Troy, New York, Seven AM.

  Thirteen miles north of Albany, the town of Troy awoke. In drive-through lanes at coffee shops, impatience first-shifters swore at puttering cars driven by bleary eyed third-shifters. Schoolbuses rattled along, their flashing lights glowing in the late October fog. Beyond the hazy highway, the Hudson rolled on, its waters reflecting the gentle rise of hills, their slopes bedecked with maples, elms, birches, and oaks. A wind stirred the branches like participants in a seventh-inning stretch, tossing their loosely held leaves to the air in an extravaganza of serenity and color.

  Amid the pumpkins and corn stalks in the neighborhood of Pleasantdale, amid a high-fenced grove of trees, a three-story Victorian squatted. The home, fit for the historical record, had been renovated from basement to third-floor balcony. As young dawn, with her rose-red fingers, peaked over the foothills of the Hudson River valley, her quickening rays fell upon the figure lost in thought upon the self-same balcony.

  A woman, slender, wrapped in a coat against the early frost. Her dark brown hair, cinched into a bun, rested on the coat’s ermine trimmed nape. slender, while fingers with just the hint of age held a mug, ceramic and cream colored, her palms savoring the warmth of the beverage inside.

  Matilda Fusco stared blankly ahead, oblivious both to the Hudson's mists and the steam rising from her caramel macchiato.

  Dammit, she thought, sipping her drink and watching a swan slip serenely along the Hudson, its migration paused to enjoy a restful interlude.

  Robbie "the Wrench" Capatta, Consiglieire of the Albany Famiglia, and Matilda’s right hand man stood at her door, hands folded behind his back. "Someone to see you, Boss." he squinted at the river through a newly blackened eye.

  “I don’t have anything scheduled. Not at this hour.” she paused, then gave Capatta a sharp look. “Who is it? And how did they find my house?”

  “Some German. Showed up downtown in one of our rentals, all shot to shit. Security tried to detain him. He was a little…persuavive.”

  “Dios mio, one of those mercenaries from yesterday?”

  “Looks like it. He said he wanted to talk to the Don. says he has intel.”

  Matilda arched a well trimmed eyebrow. “Intel? We in some sort of spy novel now?”

  Capatta shrugged. “Like I said. He was persuasive. Said he has information on someone."

  "Of course he does." Matilda rolled her eyes. "Everybody has info on someone. Hell, I bet those geese down there got info on someone. Who's this spook trying to sink?"

  And then Capatta said a name Matilda had not expected. A powerful name, one that had the power to open doors and close caskets, before its owner lost her trust—and broke her heart.

  "Tony. Tony Dalotto."

  Matilda's head twitched, her chin retracting from the coffee cup, from the river with its swans and color-lit foliage. The macchiato turned sour in her mouth. She looked at the mug with distaste and set it on the railing.

  "Bring him up," she said.

  "Right away, Boss." Capatta bobbed his head, letting the eight pane glass door close as he left. The glass, dark as a mirror, reflected the hills, the balcony, and Matilda’s fur-wrapped form. She stepped closer, and gazed at her reflected image.

  Ten years.

  It had been ten years since she'd seen him. Sweet Tony Dalotto. She looked the same. The dye cost more, and came more often. The makeup lay an extra layer deep. Other than that, she was the same. On the surface, anyway.

  Things had changed. She ran the famiglia, since her father’s death. Dio, has it been three years?

  Let it go,” he had wheezed, while the priest looked on, rosary loose in his pale fingers. “Forgive, and forget about it. Build the family again. I think the best revenge is a comfortable life, to succeed despite the Judases and Brutuses.” Then, he fell silent, the only noise in the room was her mother’s sobs, and Father Pelari’s mumbled prayers.

  Her father died that day, a shadow of his former self. Later on, after the funeral, after the black umbrellas and lace veils had been packed away, her mother offered an alternative philosophy.

  The door opened again. Capatta entered first, followed by a man Matilda had never seen before. Tall, dressed in battered fatigues, his face still dirty from some horrendous ordeal. A trigger man of some sort. A killer, not for passion, but at the command of other men.

  She knew the type, though of a different flavor. This one was a soldier—he had the bearing, despite looking more than half dead.

  "Ma'am," the stranger said, his voice flat and precise. German accent, barely detectable. "I apologize for intruding on your time. I am in need of information. In exchange for your assistance, I will give you some fresh intel of imminent interest."

  Matilda didn't offer her hand. She gestured to a wrought-iron chair across from her own. "Sit. Capatta, get our guest a drink. Please."

