Athena had refused to do nudes, that is, she would not show full tits and ass, an astonishing modesty in a star but not a fatal one. Dita would simply substitute tits and ass from some of the different actresses she was now auditioning.

Ten bare female asses rose in harmony to greet the camera's blinking eye. Despite the picture still being in limbo, Dita Tommey was auditioning actresses on the Messalina soundstage for an ass to double for Athena Aquitane's.

Of course she had given the actresses full scenes with dialogue, she wouldn't demean them by posing them as if they were pornography. But the determining factor would be in the culminating sex scene, when rolling around in bed they would thrust their bare buttocks up to the camera eye. Her sex-scene choreographer was sketching out the rolls and twists with the male actor, Steve Stallings.

Watching the tests with Dita Tommey were Bobby Bantz and Skippy Deere. The only other people on the set were the necessary crew members. Tommey didn't mind Deere watching, but what the hell was Bobby Bantz doing here. She had considered briefly barring him from the set, but if Messalina was abandoned she would be in a very weak power position. She could use his goodwill.

"I don't believe you guys," Tommey said.

Bantz said slyly, "You should know, Dita."

"Me too," Deere said.

The sex-scene choreographer, a young man named Willis, who was also the head of the Los Angeles Ballet Company, said cheerfully, "The most beautiful ass in the world. But also with great muscles. We don't want sleaze, we don't want the crack open."

"They cannot be allowed to bounce," the choreographer said.

"OK, OK," Bantz said. "I've got a hundred phone calls I have to return."

Tommey forgot her weak power position. "Bobby, you're the perfect asshole, if that's what we're looking for. She won't fuck you so you assume she's a dyke."

Deere said, "Dit, have a little sympathy. Bobby and I, what recreation do we get? We're too busy to play golf. Watching movies is work. We don't have the time to go to the theater or opera. We can squeeze maybe an hour a day for fun after we spend time with our families. What can you do with just one hour a day? Screw. It's the least labor-intensive recreation."

"How about the tits?" Deere asked.

"We audition tits tomorrow," Tommey said. "No woman has perfect tits and a perfect ass, except maybe Athena, and she won't show them."

Bantz asked fretfully, "What exactly are we looking for here?"

"Right," Bantz said, "Nothing sleazy."

Deere shook his head in wonder. "Bobby's right. Dita, that's the one. Sign her up."

"Me too," Deere said.

"Wow, Skippy, look at that," Bantz said. "That's the most beautiful ass I have ever seen."

"Sign her up anyway," Deere said with exuberant joy.

Tommey shook her head in disbelief. "Jesus, you guys are morons," she said. "That's a black ass."

"Yeah," Bantz said. "An Ethiopian slave girl for Messalina. But why the hell is she auditioning?"

Dita Tommey observed both men with curiosity. Here were two of the toughest men in the movie business, with over a hundred phone calls to return, and they were like two teenagers looking for their first orgasm. She said patiently, "When we send out casting calls we're not allowed to say we just want white asses."

Bantz said, "I want to meet that girl."

But all this was interrupted by Melo Stuart coming on the set. He was smiling triumphantly. "We can all go back to work," he said. "Athena is going back on the picture. Her husband, Boz Skannet, hung himself. Boz Skannet, off the picture." As he said this he clapped his hands as the crew always clapped when an actor finished work on a movie, his part finished. Skippy and Bobby clapped with him. Dita Tommey stared at the three of them with disgust.

When they were gone, Dita Tommey summoned the girl with the beautiful ass to her trailer. She was very pretty, truly black rather than tan, and she had an impudent vivacity that Dita identified as natural and not an actor's put-on.

"Whatever," the girl said. "Thank you. For both the compliments and the job."

"Eli wants the two of you right away," Melo said. "Not you, Dita," he smiled apologetically. "This will just be a business discussion, no creative decisions." The men left the soundstage.

"One more thing," Dita said. "Our producer, Skippy Deere, thinks you have the most beautiful ass in the world. So does Mr. Bantz, the president and head of production for the Studio. You'll be hearing from them."

"I'm giving you the part of an Ethiopian slave girl to the Empress Messalina," Dita said. "You'll have one line of dialogue but mainly we'll be showing your ass. Unfortunately we need a white ass to double for Miss Aquitane and yours is too black, otherwise you might steal the picture." She gave the girl a friendly smile. "Falene Fant, that's a movie name."

