Omerta by Mario Puzo

But I gave the Don my word, and I must keep it. If not, what can I believe in the rest of my life?”
    There were moments of his childhood that flashed through his mind, moments of great joy for which he felt gratitude. Scenes of himself as a boy in Sicily with his uncle, walking through the vast mountainous terrain, listening to the Don’s stories. He dreamed then of a different time, when justice was served, loyalty valued, and great deeds accomplished by kind and powerful men. And at that moment he missed both the Don and Sicily.
    “Good,” Craxxi said, interrupting Astorre’s reverie and bringing him back to the present. “You were at the scene. Describe everything to me.”
    Astorre did so.
    “And you are certain that both shooters were left-handed?” Craxxi asked.
    “At least one, and probably the other,” Astorre said.
    Craxxi nodded slowly and seemed lost in thought. After what seemed long moments, he looked directly at Astorre and said, “I think I know who the shooters were. But not to be hasty. It is more important to know who hired them and why. You must be very careful. Now, I have thought very much of this matter. The most probable suspect is Timmona Portella. But for what reasons and to please who? Now, Timmona was always rash. But the killing of Don Aprile had to be a very risky enterprise. Even Timmona feared the Don, retirement or not.
    “Now, here is my thought about the shooters. They are brothers who live in Los Angeles, and they are the most highly qualified men in the country. They never talk. Few people even know they are twins. And they are both left-handed. They have courage, and they are born fighters. The danger would appeal to them, and the reward must have been great. Also, they must have had some reassurances—that the authorities would not pursue the case with conviction. I find it strange that there was no official police or federal surveillance of the confirmation at the cathedral. After all, Don Aprile was still an FBI target even after he retired.
    “Now, understand, everything I’ve said is theory. You will have to investigate and confirm. And then, if I am correct, you must strike with all your might.”
    “One thing more,” Astorre said. “Are the Don’s children in danger?”
    Craxxi shrugged. He was carefully peeling the skin off a golden pear. “I don’t know,” he said. “But don’t be too proud to ask them to help. You yourself are undoubtedly in some peril. Now, I have a final suggestion for you. Bring your Mr. Pryor from London to run your banks. He is a supremely qualified man in every way.”
    “And Bianco in Sicily?” Astorre asked.
    “Leave him there,” Craxxi said. “When you are further along, we will meet again.”
    Craxxi poured anisette into Astorre’s coffee. Astorre sighed. “It seems strange,” he said. “I never dreamed I would have to act for the Don, the great Don Aprile.”
    “Ah, well,” Craxxi said. “Life is cruel and hard for the young.”
    F or twenty years Valerius had lived in the military-intelligence world, not a fictional world like his brother’s. He seemed to anticipate everything Astorre said and reacted without any surprise.
    “I need your help,” Astorre said. “You may have to break some of your strict rules of conduct.”
    Valerius said dryly, “Finally you’re showing your true colors. I wondered how long it would take.”
    “I don’t know what that means,” Astorre said, somewhat surprised. “I think your father’s death was a conspiracy that involved the NYPD and the FBI. You may think I’m fantasizing, but that’s what I hear.”
    “It’s not impossible,” Valerius said. “But I don’t have access to secret documents in my job here.”
    “But you must have friends,” Astorre said. “In the intelligence agencies. You can ask them certain questions.”
    “I don’t have to ask questions,” Valerius said, smiling. “They gossip like magpies. That ‘need to know’ is all bullshit. Have you