  Lukas sat, posture perfect, hands resting on his knees. His blood-red eyes wandered from her face to the horizon and back in a lazy, undirected flow. An alert man waging a losing war against exhaustion. Like a dog in a bear trap, Matilda thought.

  "Capatta said you'd mentioned Tony Dalotto," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "I'm listening."

  "I know where he is."

  "Mister… I'm sorry, I never caught your name."

  "I am Lukas." The gaunt man bowed his head.

  "Mister Lukas, do you know what a cornucopia is?"

  Lukas raised his eyebrows, eyes darting about as he tried to remember the obtuse word. "It is a horn of plenty, is it not?"

  "Indeed. Used to go over big with the pilgrims. We use them as decorations now, but Mister Lukas, you gotta understand—over the last decade I have had a veritable cornucopia of informants drop by with information that may lead to the apprehension of one Tony Dalotto. And you know how many of them turned out to be frauds?"

  "I would imagine a great deal."

  "You would imagine correctly." Matilda leaned forward, resting her fur-ensconced arms on the tabletop, hands pressed together in entreaty. "So you must understand, Mister Lukas, that I am in the unfortunate position to vet my sources prior to committing to either reward or action. So how can I ascertain that what you will tell me is the truth?"

  Lukas leaned back slightly. He stared into a face of polite and wary disbelief. "He's older, probably in his sixties. Balding, with a gut. Owns an unregistered and highly illegal Thompson submachine gun."

  "Anybody with a back subscription to the Times Union could tell me that, soldier boy. You'll have to do better than that."

  Lukas closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. The man sat still, long enough that Matilda wondered if he'd nodded off. Finally, his eyes opened and flicked towards her hands. "A ring."

  "Ring?" Involuntarily, she leaned forward.

  "Yes. Not on his finger. On a chain, around his neck."

  A door latch clicked. Capatta appeared, pushing backwards through the white and glass door with a coffee set on a silver tray in his hands. He set the steaming pot, cups, and porcelain containers of cream, sugar cubes, and cinnamon sticks on the table between them and stood back, hands folded in front of him, beside the door frame.

  "That sounds like Tony," Matilda said. "What did the ring look like?"

  "I didn't get that close," Lukas replied. "I was too busy avoiding the forty-five caliber rounds he was pouring in my general direction."

  "He shot at you? Personally?" Matilda's eyebrows rose to new heights.

  "Hard not to take it personally," Lukas replied.

  The head of the Albany mafia turned away from her guest. She shared an unspoken moment with her Consigliere. He shrugged. "Yeah, that sounds like him."

  "It does," she agreed, turning once more to face Lukas. "Is this the reason for your current dishevelment?"

  "A contributing factor."

  "This is fresh." Matilda Fusco squeezed her hands together into fists, knuckles whitening and popping. "Where is he?"

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Lukas held up a filthy hand, giving his hostess a momentary glimpse of broken, dirt-filled nails. "I will tell you. But first, I need assurance you will help me with my request."

  The balcony shook as Capatta stepped forward, his eyes narrowed. "That ain't how this works, pal."

  "A moment," Matilda said, stopping her consigliere's advance with a single raised finger. "Mister Lukas, my blunt associate is correct. Despite your verisimilitude, we do not normally guarantee favors before receiving our remuneration."

  "Then we are at an impasse." Lukas met her gaze.

  "Normally, yes, we would be. However—" She glanced again at the visitor's dirt-stained fingers. "—I have a gut feeling that you will provide what you have said. So we will proceed. What information exactly are you seeking, Mister Lukas?"

  "I need to find someone. A man named H. Caine. He set us up."

  Matilda considered this. "I will be frank, Mister Lukas. H. Caine is not a name I recognize. I don't think he, or she, is part of our close-knit and highly specialized family business. How do you propose we assist you here?"

  "Caine built my team's target package. Gave us the flight plan. Rented a suitable vehicle. A vehicle which your… close-knit family business provided. I'd start there."

  She gestured to Capatta. "Call Munoz. Have him check the invoices."

  Capatta nodded and left the balcony. Matilda studied Lukas while they waited.

  "You speak English well. Is this your first time in America?"

  "No. Though it may be my longest visit."

  "Big country," Matilda continued. "Easy for a man to get lost in."

  "Get me Caine, and I will not lose him."

  "Oh, no, of course—you're clearly a professional," Matilda replied, her tone conveying the utmost sincerity. "I was thinking of the odds of a foreign national making it home clean after dealing with their personal mission. What are your plans?"

  "I have not thought that far ahead." Lukas frowned. "Why are you asking?"

  "Curiosity."