Dita Tommey shrugged. "I'm not into asses as much as men are. But I think you're charming and a very good actress. Good enough so that I think you can carry more than one line in this picture. And if you come to my house tonight, we can talk about your career. I'll give you dinner."

Falene Fant gave her a wicked grin. "And what do you think?" she said.

That night, after Dita Tommey and Falene Fant spent two hours in bed, Dita cooked dinner and they discussed Falene's career.

"It was fun," Dita said, "but I think from now on we should just be friends and keep this night a secret."

"Sure," Falene said. "But everyone knows you're dykey. Is it my black ass?" She was grinning.

Dita ignored the word dykey. That was a deliberate impudence to pay back for the seeming rejection. "It's a great ass, black, white, green, or yellow," Dita said. "But you have real talent. If I keep casting you in my pictures, you won't get credit for your talent. And I only make a picture every two years. You have to work more than that. Most directors are male and when they cast somebody like you they're always hoping for a little screw. If they think you're dykey, they may pass."

"Who needs directors if I have a producer and the head of a studio," Falene said cheerfully.

"You do," Dita said. "The other guys can get you a foot in the door, but the director can leave you on the cutting-room floor. Or he can shoot you so that you look and sound like shit."

Falene shook her head woefully. "I have to fuck Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, and I've already fucked you. Is this absolutely necessary?" She opened her eyes wide, innocently.

Dita really felt fond of her at the moment. Here was a girl who didn't try to be indignant. "I had a very good time tonight," she said. "You hit exactly the right note."

"Well, I never understood the fuss people make about sex," Falene said. "It's no hardship for me. I don't do drugs, I don't drink a lot. I have to have a little fun."

"Fine," Dita said. "Now, about Deere and Bantz. Deere is the better bet and I'll tell you why. Deere is in love with himself and he loves women. He will really do something for you. He'll find you a good part, he's smart enough to see your talent. Now Bantz doesn't like anybody except Eli Marrion. Also he has no taste, no eye for talent. Bantz will sign you to a studio contract and then let you rot. He does that with his wife to keep her quiet. She gets a lot of work for top dollar but never a decent part. Skippy Deere, if he likes you, will do something for your career."

"You know," Falene said, "I wouldn't do it if I wasn't so sure I'd be a star."

"This sounds a little cold-blooded," Falene said.

Dita tapped her on the arm. "Don't bullshit me. I'm a dyke but I'm a woman too. And I know actors. They will do anything, male or female, to go up the ladder. We all play for big stakes. Do you want to go to a nine-to-five job in Oklahoma or do you want to become a movie star and live in Malibu? I see by your sheet that you're twenty-three years old. How many have you fucked already?"

"Counting you?" Falene said. "Maybe fifty. But all for fun," she said in mock apology.

Falene laughed. "What about you?" she asked.

"I didn't have the option," Dita said. "I made it on sheer overwhelming talent."

"So a few more won't traumatize you," Dita said. "And who knows, it may be fun again."

"Poor you," Falene said.

"Of course," Dita said. "None of us would."

At LoddStone Studios, Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, and Melo Stuart were meeting with Eli Marrion in his office. Bantz was enraged. "That silly prick, he scares everybody to death and then commits suicide."

"She has no further requests, she doesn't need any extra inducements?" Marrion asked in a quiet, deadly voice. For the first time, Melo Stuart became aware that Marrion was in a rage.

"Great," Deere said. "We may still come in under budget."

"Of course," Melo said.

Marrion said to Stuart, "Melo, your client is coming back to work I assume."

"I want you all to shut up and listen to me," Marrion said. And this rudeness, so unprecedented in him, made them silent.

"No," Melo said. "She can start work tomorrow."

Marrion spoke in his usual low, pleasant voice, but there was now no mistaking his anger.

"But De Lena makes more money than we do," Bantz said. "That's not right."

"Skippy, what do we give a fuck if the picture comes in on budget? We don't own the picture anymore. We panicked, we made a stupid mistake. All of us are at fault. We do not own this film, an outsider does."

Skippy Deere tried to interrupt him. "LoddStone will make a fortune on distribution. And you get a percentage on profits. It's still a very good deal."

Marrion said, "We threaten him with court and then we cut a deal. We give him his money back and ten percent of the adjusted gross."

"That's right," Bantz said. "Fuck him. Let's go to court."

"The point is that De Lena did nothing to solve the problem," Marrion said. "Surely our studio has some sort of legal basis to regain the picture."

Deere laughed. "Eli, Molly Flanders won't let him take your deal."

