can't be."

"What?" Clemenza did not shake easily. "What is is?"

"It's a bulletproof vest. I recognize it now. It's Luca's--he never goes out on business without it."

"Shit." Sonny unwrapped the vest and the source of the smell was revealed. The large mackerel, scales flaking, mouth gaping, stared up at them with dull eyes. "A fish? What the fuck does this mean?"

Clemenza's voice was heavy. "It's a Sicilian message. It means that Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes."

It was silent in the study for a long moment. Finally Sonny said, "Well, Mikey, I guess you won't need to go out tomorrow."

*****

"Michael, c'mere."

Michael had been slouching against the wall, watching four of the men playing poker at the kitchen table. He walked over to where Clemenza was standing at the stove. The older man was stirring a huge stock pot. He pointed Michael toward a bowl of mushrooms and a cutting board, then handed him a knife. "Slice those, no thicker than this." He held up his fingers, about a fourth of an inch apart. I'll teach you somethin' useful. You never can tell when you'll hafta feed twenty guys."

Michael obediently began slicing mushrooms, and Clemenza continued. "All right, first you fry your onions and garlic. Use good olive oil, never that cheap crap. Believe me, it makes a difference. Just get 'em good an' soft, don't color 'em, an' be careful not to burn your garlic. You might as well throw it out if you burn it. Add your tomato paste an' chopped peppers, then your tomatoes. Try not to use the canned kind. Yeah, it takes a little longer, but you think your grandma ever used canned tomatoes? Cook it down. Add some red wine."

He demonstrated. "Taste." Clemenza smacked his lips as he tasted. "THEN you add your salt an' pepper. Drop in your sausage, meatballs, mushrooms, whatever. Then..." he dipped his fingers in the sugar bowl and threw a hefty pinch into the bubbling sauce. "a little sugar. That's the secret."

Michael nodded as he scraped mushroom slices back into the bowl. Clemenza had been feeding the family's soldiers during times of 'war' since before Michael was born. He was a man of respect, someone to listen to.

The phone rang, and one of the poker players, holding his hand close to his chest, answered. "Yeah?" There would be no greeting identifying the residence--if the caller had managed to reach this carefully guarded number they damn sure should know who they were calling. "Who? Who's this?" He suddenly grinned, his glance darting to Michael. "Yeah, he's here." He held out the receiver. "Hey, Mikey, it's a girl. Say's her name is Kay." His voice was falsely innocent. "you know anybody named Kay? Should I tell her she got the wrong..."

Michael wiped his hands and took the phone. All the players were snickering as the last one sat down. "Smart ass."

"Michael!"

He sighed. "Not you, Kay. This wise guy cluttering up my Ma's kitchen." He slapped the offender on the back of the head, earning a squawk from the man and more laughter from his companions. "They think it's cute to tease the baby of the family."

"Michael, are you all right?"

He rubbed his eyes wearily. "Sure, fine."

"I was worried about you."

Now he frowned, checking his watch. "Kay, it hasn't been more than four hours. Why were you worried?" Silence. He knew. He had told her about his family--their business, the people they dealt with. Her fear wasn't unreasonable, but for some reason he was irritated rather than touched. "Jesus Christ, I'm in my own home. I'm with my brothers. You think they would let anything happen to me?"

The poker players were watching him, making no pretense of disinterest. He snapped, "What? Am I talking to you?" They quickly dealt another hand. Among the family and in the world that they occupied it was widely held wisdom that you didn't fuck with Sonny Corleone, Fredo Corleone was so weak and ineffectual that he never really figured into any equation, and Michael... Michael was a citizen. He wasn't a push-over, but he wasn't a man to be feared, like his brother or his father. But that tone of voice and the sudden snap in Michael's eyes made the other men in the room think that everyone had underestimated the Don's youngest son--perhaps badly.

Kay's voice was small. "I'm sorry, but you didn't call."

Michael sighed. "Yeah, I should have. Sorry."

"How's your father?"

"Good--he's good. He's gonna make it."

"Oh, Michael! I'm so glad."

"Yeah. Look, I'm gonna stay here for awhile. I won't be able to see you for a few days."

"I could come."

"No."

"Michael?"

"No, Kay--not now. You wouldn't be *welcome... needed* comfortable. Okay?"

"Okay. You'll call me?"

