82. The Call To Arms

DON VITO

The air was warm and heavy with the smell of the lemon trees that lined the porch. I had always liked this hour, when the sun was sliding down and the shadows were long, but even that small pleasure couldn't keep the fatigue from settling in my bones.

The phone call had been pleasant enough, if you could call a man groveling pleasant. Governor Ruthford was a politician like all the rest, good at smiling and making promises, but bad at delivering. He wanted my support for his campaign, and he knew the price. Men like him always think they can strike a deal without getting their hands dirty, but that's the trouble with these modern types. They don't understand that real power is not in handshakes and speeches. It's in the fear a man feels when he realizes you own his next breath.

I set the phone down on the small table beside me, leaned back in my chair, and let the silence settle in. The world had gone soft. You could see it in the eyes of the young men who thought they could