"We'll negotiate directly with De Lena," Marrion said. "I think I can persuade him." He paused for a moment. "I called him as soon as I got the news. He will be joining us very shortly. And you know he has a certain background, this suicide is too fortunate for him, I don't think he will care for the publicity of a court case."

Cross De Lena, in his penthouse suite at the Xanadu Hotel, read the newspaper reports of Skannet's death. Everything had gone perfectly. It was a clear case of suicide, the two farewell notes on the body clinched it. There was no possibility the handwriting experts could detect the forgery, Boz Skannet had not left any great body of correspondence and Leonard Sossa was too good. The shackles on Skannet's legs and arms had been purposely loose and had left no marks. Lia Vazzi was an expert.

The first call Cross received was expected. Giorgio Clericuzio summoning him to the Family mansion in Quogue. Cross had never deceived himself that the Clericuzio would not find out what he was doing.

When the two of them walked into LoddStone Studios and Marrion's office they knew there was trouble. The four men waiting there had the seriously truculent look of men about to commit strong-arm.

"I decided to bring my lawyer," Cross said to Marrion. "I hope you don't mind."

The second call Cross received was from Eli Marrion asking him to come to Los Angeles and without his lawyer. Cross said he would. But before he left Las Vegas he called Molly Flanders and told her about the phone call from Marrion. She was enraged. "Those slimy bastards," she said. "I'll pick you up at the airport and we'll go in together. Never even say good morning to a studio head unless you've got a lawyer with you."

Molly Flanders, stern-faced and angry, said, "This is going to be really good. You want the picture back but our contract is iron."

"As you wish," Marrion said. "I merely wanted to save you a possible embarrassment."

"Then we will have to go to court," Marrion said. "Cross, I'm sure you will find that as distasteful as I do." He smiled at Cross. It was a kindly smile that made his gorilla-like face angelic.

"He has already survived the risk," Molly said. "Your offer is insulting."

"You're correct," Marrion said. "But we are going to appeal to Cross's sense of fair play. He did nothing to solve the problem, whereas LoddStone Studios has invested considerable time and money and creative talent without which this movie would not have been possible. Cross will get his money back. He gets ten percent of the adjusted gross and we will be generous in determining the adjustments. He will not be at risk."

Molly was furious. "Eli, you go to court twenty times a year and give depositions because you're always pulling crap like this." She turned to Cross and said, "We're leaving."

But Cross knew that a long court case was something he could not afford. His buying the film followed by Skannet's opportune death would be held up to scrutiny. They would dig up everything about his background, they would paint him in such a way that he would become too much of a public figure, and that was something the old Don had never tolerated. There was no mistaking that Marrion knew all this.

Bantz said with contempt, "This is business not gambling."

Only Skippy Deere seemed to be on his side. "Cross, you deserve more. But what they offer is better than a court fight, the risk of losing. Let this one go and you and I will do business again without the Studio. And I promise you'll get a fair shake."

"Let's stick around," Cross said to Molly. Then he turned to Marrion, Bantz, Skippy Deere, and Melo Stuart. "If a gambler comes into my hotel and plays a long shot and wins, I pay him the full odds. I don't say I'll pay him even money. That's what you gentlemen are doing here. So why don't you reconsider this?"

Cross knew it was important to seem non-threatening. He smiled in resignation. "Maybe you're all right," he said. "I want to stay in the movie business on good terms with everybody and ten million profit is not a bad start. Molly, take care of the papers. Now I have to catch a plane so please excuse me." He left the room and Molly followed him.

"And you didn't even do anything," Bantz said.

Melo Stuart said soothingly to Cross, "You will make conservatively ten million dollars on your investment. Surely that's fair."

"We can win in court," Molly told him.

"Yes," Cross answered.

"I don't want to go to court," Cross said. "Make the deal."

Giorgio said, "Is it true that you pledged some of your shares in the Xanadu to finance a movie?"

Molly studied him carefully, then she said, "OK, but I'll get more than ten percent."

"That is within my right," Cross said. "I am, after all, your Bruglione in the West." He laughed.

When Cross arrived at the mansion in Quogue the next day, Don Domenico Clericuzio, his sons Giorgio, Vincent, and Petie, and the grandson, Dante, were waiting for him. They had lunch in the garden, a lunch of cold Italian hams and cheeses and an enormous wooden bowl of salad, long loaves of crispy Italian bread. There was the bowl of grated cheese for the Don's spoon. As they ate, the Don said conversationally, "Croccifixio, we hear you have become involved in the moving picture business." He paused to sip his red wine. He then took a spoonful of the grated Italian Parmesan cheese.