"Yeah, I'll call."

"I love you, Mike."

Michael hesitated. Clemenza was watching, slowly stirring the pot. "That's nice."

"Do you love me, too?"

"Michael stared at the wall. *Love you? I never said that, did I?* "Kay..."

"Can't you say it?"

Michael turned a little, putting his back to the room. "I'm not alone, Kay. There are people here."

"Oh, all right."

"I'll call."

"Good-bye, Michael."

"Yeah, take care."

He hung up and walked back to the counter. He handed the bowl of mushroom slices to Clemenza, who scraped them into the thick red sauce. "Mikey, that the girl you brought to the wedding?"

"Yeah."

"She's a nice girl, eh?"

"Yeah, Kay's nice."

"So why don't you tell that nice girl you love her?"

"What are you--a love counselor?" Clemenza shrugged. He dipped up a bit of sauce and offered it to Michael. Michael blew on it, then tasted. He smacked his lips. "I gotta tell you, Clemenza--for a love advisor, you're a real good cook."

Sonny entered the room. "What is this? You're teaching my brother to cook? Why don't you give him an apron?" Michael turned away, wiping his hands on a towel, his expression blank. "Hey, Clemenza, how's Paulie?"

"I think tomorrow he's gonna take a turn for the worse."

"Gee, that's too bad." Michael had started to leave the room, but Sonny put an arm across the door, blocking him. "Where you going?"

"I'm just gonna go back to the city for a little while."

"You just got here." There was reproach in his voice. "We haven't had time to talk."

"There'll be plenty of time. I want to see Kay--she's worried about me. And I want to see Pop."

Sonny slowly lowered his arm. "Okay. Take a couple of the guys with you."

Michael shook his head. "I'll be all right."

"I wanna send some bodyguards with you."

"Sonny, I'm just gonna have dinner with Kay and check in on Pop."

Sonny looked past Michael to Clemenza. "Just, he says, with Sollazzo's goons all over the place."

Clemenza shrugged. "Sollazzo knows he's a civilian. He should be fine. Yhst's one thing I don't think he'd dare do, is drag the civilian members of the family in on this."

Sonny studied Michael, seeing an unfamiliar resolve in his little brother's eyes. He slowly lowered his arm. "All right. You just be careful."

As he passed, Michael muttered, "Yes, sir."

Sonny almost twitched, but since his marriage he'd tried to learn to control the signs of his arousal around his family. He looked at the men playing poker and said quietly, "Two of you go with him, anyway. Just don't get in his face, all right? He'll understand." Two of the men threw down their cards and grabbed their jackets as they went out. The other two players immediately looked at the hands the others had been holding, and started to swear in Sicilian.

Clemenza was easing spaghetti into a pot, curling the long, golden strands down as they softened in the boiling water. "Sonny, it's good you worry about your little brother, but Michael is a man now. You can't keep him tucked under your wing forever. He went through the war, f'Christ's sake."

