I can see limos and town cars pulling up to the curb, with partygoers streaming out of their doors, the women in bright jewel tones, the men in shades of black, gray, and navy.

Beyond that, I see cyclists riding along the lakeshore, and sparkling blue water punctuated by white sails.

“Nice view,” I say to Dukuly as he lights my cigar.

“The lake?” he scoffs. “I’ve stayed in the Royal Suite of the Burj Al Arab. This is nothing.”

I puff my cigar to hide my smile. I knew he’d be salty about the room.

Edwin Dukuly is the Minister of Lands, Mines, and Energy for Liberia. But it’s blood diamonds that pay for his Vacheron watch and hefty cigars. Like a modern Marco Polo, he brings little baggies of diamonds with him everywhere he goes to trade for whatever local luxuries he’s craving.

I’ve got those luxuries with me right now. Under six inches of ice in my seafood chest.

“Shall we?”

He motions to the seating area once more. I stub out my cigar on the windowsill and follow him over.

We make an amusing tableau—four large men, stuffed into pink-and-white striped chairs.

I haul the chest up onto the coffee table, cracking the lid. I lift out the liner that contains the ice and a camouflaging layer of shrimp, revealing the guns beneath.

I’ve brought him everything he asked for: three Kalashnikovs, four Glocks, a Ruger, and one hand-held RPG-7 grenade launcher, typically used for taking down tanks. I have no fucking clue what he plans to do with that—I suspect he saw it in a movie once and thought it looked cool.

There’s also a tightly-wrapped kilo of cocaine. Nice, powdery Colombian stuff. Dukuly’s eyes light up when he sees that. He takes a little silver knife out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo and cuts through the wrapping. He scoops up a mound of the powder on the tip of his knife, pressing it to his nostril and snorting hard. Then he rubs the residue on his tongue and gums.

“Ah!” he sighs, setting the knife back down on the table. “I can always count on you, Dante.”

To his men he says, “Put all that away, someplace the maids won’t find it.”

I clear my throat, reminding him of the small matter of payment.

“Yes, of course,” he says. He takes a little velvet bag out that same breast pocket, passing it over to me. I pour the diamonds out on my palm.

I have a jeweler’s loupe in my pocket, but I don’t need to use it to see that Dukuly thinks I’m an idiot.

The diamonds are cloudy and small. The size and quantity are less than half the value we agreed upon.

“What’s this?” I say.

“What?” Dukuly grunts, pretending ignorance. He’s not a very good actor.

“These are shit,” I say.

Dukuly’s face flushes. His heavy brows fall so low that I can barely see the glitter of his eyes underneath.

“You’d better watch your words, Dante.”

“Of course,” I say, leaning forward from my seat and looking right at him. “Let me phrase this in the most polite way possible. Pay me what you owe me, you fucking reprobate.”

The burly bodyguard snatches up one of the Glocks and points it directly at my face. I ignore him.

To Dukuly I say, “Are you serious? You’re gonna shoot me in the middle of the Drake Hotel?”

Dukuly chuckles. “I have diplomatic immunity, my friend. I could shoot you on the front steps of the police station.”

“You don’t have immunity from the Outfit. My father is the Don of Chicago. Or did you forget?”

“Oh yes, Enzo Gallo.” Dukuly nods his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “A very powerful man. Or at least he was . . . I heard he lost his balls when he lost his wife. Was that your mother, or did he father you on some other whore?”

My mother is five years in the ground. But there’s not an hour of the day when I don’t think of her.

Rage surges through me like boiling oil, flooding my veins.

In one movement, I snatch the little silver knife up off the table and bury it in the side of Dukuly’s neck. I jam it in so deep that half the hilt disappears along with the blade.

Dukuly claps his hand over the wound, eyes bulging and mouth silently opening and closing like a fish out of water.

I hear the click click click as the burly bodyguard tries to shoot me in the back. The Glock fires impotently. I’m not stupid enough to bring loaded weapons to an arms deal.

However, I have no doubt that there’s plenty of bullets in the guns inside their jackets.

So I spin Dukuly around, using his body as a meat shield. I have to crouch—he’s not as tall as I am.

Sure enough, Ponytail already has his gun out. He fires six shots in rapid succession, riddling the chest and bulging belly of his boss. He knows Dukuly is already dead—he’s motivated by revenge now.

Well, so am I.

These fuckers tried to steal from me. They insulted my family.

Just as the boss is responsible for the actions of his soldiers, so the soldiers will pay for their boss’s words. I’m going to rip their heads off their fucking shoulders.

But I don’t like my odds at the moment—two against one, and I’m the only one without a gun.

So instead, I sprint toward the window, dragging Dukuly’s limp body along as my shield. I dive through the open frame, turning my shoulders sideways so I’ll fit. It’s a tight squeeze—I barely make it, through sheer force of momentum.

I fall four stories through the air, watching the sky and the pavement swap positions.

Then I crash into the awning.

The canvas frame wasn’t meant to support 220 lbs of plummeting mass. The fabric tears and the struts collapse, encasing me in a cocoon of wreckage.

I hit the ground hard. Hard enough to knock the air out of me, but with a whole fuck of a lot less impact than I deserve.

Still, I’m dazed. It takes me a minute to clear my head. I flail my arms, trying to extricate myself from the mess.

When I look up at the window, I see the burly bodyguard glaring down at me. I’m sure he’d like to fire a few shots in my direction. He’s only holding back because his diplomatic immunity expired with his boss.

That’s when I see Ponytail barreling around the side of the building. He sprinted down those four flights of stairs like an Olympian. I watch him hurtling toward me, debating whether I should strangle him with my bare hands or pound his face into pulp.

Then I see the dozen hotel employees and gala guests swarming toward me, and I remember that I made a hell of a lot of noise falling down. I’m sure somebody’s already called the cops.

So instead, I hunt for the closest vehicle with its engine running. I see a sleek black Benz pulled up to the curb. The driver’s seat is empty, but the headlights are beaming.

Perfect.

I wrench open the door and jump into the front seat.

As I put the car in drive, I get one perfect glimpse of Ponytail’s enraged face through the passenger window. He’s so mad he doesn’t give a damn who’s watching—he reaches for his gun.

I give him a little salute as I floor the gas.

The engine roars, and the car jerks away from the curb like a racehorse let out of its stall. The Benz may look like a boat, but it’s got a decent engine under the hood.

My brother Nero would love this. He’s obsessed with cars of all kinds. He’d appreciate the handling, and this cushy leather seat that seems to re-form itself around my body.