  "A vice. Deadly one," Lukas replied.

  "Most things are, given a long enough timeline," Matilda replied. "Of course, curiosity isn't a color, just a shade, visible in every passion. Fear, lust, greed, vengeance."

  "Vengeance is not usually listed as an emotion," Lukas said.

  "Listed or not, it must be. A passion is something that drives you. Curiosity is what has granted you this audience and your request. And it is your own curiosity, and vengeance, that has led you to risk your life for a scrap of a name."

  The German tilted his head to the side. He looked away, over the Hudson and the shore beyond. Matilda wondered where he had spent the last twenty four hours—and how his ill-fated mission crossed paths with her own sworn adversary.

  The door bumped open. Capatta again, sliding a phone into a pocket of his gray slacks. “Munoz followed the money. Only it wasn’t money. They paid in crypto.”

  "Of course they did," Matilda sighed.

  "What does that mean?" Lukas asked.

  "Cryptocurrency. Digital funds. Untraceable. You've heard of Bitcoin?" Matilda saw recognition flicker across the German's face. "Well, that's just the most well-known variety. There's a thousand more, at least. Most are dead ends, get-rich-quick schemes from tech bros. They don't go anywhere. But some take off."

  "Remember that one guy who tried to pay his fire insurance in monkey pictures?" Capatta asked.

  "Yes. Hilarious," Matilda said flatly. "Like I said, most go nowhere. But a few of the more abstract ones have taken off."

  "So H. Caine's payment is a dead end?" Lukas asked.

  "Well, there's untraceable, and then there's untraceable." Matilda sipped her coffee, eyes closed in concentration. "Capatta, what variety of crypto did our H. Caine employ?"

  "The one with the cartoon dog."

  "What, Dogecoin?"

  "No, the other one." Capatta rubbed his fingers together, lips moving silently as if trying to recall some lines from a junior high play. "Scruff coin? No… Scruffbucks!"

  "Scruffbucks." Matilda's iPhone was out, fingers dancing across the screen as she searched the currency's origins. "The official crypto of Tetherly Incorporated. Though it sounded familiar."

  "Tetherly," Lukas looked unconvinced. "The social network has its own currency?"

  "Those micro-transactions add up, believe you me," Capatta interjected.

  "Small potatoes," Matilda said, shooting an icy glare at her consigliere. "Social network is only the beginning of what Tetherly does. You know they have their software in sixty percent of the appliances sold in New York last year? And that's not counting the ones with actual Tetherly chips running their programs. They've got their tentacles into everything."

  "I'm confused. Why would a website for college students and grandparents want to own appliances?"

  “The internet of things, Mister Lukas. Tetherly isn't the first tech company to grab the public by the short hairs, just the most successful. With their founder, Thomas Newton, donating substantial portions of his fortune to philanthropic causes, No one raises a stink about Tetherly.” Matilda Fusco looked up from her phone. She tapped her index finger against the white ceramic handle of her coffee cup, studying her guest’s bearing. His calloused hands, his blood-stained fatigues, the hollows beneath his eyes. "Or maybe they do raise a stink. But those voices have a way of getting snuffed out before the echo fades."

  "I am not connected to Tetherly," Lukas replied. "I work for Horus Overwatch."

  "And who owns that lovely company?"

  "We are independent, paid per the mission by…" The visitor trailed off.

  "You don't know?" Matilda shook her head in sincere wonderment. "Incredible. You fly around the globe, killing for a living, without any idea who signs the paychecks. Maybe you should ask this guy."

  Matilda slid her iPhone across the table, screen alight. Lukas leaned forward. The glowing screen revealed a personnel section of the Tetherly corporate website. In the top left corner, a man with hollow eyes, perfect hair, and a clean-shaved, expressionless face. Young, handsome, and affluent. Assistant vice president of human resources, Los Angeles campus.

  Hadley Caine.

  "Los Angeles. California." Nostrils flaring, Lukas stood, chair scraping backwards across the planks as he rose.

  "Not so fast, soldier boy." Matilda leaned forward. "Where is Tony Dalotto?" Capatta took a casual step to the side, blocking the door with his formidable frame.

  "I saw him in the town of Sanguine Springs."

  She screwed up her face. "Where the hell is that?" Capatta shrugged, pulling the phone from his trousers while keeping an eye on Lukas.

  "North, two hours." Lukas pulled a blood-stained New York State tourist map from his pocket. He unfolded it, laying it flat on the patio table while Matilda pulled the coffee tray out of the way. Lukas found Lake Placid, then jabbed his finger against the mountains three inches to the north. "Take exit 30. North on 9N. Bear right in Jay. You'll know you're there when you see the smoke."