Sonny stared at the door Michael had disappeared through. He found a solitary slice of mushroom that had somehow escaped the sauce and picked it up, turning it over in his fingers thoughtfully. "Ya Know, old man, sometimes the biggest hurts come from where you're loved the most." Clemenza looked at Santino consideringly as the younger man popped the mushroom into his mouth.

~~~~~

Michael knew he was being followed. Hell, they didn't even wait for him to turn the first corner before following him. Michael was tempted to try to lose them, but he didn't have a lot of skills at driving, and his irritation was not enough to risk an accident or a run in with the police. Instead he simply made his way back into the city and went directly to Kay's room.

The men followed him. When they stepped into the elevator with him, Michael asked, "What floor?" They just looked at him. He sighed and pushed the right floor, and they rode up in silence. At least they had the tact to hang back by the elevator when he went to Kay's door.

She answered it at his first knock. Her face lit up, and she threw her arms around him, kissing him. After a moment, Michael put his arms around her for a brief hug, then set her back. "What are you doing, just opening the door like that? Christ, Kay, don't you have any sense? Even if you weren't going with me, don't you understand how dangerous that is?"

Some of the brightness went out of her expression. "I'm sorry, Mike. I was just hoping so bad that it would be you that I didn't think."

"You HAVE to think, Kay." At her crestfallen look he sighed, and gave her a brief kiss. "C'mon, I'll take you to dinner."

"I'll get my coat."

"Don't bother--we'll eat in the hotel dining room." He inclined his head toward the elevator, and Kay peered down the hall. When she saw the two men waiting, she looked back at Michael. He shrugged tiredly.

"That's fine. They have good spaghetti here."

Michael put his hand on the small of her back as he escorted her down the hall. "I don't want spaghetti, Kay. I get all the spaghetti I need at home."

They stepped into the elevator. Michael stared straight ahead and said, "Lobby." The two men exchanged amused looks, then the one before the panel pushed the right button.

As they rode down, Kay peered at them curiously. "Hello."

Again the men exchanged looks, then said, in not quite perfect harmony, "Hiya."

"Kay," Micheal said, shaking his head.

"But I only..."

"Kay, please."

"All right, Michael."

The dining room was almost full, and the maitre d' led them directly to a nice table near the front. When he tried to seat the two bodyguards on the other side of the room he was quietly informed that wouldn't do. Michael and Kay had been seated in the midst of several other occupied tables, and they couldn't sit as close as they would have liked. Michael knew that if they had been in a smaller restaurant they would have urged some of the other diners to relocate.

They ordered, the food came, they ate. Kay, who had impeccable manners, nearly dropped a forkful of food on her dress twice, because she was busy staring at their watchers. Finally Michael said, "Kay, will you stop looking at them? Just ignore them."

"But Michael, doesn't it bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me, but I've learned to live with it."

"How?"

"I have no choice. Just ignore them."

The waiter cleared the plates, and Michael said, "Would you send the dessert cart, please?"

As he left Kay said, "You never eat dessert, Michael."

"People can have a change now and then." The cart came by and Michael chose a portion of tirramissu, and Kay chose apple pie, with cheese. As the waiter rolled the cart away Michael pulled a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his forehead, then laid the kerchief on the table. He said conversationally, "Don't show any reaction, Kay. Pretend that I'm talking about the weather or something. I'm going to go to the restroom, and I'm going to slip out and duck those two."

Kay didn't look toward the men. "Won't they follow you?"

"One of them might. If he does, stop him and talk to him if you can. They might not, since they can see the entrance to the men's room, and I'm leaving the dessert here, like I intend to come back. There's money under the handkerchief for the bill." He raised his voice. "I'll be right back, Kay."

He strolled toward the restroom, moving casually, not hurrying. Kay watched Michael, then looked toward the bodyguards. They were whispering to each other. One of them was shaking his head. Michael had reached the men's room and pushed inside. Finally the second man dropped his napkin on the table and stood up. Kay stood up, too.

As the man started after Micheal, Kay moved, slipping in front of him. "You work for the Corleone family, don't you?"

The man stopped, looking at her blankly. Finally he said, "Yeah. I'm tryin' to do my job right now."

"And you're doing a WONDERFUL job! You've just been so alert and attentive, and I scarcely knew you were there."

The man glanced to either side, looking for a way around Kay, but the diners at those tables had their chairs pulled away from the table, and there wasn't enough room for him to pass. "Lady, please."

"Is this the first bodyguard job you've had, or have you worked for other people? Have you ever guarded any celebrities?" Finally the man backed up and went around to the aisle, speeding up as he went. "Any movie stars?" she called. He reached a trot as he approached the restroom.

The door didn't have time to stop swinging before the man burst back out, yelling, "Mother fucking window!" The other one leaped to his feet and they both rushed toward the door, one of them throwing money at the startled maitre d'.

Kay smiled, sitting down, and tried to decide if she wanted to eat both desserts right here, or take one back to the room.

~~~~~

Michael had caught a cab just outside the alley behind the hotel. He knew that he'd gained a few seconds when Sonny's men wen to check the car. He could pick it up later.

It was ten-thirty when he reached the hospital. He paid the cabby and entered the lobby, making his way back. His steps slowed as he approached the nurse's station and realized it was deserted. Frowning, he went to the office next to it. This was empty, too, save for a half-eaten sandwich on the desk. Michael stared at this evidence of a hasty exit, then turned and ran down the hall and up the stairs to the floor that held his father's room.

He paused as he came on the floor, staring down the hall to his father's room. There was no guard. There was a chair beside the door, but it was empty. "Jesus Christ," he whispered.