"'Bruglione' is right," Dante said.

The Don shot a disapproving look at his grandson. He said to Cross, "You got involved in a very serious affair without Family consultation. You did not seek our wisdom. Most important of all, you carried out a violent action that might have severe official repercussions. On that, custom is clear, you must have our consent or go your own way and suffer consequences."

"And you used resources of the Family," Giorgio said harshly. "The Hunting Lodge in the Sierra. You used Lia Vazzi, Leonard Sossa, and Pollard with his Security Agency. Of course, they are your people in the West but they are also Family resources. Luckily everything went perfectly but what if it had not? We would all have been at risk."

Don Clericuzio said impatiently, "He knows all that. The question is why. Nephew, years ago you asked not to take part in that necessary work some men must do. I granted your request despite the fact that you were so valuable. Now you do it for your own profit. That is not like the beloved nephew I have always known."

Cross immediately sensed that the Don knew everything. "There is another problem," Cross said, and explained the new deal he had made with Marrion. He was surprised when the Don laughed aloud.

Cross knew then that the Don was sympathetic to him. He knew he could not tell the truth, that he had been seduced by Athena's beauty; that would not be a reasonable explanation, indeed it would be insulting. And possibly fatal. What could be more inexcusable than that the attraction to a strange woman outweighed his loyalty to the Clericuzio Family. He spoke carefully. "I saw an opportunity to make a great deal of money," he said. "I saw a chance to get a foothold in a new business. For me and the Family. A business to be used to turn black money white. But I had to move quickly. Certainly I did not wish to keep it a secret and the proof is that I used Family resources which you must come to know. I wanted to come to you with the deed done."

The Don was smiling at him when he asked gently, "And is the deed done?"

"You did exactly right," the Don said. "A court case might be a disaster. Let them have their victory. But what rascals they are. It's a good thing we always stayed out of that business." He paused for a moment. "At least you've made your ten million. That's a tidy sum."

"Then we must discuss better shares," Giorgio said. He was like Bantz, Cross thought, always pressing for more.

The Don interrupted impatiently. "First catch the rabbit then we will share it. You have the Family blessing. But one thing. Full discussion on everything drastic that is done. You understand me, nephew?"

"No," Cross said. "Five for me and five for the Family, that is understood. I don't think we should be discouraged so easily. I have some plans but I must have Family help."

He left Quogue with a feeling of relief. The Don had shown his affection.

Don Domenico Clericuzio, in his eighties, still commanded his Empire. A world he had created with great endeavor and at great cost and so therefore felt he had earned.

"Yes," Cross said.

At a venerable age, when most men are obsessed with sins inevitably committed, the regrets of lost dreams, and even doubts of their own righteousness, the Don was still as unshakable in his virtue as when he was fourteen.

Don Clericuzio was strict in his beliefs and strict in his judgments. God had created a perilous world, and mankind had made it even more dangerous. God's world was a prison in which man had to earn his daily bread, and his fellow man was a fellow beast, carnivorous and without mercy. Don Clericuzio was proud that he had guarded his loved ones safely in their journey through life.

In the world Don Clericuzio had created, he was revered. His family, the thousands who lived in the Bronx Enclave, the Brugliones who ruled territories and entrusted their money to him and came for his intercession when they got into trouble with the formal society. They knew that the Don was just. That in time of need, sickness, or any trouble, they could go to him and he would address their misfortunes. And so they loved him.

The Don knew that love is not a reliable emotion no matter how deep. Love does not ensure gratitude, does not ensure obedience, does not provide harmony in so difficult a world. No one understood this better than Don Clericuzio. To inspire true love, one also had to be feared. Love alone was contemptible, it was nothing if it did not also include trust and obedience. What good was love to him if it did not acknowledge his rule?

He was content that, at his advanced age, he had the will to pass the sentence of death on his enemies. Certainly he forgave them, was he not a Christian who maintained a holy chapel in his own home? But he forgave his enemies as God forgives all men while condemning them to inevitable extinction.

Now he had many things to ponder. He had planned well over the last twenty-five years since the Santadio war. He had been farsighted, cunning, brutal when necessary, and merciful when it was safe to be so. And now the Clericuzio Family was at the height of its power, seemingly safe from any attack. Soon it would disappear into the legal fabric of society and become invulnerable.

