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flattened nose of the prize fighter. There was a feeling of real power there, although he looked more Slav than Italian.
    “My uncle’s top enforcer,” Morgan whispered to Asta, “Marco Russo.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Marco, it’s been a long time. My daughter, Asta.”
    Marco managed a fractional smile. “A pleasure. Welcome to Sicily, Signorina, and nice to see you again, Signore. The Don isn’t at the town house, he’s at the Villa.”
    “Good, let’s get moving then.”
     
     
    Luca’s villa was outside a village at the foot of Monte Pellegrino, which towers into the sky three miles north of Palermo.
    “During the Punic Wars the Carthaginians held out against the Romans on that mountain for three years,” Morgan told Asta.
    “It looks a fascinating place,” she said.
    “Soaked in blood for generations.” He held up the local paper, which Marco had given him. “Three soldiers blown up by a car bomb last night, a priest shot in the back of the neck this morning because he was suspected of being an informer.”
    “At least you’re on the right side.”
    He took her hand. “Everything I do is strictly legitimate, Asta, that’s the whole point. My business interests and those of my associates are pure as driven snow.”
    “I know, darling,” she said. “You must be the greatest front man ever. Granddad Morgan a General, you a war hero, billionaire, philanthropist, and one of the best polo players in the world. Why, last time we were in London, Prince Charles asked you to play for him.”
    “He wants me next month.” She laughed and he added, “But never forget one thing, Asta. The true power doesn’t come from New York. It lies in the hands of the old man we’re going to see now.”
    At that moment they turned in through electronic gates set in ancient, fifteen-foot walls and drove through a semitropical garden toward the great Moorish villa.
     
     
    The main reception room was enormous, black-and-white-tiled floor scattered with rugs, seventeenth-century furniture from Italy in dark oak, a log fire blazing in the open hearth, and French windows open to the garden. Luca sat in a high-backed sofa, a cigar in his mouth, hands clasped over the silver handle of a walking stick. He was large, at least sixteen stone, his gray beard trimmed, the air of a Roman Emperor about him.
    “Come here, child,” he said to Asta and when she went to him, kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re more beautiful than ever. Eighteen months since I saw you in New York. I was desolated by your mother’s unfortunate death last year.”
    “These things happen,” she said.
    “I know. Jack Kennedy once said, anyone who believes there is fairness in this life is seriously misinformed. Here, sit beside me.” She did as she was told and he looked up at Morgan. “You seem well, Carlo.” He’d always insisted on calling him that.
    “And you, Uncle, look wonderful.”
    Luca held out his hand and Morgan kissed it. “I like it when your Sicilian half floats to the surface. You were wise to contact me on this Chungking business and Mori showed good judgment in speaking to you.”
    “We owe it to his grandson,” Morgan said.
    “Yes, of course. Young Tony is a good boy, an idealist, and that’s good. We need our saints, Carlo, they make us rather more acceptable to the rest of the world.” He snapped a finger and a white-coated houseboy came forward.
    “Zibibbo, Alfredo.”
    “At once, Don Giovanni.”
    “You will like this, Asta. A wine from the island Pantelleria, flavored with anise.” He turned to Morgan. “Marco took me for a run into the country the other day, to that farmhouse of yours at Valdini.”
    “How was it?”
    “The caretaker and his wife seemed to be behaving themselves. Very peaceful. You should do something with it.”
    “Grandfather was born there, Uncle, it’s a piece of the real Sicily. How could I change that?”
    “You’re a good boy, Carlo, you may be half American, but