Michael almost ran to the room, but he hesitated at the door, deathly afraid of what he might find inside. He pushed it open slowly and looked in.

His father lay in the hospital bed, looking old for the first time in Michael's memory. He was so still, so deathly white. Michael stared, unable to tell if his chest was rising and falling. He took a step toward the bed, then another.

He heard a faint rasp, and saw the twitch of an eyelid as his father's eyes moved. He almost cried with relief, but he held it back. He was a Corleone, and now was no time for tears. His father was in danger, and he had to act.

A nurse came into the room. Frowning at him, she said, "What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here now! Visiting hours were over ages ago."

"I'm Michael Corleone--this is my father. There's nobody here. What happened to the guards?"

She tsked, bustling over to check the Don's pulse. "Your father simply had too many visitors, and they were interfering with hospital service. The police made them leave ten minutes ago."

Michael picked up the phone and dialed the operator. "Get me Long Beach-4-5620, please." As he waited for the connection to be made the nurse smoothed the sheet and started toward the door. "Nurse, wait. Don't go."

She gave him an annoyed look. "I have other patients, you know. I can't."

Michael's voice was sharp. "You don't have any patients you need you more than he does! Stay right where you are."

"But I need to set up the meds, and..."

Michael's voice was soft and cold, "You try to leave this room and I'll tie you to the bed by your hair." The nurse gaped, but she stayed.

The receiver on the other end was picked up, and Michael heard Sonny's voice. "Yeah?"

"Sonny--Michael. I'm..."

"Michael, what the FUCK are you doin'? Carmine just called me and told me..."

"Sonny, shut up and listen. I'm at the hospital, and there's nobody here."

The alarm in Sonny's voice was immediate and clear. "What? Nobody?!"

"Nobody. No Tessio's men, no detectives, nobody. Papa's all alone."

"Shit. Don't panic, I'll send someone."

"I won't panic."

"No, I don't think you will, kid."

Michael hung up, and the nurse, finally having found her nerve, said, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to
leave."

Michael visually measured the bed, checking to see if it would fit through the door. "Can you unhook those tubes?"

"I... yes, but there's no reason to. You have to..."

"Do it. You're gonna help me move him to another room."

"That is out of the question!"

Michael turned on her, getting in her face. She flinched back as he hissed, "You know my father? Men are coming here to kill him. Now help me!" Michael saw the fear and indecision in the woman's eyes, and one of the other Corleone gifts came into effect--diplomacy. His voice soft, he said, "Please. He's my father, and he's in danger."

The woman straightened her shoulders, nodding. Together they rolled the door out into the hall and across to another room. Just as they got in, Michael heard footsteps. He peered out and saw a young man in a cheap suit looking about as if lost. He was carrying a bunch of flowers.

Michael raked him with a quick gaze, and could detect no bulge that might be a weapon. He called, "Who are you?"

The young man smiled at him. "Mister Corleone! I am Enzo--the baker. You remember me?"

Michael did, vaguely. He was someone his father had done a favor for. "Enzo, you'd better get out of here. There's going to be trouble."

The young man's open, sunny expression hardened. "Trouble? If there is trouble, I stay. For your father."

"Enzo, it could be bad."

"For your father."

Michael felt a warm twinge at this evidence of loyalty to his father. "All right." Michael thought. "Look, go wait for me out in front of the hospital. I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay." He hurried down the stairs.

Michael stepped back into the room, telling the nurse, "You stay here with him." She nodded.

"Michael..."

The voice was faint. Michael hurried to the bed, taking his father's hand. The Don's eyes were open, and clear. Michael squeezed his father's hand gently, whispering, "Just lie here now, Pop. I'll take care of you. I'm here now. I'm here now." He kissed his father's hand, and the Don smiled, a single tear trickling down his cheek.

Michael hurried out to the front of the hospital. He grabbed the flowers away and tossed them to the side, then turned Enzo's collar up, hiding some of the Italian boy's fresh face. Enzo fidgeted, "Mister Corleone..."

"That's my father. I'm Michael. Put your hand in your pocket, like you've got a gun. Yeah, like that. Just look mean and calm, okay?" Enzo blinked nervously, then set his jaw. "You'll be all right."