For he was responsible for their lives, he was the root of their good fortune, and so he could not falter in his duty. He must be strict in his judgment. If a man betrayed him, if a man damaged the integrity of his world, that man must be punished and restrained even if it meant a sentence of death. There could be no excuse, no mitigating circumstance, no appeal to pity. What must be done must be done. His son Giorgio had once called him archaic. He accepted that this could not be otherwise.

But Don Domenico had not survived so long by being optimistically shortsighted. He could spot a malignant weed before it popped its head above the ground. The great danger now was internal, the rise of Dante, his growing into manhood in a manner not entirely satisfactory to the Don.

Then there was Cross, enriched by the Gronevelt legacy, actually making a major move without Family supervision. The young man had started so brilliantly, nearly becoming a Qualified Man, like his father, Pippi. Then the Virginio Ballazzo job had turned him finicky. And after being excused from operational duties by the Family because of his tender heart, he had gone back into the field for his own personal gain and executed that man Skannet. Without the permission of the Don himself. But Don Clericuzio excused himself for condoning these actions, for his rare sentimentalities. Cross was trying to escape his world and enter another. Though these actions were or could be the seeds of treason, Don Clericuzio understood. Still, Pippi and Cross combined would be a threat to the Family. Also, the Don was not unaware of Dante's hatred for the De Lenas. Pippi was too clever not to know this also, and Pippi was a dangerous man. An eye must be kept on him despite his proven loyalty.

The Don's forbearance sprang from a fondness for Cross and a love for Pippi, his old and faithful soldier, his sister's son. After all, they had Clericuzio blood. He was truly more worried about the danger to the Family presented by Dante.

Dante at the age of ten was an exuberant, slyly humorous child. He was a good athlete with great physical coordination. He loved to talk, especially with his grandfather, and he had long secret conversations with his mother, Rose Marie. But then, after the age of ten, he became malicious and crude. He fought with boys his own age with inappropriate intensity. He teased girls mercilessly and with an innocent lewdness that was shocking though funny. He tortured small animals -- not necessarily significant with small boys, as the Don knew -- but he tried once to drown a smaller boy in the school swimming pool.

Not that the Don was particularly judgmental of these things. After all, children were animals, civilization had to be drummed into their brains and backsides. There had been children like Dante who had grown up to be saints. What disturbed the Don was his loquacity, his long conversations with his mother, and most of all, his small disobediences to the Don himself.

Don Clericuzio had always been a fond and loving grand-father to Dante. The two had been very close until the boy was about ten years old and a certain disenchantment had settled in. The Don detected traits in the boy's character that troubled him.

But even all this would not have been enough to make the Don wary of his grandchild or lessen his affection; anyone of his blood was naturally exempt. But as Dante grew older he grew more contrary to the Don's dreams of his future.

Perhaps what disturbed the Don as well, who was in awe of the vagaries of nature, was that at the age of fifteen, Dante stopped growing. He remained at the height of five feet three inches. Doctors were consulted and agreed that at the most he would grow three more inches, and not to the usual Clericuzio family height of six feet. The Don considered Dante's short stature to be a danger signal, as he also considered twins. He claimed that while birth was a blessed miracle, twins were going too far. There had been a soldier in the Bronx Enclave who had fathered triplets, and the Don, horrified, bought them a grocery store in Portland, Oregon, a good living but a lonely one. The Don also had superstitions about left-handed people, and those who stuttered. Whatever anyone said, these could not be good signs. Dante was naturally left-handed.

The hats -- nobody knew where he got them -- were made of colorful iridescent thread; some were round, some were rectangular, and they rode on his head as if they were on water. They seemed to make him taller, handsomer, and more likable. Partly because they were clown like and disarming, partly because they balanced his two profiles. The hats suited him. They disguised his hair, jet black and ropey as with all the Clericuzio.

Dante quit school in his sixteenth year and immediately pushed his nose into Family affairs. He worked for Vincent in his restaurant. He was a popular waiter and earned huge tips because of his quickness and his wit. Tiring of that, he worked for two months in Giorgio's Wall Street office but hated it and showed no aptitude, despite Giorgio's earnest attempts to teach him the intricacies of paper wealth. Finally he settled in with Petie's construction company and loved working with the Enclave soldiers. He was proud of his body, which grew more and more muscular. But in all this he acquired to some degree certain characteristics of his three uncles, which the Don noted with pride. He had Vincent's directness, Giorgio's coolness, and Petie's ferocity. Somewhere along the way, he established his own personality, what he truly was: sly, cunning, devious, but with a sense of fun that could be charming. And it was then he began wearing his Renaissance hats.

