The death of his son, coupled with a relentless cascade of bad news, left Cormac dizzy and reeling.
But the old gangster, hardened by years of blood and grime, managed to grab the table and steady himself before his bodyguards could even reach him.
Cormac knew that if he went down now, everything he'd built over a lifetime would collapse instantly.
Worse, his son's death would go unavenged.
He remembered the last time someone killed his wife and youngest son.
He'd spent hours pouring boiling water over that enemy, killing him slowly.
He sat for a moment, breathing heavily, then raised his head.
Exhaustion lined his face, but his eyes were clear and sharp.
He scanned the room with the full weight of his authority.
The panicked atmosphere evaporated.
"I'm still here! Why are you all panicking?"
Cormac had deep reserves.
Decades of filthy work had bought him favors in every corner: police, courts, government—even the National Guard.
He went to the safe in the café's office and pulled out a thick bundle of incriminating files.
It was time to use them.
But first, he needed to secure his territory.
He had to show strength, to scare off the opportunistic scavengers who would be circling now.
Step two would be figuring out who had done this.
He'd suspected Leo.
But he quickly dismissed that idea.
Even the governor or the Richmond Police Chief couldn't have known the exact locations of all his lieutenants.
As for that "upstart small-town businessman" the governor's son had mentioned?
In Richmond's polite society, Leo was nothing but a lucky nobody who'd clung to a senator's coattails.
Cormac began summoning his family's hidden reserves.
His last batch of elite gunmen left the café.
When they were gone, he knew it was time for him to move too.
War meant you stayed mobile.
He didn't use the front door.
Instead he took the old tunnel he'd had dug years ago.
The other end exited into an abandoned granary, where a car was waiting.
Cormac was headed for his country villa—the place that had served as his war room and safehouse countless times.
His bodyguards piled in.
They started the engine.
Then—
BOOM!
On a street not far away, a car was speeding away.
Inside it, Phis watched the plume of smoke rise and shook his head in disappointment.
"Damn. We were late. I wanted to watch that one go up close."
Richmond, at a small, inconspicuous Italian restaurant by the James River
"I heard you're getting married. You'll need a ring.
I hate seeing a friend in need, so think of this as my wedding gift."
Phis pushed a velvet box across the table.
Inside was an exquisite diamond ring.
Across from him sat Gerard Callahan, the head of the FBI's Richmond field office.
Callahan's lip curled.
"I don't need gifts from criminals.
I don't know exactly what you and that Kent fellow are up to, but once I have evidence, I will arrest you."
Gerard Callahan was that rare thing: a genuine patriot.
For years he'd been gathering intel on the Declan family.
Four years ago—before the war even started—he'd sent a proposal to Director Hoover himself to dismantle the Declans.
But Callahan was an investigator, not a politician.
Hoover hadn't approved it.
Instead, he'd left Callahan stuck as the local bureau chief for four long years.
Recently, Hoover finally gave him orders.
He handed over all that intel to Kent, the special assistant from Washington, to help draft a security report on Richmond.
Callahan, ever the idealist, gave them everything—even the secret tunnels.
But just two days after he handed over that trove of secrets, some unknown faction had wiped out the Declan family in a single sweep.
Ruined his careful years of preparation.
Destroyed any chance of his big bust.
And destabilized Richmond's entire underworld.
Today, Callahan had come to see for himself what kind of man would be his new enemy.
As for Kent—Callahan had already called Hoover directly to complain.
"Can't we be friends?" Phis asked.
"A cat and a mouse will never be friends," Callahan said coldly.
"I'll be watching you. Don't slip up."
He got up and left.
Leo, who'd been listening from the bar, came over.
His sharp hearing had caught every word.
He watched Callahan's back retreating through the door, then turned to Phis.
"Looks like I'm going to have to pay even more to make that one go away.
Shame—he's the kind of patriot who could have been one of us in the Pacific."
"Boss, I have a question."
"Go ahead."
"Why did you give up Monroe Park and the Southside? We worked so hard to take those."
Leo heard the resentment in Phis's voice.
It made him angry.
First, at Phis for daring to question him.
Second, because Phis had lost the cleverness he'd shown back when he led the Third Squad.
"Tell me, Phis. What's the point of territory? You want to be a mob boss?
What kind of mob boss can take down MacArthur?
Listen carefully, Phis. Just like I told you on day one in the special forces:
Either obey orders, or get out. No one is irreplaceable. Not even you."
Phis went pale, sweat breaking out on his brow.
He snapped to attention, saluting.
"Sorry, boss. I was wrong."
Leo saw he was sincere and let it go.
But inside, he was making plans.
When stakes got this big, even the most loyal man needed balancing forces.
"Next time, use your head before you ask questions.
I'll explain this once.
We gave up those neighborhoods because we hit too hard, too obviously.
We needed to throw out a few big chunks of meat to stir up the hungry jackals.
That draws the cops' attention away from us.
We have to stay out of sight of idealists like Callahan.
And the lower you go, the more of those idealists you find."
Phis's eyes lit with understanding.
He nodded slowly.
That night, back at home, Leo took a call from Thomas.
"Did it really have to be that dramatic?" Thomas asked sourly.
"I didn't take a cent of the Declan family's assets," Leo replied.
Silence. Thomas was clearly thinking.
Finally he said:
"Not enough."
Leo thumped his sofa in frustration. Greedy old bastard.
"Fine. Another 5 percent of the hotel."
"Ten. Done." Click.
That was America for you.
Thomas might admire Leo personally.
But business was business.
After he hung up, Leo sat for a while.
Then he drafted a telegram to Australia.
His loyal adjutant, Colombo, was still there guarding that stash of gold.
Leo's message told him to bring it back.
And also to travel to South Korea to find a certain Soviet lawyer they'd once saved on Guam:
Kirill Cherny.
Two days later, in Australia, Colombo opened the telegram.
Besides instructions to bring back the gold, there was that extra mission.
He sighed.
Orders were orders.
As winter deepened, East Broad Street in Richmond was buried in snow.
The cold couldn't chill the feverish anticipation in the city.
For a month now, flyers had blanketed every neighborhood.
Richmond's biggest bar was opening here.
They promised a massive fireworks show on opening night.