A minute later a large sedan pulled up in front of the hospital. It drifted almost to a stop, and they could see the shadows of several men inside. The driver leaned out, studying them. Michael returned the stare, unbuttoning his coat and reaching in, as if feeling for a gun. Enzo spat on the ground and glared at the men. The driver pulled back in, and the car drove off.

"Say, Enzo, that was pretty good." Michael turned back to congratulate the young baker and found him white faced and trembling. He patted his arm gently. "You did good, Enzo. My father will be grateful." He paused. "I'M grateful."

Enzo gave him a faint smile and took out a cigarette. He tried to light it, but his hands were shaking too badly. Michael took the lighter and did it for him. As he held the flame to Enzo's cigarette he noticed that his own hands were not trembling--they were rock steady.

Part Five

It was almost dawn when the plane touched down in New York. Wilmer was refreshed--he had slept during the flight. Most of the other passengers had fidgeted. Air travel was still too new for most people to feel comfortable with it. But Wilmer was a cold-blooded assassin--or had been, till he joined up with Sam. He was able to sleep anywhere, under any circumstances, because he HAD to be--survival often depended on being quick and alert.

He picked up his single bag, wondering if the baggage handlers had thought anything about its weight, wondering if they had speculated on what it might contain. They hadn't checked, or he'd be surrounded by security by now.

He stood in front of the terminal and watched the sun rise, considering whether or not it was too early to go to the Corleone house. They'd be on alert now, and on edge. It wouldn't be safe for anyone to just show up--especially someone like Wilmer. The Corleone soldiers would smell danger on him. He decided that it would be prudent to call ahead. He'd also like to get some idea of the atmosphere he'd be walking into.

Wilmer went to the bank of public phones and dialed the familiar number. The voice that answered was terse. "Yeah?"

"I remembered you as being more talkative, Clemenza."

"Who the hell is this?"

"An old friend of the family. The Don sent me out to California years ago to take care of a little business, and I stayed. I heard there was trouble, and I'm back."

"Wilmer!" The old man's voice was happily surprised. "You son-of-a-bitch! When did you get into town?"

"About ten minutes ago."

"How did you know about all this?"

Wilmer never gave up more information than he had to, so he didn't mention Michael's call. He just said, "They have newspapers back there, too, ya know."

"Yeah, yeah, you was always readin' the papers. Look, don't bother with gettin' a hotel, huh? We got plenty of room here, and we can use all the good men we can get."

"Thanks, I'll do that. Tell the boys to be looking for me--I don't wanna get my hair parted the hard way." He hung up on Clemenza's gritty laughter.

The cab ride out to the Corleone compound was silent. The hack was a seasoned pro, well able to gauge the mood of his passengers. He took one look at Wilmer as the slender man was hefting his own case into the back seat, and knew that chitchat would be a bad idea. He was sure of it when the two men, hands inside their dark coats, stepped out into the street in front of him. The passenger didn't seem at all surprised. As one of the men approached cautiously, the passenger put both hands flat on the top of the seat, leaving them resting, calm and still, in plain sight.

The guard paused while still a couple of yards from the taxi, and bent down. His eyes flicked quickly and efficiently over the driver, then moved on to a more thorough study of the passenger. Finally he said, "Wilmer?" The man nodded. "Hold on. Someone will be down from the house in a minute." The man paused, remembering what he had heard about the small, pale man sitting in the back of the taxi, and decided that a little appeasement wouldn't be out of place. "You understand, right?" Wilmer nodded, expressionless.

In a moment they hear a motor approaching, and a car came down the drive, stopping at the gate. The door opened, and Clemenza hauled himself out of the driver's side, grunting and swearing. He shuffled the few feet to the gate and peered through, expression both fierce and anticipatory. Wilmer, hands still in place, leaned over to peer out the window so the old man could get a good look. Clemenza's craggy face split in a huge grin, and he held out his hands in greeting. "Hey! The prodigal comes home." He gestured at the guards. "Let 'im in, let 'im in. Don't keep the man waitin' in the street like a common mendicante."

Wilmer climbed out of the cab, reached in, and took out his suitcase. The guard started to reach for it. Wilmer didn't say anything--he just pulled the bag back, giving the man a flat look. Clemenza called. "Sciocco! Leave that alone. Get out of his way, eh? You," he pointed at the second guard. "Open the fuckin' gate." As Wilmer walked over to the gate, Clemenza said, "Wilmer, I'm sorry about not lettin' him drive you to the door, but..."