One day in the den, where Silvio's photo still occupied the place of honor, Dante asked his grandfather, "How did he die?"

"Because he's dead," Dante said with a sly grin, and it took the Don a few moments to realize that this raw youth had dared to make such a joke.

The Don said shortly, "An accident."

The Don was startled by all this. Dante was still only fifteen. "Why would this be true?" the Don asked.

The Don also knew that Dante roamed and searched his office suite in the house when the Don was down at dinner. This did not disturb him, children were always curious about the old and the Don never had anything on paper that would divulge information of any kind. Don Clericuzio had a huge blackboard in a corner of his brain that was chalked with all necessary information, including the totals of all the sins and virtues of those dearest to him.

"He was your favorite son, right?" Dante asked.

But as Don Clericuzio became more wary of Dante, he showed him even more affection, assuring the boy he was to be one of the heirs to his Family Empire. And rebukes and admonitions were given the boy by his uncles, primarily Giorgio.

The Don heard his daughter, Rose Marie, calling him to dinner in the kitchen where they ate when it was just the two of them. He went in, sat in the chair in front of the large, colorful bowl of angel hair pasta covered with tomatoes and fresh basil from his garden. She put the silver bowl of grated cheese before him, the cheese was very yellow, which proved its nutty sweetness. Rose Marie came to sit opposite him. She was gay and cheerful, and he was delighted by her good humor. Tonight there would be none of her terrible fits. She was as she had been before the Santadio War.

What a tragedy that had been, one of the few mistakes he had made, one that proved a victory was not always a victory. But who would have thought that Rose Marie would remain forever a widow? Lovers always loved again, he'd always believed that. At that moment the Don felt an overpowering affection for his daughter. She would excuse Dante's small sins. Rose Marie leaned over and gave the Don's grizzled head an affectionate caress.

Finally, the Don despaired of Dante joining the retreat into a legal society and gave his permission for Dante to train to be a Hammer.

He took a huge spoonful of the grated cheese and felt its nutty heat against his gums. He sipped his wine and watched Rose Marie carve the leg of lamb. She served him three crusty brown potatoes, glossy with fat. His troubled mind cleared. Who was better than him?

He was in such a good mood that he let Rose Marie persuade him to watch television with her in the sitting room for the second time that week.

After watching four hours filled with horror, he said to Rose Marie, "Is it possible to live in such a world where everyone does what he pleases? No one is punished by God or man and no one has to earn a living? Are there such women who follow every whim? Men such foolish weaklings, who succumb to every little desire, every little dream of happiness? Where are the honest husbands who work to earn their bread, who think of the best ways to protect their children from fate and the cruel world? Where are the people who understand a piece of cheese, a glass of wine, a warm house at the end of the day is reward enough? Who are these people who yearn for some mysterious happiness? What an uproar they make of life, what tragedies they brew up out of nothing." The Don patted his daughter on the head and waved at the television screen with a dismissive hand. He said, "Let them all swim at the bottom of the ocean." Then he gave her a final piece of wisdom. "Everyone is responsible for everything he does."

He pondered what steps he could take to prevent future tragedy. His love for his daughter and grandson washed over him, that was what made old age worthwhile. He would simply have to protect them as best he could. Then he was angry with himself. Why was he always foreseeing tragedy? He had solved all the problems in his life and he would solve this one.

That night, alone in his bedroom, the Don stepped out on his balcony. The houses in the compound were all brightly illuminated; he could hear the thwack of tennis balls on the tennis court and see the players underneath its bank of lights. There were no children playing outdoors so late. He could see the guards on the gate and around the house.

Still, his mind whirled with plans. He thought of Senator Wavven. For years he had given the man millions of dollars to get legislation passed to ensure legalized gambling. But the senator was slippery. It was too bad that Gronevelt was not still alive; Cross and Giorgio did not have the necessary skill to prod him. Perhaps the gambling empire would never come to pass.

Then he thought of his old friend David Redfellow, now living so comfortably in Rome. Perhaps it was time to bring him back into the Family. It was all very well for Cross to be so forgiving of his Hollywood partners. After all, he was young. He could not know that one sign of weakness might be fatal. The Don decided he would summon David Redfellow from Rome to do something about the movie business.