Wilmer waved away the apology. "I'd be damn worried if you had."

Clemenza nodded. "I knew you'd understand, but still I apologize. A good soldier like you deserves respect. Tell you what, paisan, you drive us back. I hate drivin'." He grinned. "It's a measure of what I think of you, huh, kid? I couldn't wait for a driver, I come down myself."

As Wilmer got behind the wheel he said, "You didn't have to do that. I do a lot of walking over in Cali--I'm fit."

Clemenza had settled his bulk into the passenger seat. As Wilmer backed around and headed for the house, he said, "I can see that. Damn, you don't look a day older than you did when we sent ya out there. You discover the fuckin' fountain of youth or somethin'? Share the secret with an old man."

"Clean living and a clear conscience," Wilmer said blandly.

Clemenza chuckled. "Yeah. Either that or you're like that English fag my granddaughter had to read about in school--what's his name? Dorien something."

Wilmer's expression didn't change, but his hands tightened slightly on the wheel. He knew that Clemenza was making a joke--he couldn't have any idea of Wilmer's relationship with Sam. Still, he could feel his nerves pulling just a little tighter. He wondered if anyone in the family had any idea of what had transpired between Michael and Sonny. *Probably not. If anyone suspected, I can't believe that word wouldn't have gotten back to the Don, and if he knew... Shit, I don't know. He loves Sonny, but Michael is his heart.*

A man was waiting at the door when they pulled up, ready to take the car around the side of the house. They wanted to keep the approach to the house unobstructed, with a clear line of fire--just in case. They stepped into the front hall, and Clemenza called out, "Sonny! Michael! Get your asses down here, you lazy bums. You got company."

As Wilmer set down his suitcase, Sonny appeared at the top of the stairs. His face lit up. "Wilmer! Hot damn!" He hurried down, then gripped Wilmer's hand, pumping it, while he slapped him on the shoulder. "Son of a bitch, it's good to see you. I should have known you'd be back. You'd never let Dad face something like this without you."

Michael had appeared at the top of the stairs. Wilmer was always observant--very little escaped him. He noticed the bandage that didn't quite conceal the spreading bruise on Michael's cheek. He saw the dark circles under the young man's eyes, and the rumpled clothes. Most particularly, he noted that Michael had come from the same direction as Santino, and that his expression was both bleak and pained.

He resisted the urge to try to crush the bones in Sonny's hand. It just wouldn't be sensible. Wilmer was a realist--he knew that he couldn't best Sonny in a purely physical confrontation, not even with the element of surprise, and he had little macho pride when it came to survival. Besides, he didn't need to be distracted from the main reason he'd come--to help protect the Don. There would be plenty of time later to make Sonny pay.

Wilmer smiled at Sonny, shoving down the hatred so that it wouldn't show on his face, or in his eyes. "Don Corleone has been good to me." He looked at Michael, catching his eyes. "I don't abandon the people I care about." Wilmer wanted to offer the simple reassurance of an embrace, but he knew that it was impossible. He had to settle for trying to let his love and reassurance flow through his grip as they shook hands. "Michael."

"Thanks for coming." He touched his bandage. "I go through the war without really being hurt, then come home and a crooked Mick cop busts my chops." His eyes were saying more. They were saying, 'Listen closely. Sonny didn't do it.'

"Well, there's someone else who has a lot to answer for." Wilmer's tone was even, but Michael could read eyes, too. Wilmer's were saying, 'This time.'

"The answerin' has started," said Sonny. "I had the boys take out Bruno Tattaglia last night."

Everyone stared at him. Michael said, "Sonny..."

"It was before I went up to check on you, Mikey. We had to respond."

Clemenza sighed heavily. "Sonny, couldn't you have held off a little while?"

Sonny's jaw lifted stubbornly, a pugnacious glint coming into his eyes. "You gonna start second-guessing me now?"

"No, I just..."

"Who's in charge right now?"

They stared at him. Finally Clemenza said slowly, "You. But Sonny--your father isn't dead yet. You couldn't wait a coupla more hours till you could talk to him about this?"

"There's no reason to bother him about this. He's sick, he should rest, not have to worry."

*He will, thought,* thought Wilmer. *He knows how Sonny is, and the second he's aware enough to know what happens, his stress is gonna go through the roof. Jackass still hasn't learned that restraint can be just as effective as a hard strike.*

Michael was shifting. He said, "Look, what are we doing--keeping Wilmer standing in the hall like this? C'mon, I'll show you to a room."

"Yeah, you do that," said Sonny. "But you both come down pretty soon. Don't go lockin' yourself up to go over old times. All hands on deck, eh?"

Michael led Wilmer upstairs, taking him to one of the bedrooms. "This was Connie's room. Ma did it over when she moved out--made it a little less girlie." Wilmer was putting his case on the bed, opening it. "Maybe she should have waited a little while. Connie and Carlo aren't getting along too good. Maybe she'll leave him."

"Italian women don't leave their husbands, Mike." Wilmer was reaching into the case, under the clothes.

"This isn't the turn of the century. Connie's a modern woman, and that SOB beats... he used to beat her. Sonny went after him, and he eased up some, but I think he still hits her sometimes... Wilmer, what the hell?"

Wilmer was holding a gun--heavy, black, and deadly. "I couldn't very well wear it while I was traveling, Mike. Air marshals get really pissy if a passenger is armed." He slipped it into his shoulder holster. "That's better. I feel naked without it." He went to Michael, laying a hand on his shoulder. "How are you?"

Michael's eyes shifted. "I'm okay." Wilmer stared at him silently. Michael took a deep breath. "I'm not good, but... But I can handle it. The important thing is that we make sure Pop is safe."

"What about you, Michael? Are you safe?"

Michael thought about pretending that he didn't know what Wilmer was talking about, but when he looked into the other man's grave, concerned face--he couldn't. He sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. Wilmer sat beside him, saying quietly, "Did it happen again?"

Micheal didn't move, didn't look at him. "No." He paused. "Not--really. He... he didn't hurt me."

"But he didn't leave you alone, either." It was a statement, not a question.

When Michael looked up, there were tears standing in his eyes. "I knew he was going to do it. The second I saw him in the door to the bedroom, I knew. Hell, even before that. And I didn't DO anything!" He suddenly clenched his hands into fists, bringing them down hard on his own thighs. "Nothing." He pounded again, harder. "NOTHING!"

Wilmer grabbed his wrists, holding firm, keeping him from striking himself again, though Micheal strained to do so. "Stop it. Don't hurt yourself like this."

"Wilmer, I just laid there like a fucking rabbit caught in the headlights, waiting to be run down." His voice fell to a whisper. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Mike, you know that saying, 'time heals all wounds'? It's bullshit. Time may let something scab over, but if the wound isn't treated, the healing is only half-way. It's like a badly broken leg that isn't set right. It might knit to the point that you can hobble around on it, but it will be crooked, and there will always be pain. You never got what you needed to heal proper. If I let go, are you going to be sensible?"

Michael nodded, and the older man released his wrists. Michael ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Maybe now things can ease up some." He looked at Wilmer. "He apologized. He said he was sorry for what he did."

"Yeah?"

Wilmer sounded supremely unconvinced, and Michael remembered thinking that an apology from Sonny was like an apology from a small child--something recited to make things easy again--very little real regret involved. "Yeah."

"But he used you again."

"I... not exactly. He... What he did..."

"He let you fuck him?"

Michael felt the blood sweep into his cheeks at the bluntness of the crude question. "No."

"Didn't think so."

"But he... Wilmer, he... he sucked me."

Wilmer grunted. "And you think that sucking cock can't be an aggressive act?" He smiled tightly. "All this, and you're still a little naive. Did you ask him to stop?"

Michael's voice was a whisper. "At first."

Wilmer closed his eyes briefly. At last he said quietly, "Mike, it doesn't matter if it ended up feeling good. Answer one question, honestly. Did you want it?"

Michael was quiet for a long moment, and Wilmer could see doubt and emotion flickering in his expression. Finally Michael said simply, "No." He quickly took Wilmer's hand, his voice ernest, and said, "But it's a sickness with him, Wilmer. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

Michael was relaxing a little, when they heard Clemenza call from downstairs. "Wilmer, Mike! Get down here! Tom's here. Those bastards snatched him, then sent him back with a message."

Michael jumped up and ran out the door. Wilmer got up and followed more slowly, thinking, *I understand. That doesn't mean I forgive.*

END PART 5