  "Smoke?" Matilda cocked her head.

  "One of the houses blew up—while I was inside."

  Capatta let out a low whistle. "Tony did that?"

  "No. Someone else."

  Matilda and Capatta looked at each other. "Sounds like quite a fiasco," she said.

  "That is one way of putting it."

  "It's there, like he said," Capatta said, staring at the map on his phone. "Place ain't even a map dot."

  Matilda studied the map, oblivious to its dampened pages. Sanguine Springs. An effective place to disappear.

  "Capatta," she said, without looking up. "Mister Lukas is in rough shape. It is uncharitable of us to leave him as such. See to it he gets cleaned up. New clothes. Cash. Whatever he needs for his westward journey."

  "But Boss—"

  She held up a hand. "No. No buts. His information is good. We honor our agreements." She finally looked up, meeting her consigliere's dubious expression. "Besides, I want tabs on him. All the way to California."

  Capatta eyed Matilda warily, still not following her train of thought. "What are you saying, boss?"

  "Tony Dalotto is a marked man. But he is our marked man. If Tetherly is calling in hits on our territory, affecting one of our former associates, I want answers." Matilda turned to Lukas. "You go, Mister Lukas. Satisfy your curiosities, and your vengeance. Mister Capatta will be an asset to your personal mission."

  Lukas shook his head. "I do not need any assistance. This is a personal matter."

  "As is Tony, to me." Matilda replied. "Capatta is with you. I insist. Not because we don't trust you—"

  "But because you don't trust me," Lukas finished.

  "See? You're learning already." She gestured to Capatta. "Get him sorted. And then—" She paused, her fingers drumming once more against the coffee cup. The rhythm slower now. Deliberate. "After, I want you to assemble a team. Six men. Good ones. Ones who knew my father, and will do what I say."

  Capatta's expression shifted. Understanding dawned. "You're going upstate without me?"

  "I am." Matilda's voice dropped, her eyes distant, focused on something beyond the balcony, beyond the Hudson's chilly flow. "It's been ten years since the day of the wedding. It's time I paid my fiancé a visit. Personally."

  "Boss, you can't—" Capatta stepped forward. "Not without backup. Tony's dangerous. You said it yourself, the guy's got a Thompson and he ain't afraid to use it."

  "Which is why I'm bringing the team." Matilda's tone left no room for argument. "Six good men. That's plenty."

  "Let me come with you. Send someone else west with the German."

  "No." She met his eyes. "I need you with Lukas. You're my consigliere, Robbie. The only one I trust to handle this right. If Tetherly has an in-house military, and Tony's wrapped up in Tetherly, then the blowback could burn us all—I need to know. And I need someone with a brain to figure it out." She softened slightly. "Besides, you think I can't handle Tony Dalotto?"

  Capatta opened his mouth, closed it. He knew better than to answer that question.

  "I want to get there before Tony goes to ground again," Matilda continued. "He's spooked. Maybe injured. This is our window, and I'm not letting it close. You understand?"

  Capatta held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, Boss. I understand."

  "Good." Matilda said softly. She stood, the fur coat settling around her shoulders like a mantle. "Thank you, Mister Lukas. You've given me a gift I've been waiting ten years to receive. I hope you find what you're looking for in Los Angeles."

  "And I hope you find what you're looking for in Sanguine Springs," Lukas replied.

  Their eyes met. Two professionals, separated by age, sex, and nationality, united by a deadly drive for revenge.

  "Oh, I will," Matilda said. "Capatta, chop chop. Get Mister Lukas everything he needs."

  As the two men left the balcony, Matilda looked away, her mind turning to the night of her father's funeral, alone at a table with her mother, their drinks forgotten and cold.

  Her mother's eyes were reddened, but dry, with all her tears already spilled. Instead, Ma Fusco tapped her bony finger against the handle of her coffee cup, and shook her head. "Tony Dalotto," she said, breaking the long silence.

  "What about him, Ma?" Matilda had asked, numb at the thought of her cold-footed, double-crossing fiancé.

  "He was a fool. Made a fool of your father. You find that rat bastard, Matilda. You find him and kill him. Your honor, your father's honor depends on it."

  "Ma, Pops said the best revenge is a comfortable life."

  "Stronzata," her mom replied. "Your father was trying to make you feel better. You know he felt less of a man. Avenge him. The best revenge is a freshly packed grave, with your enemy inside, still screaming."

  With something like a sigh, Matilda Fusco turned back to the Hudson. The sun was higher, the mists dispersed. The swans were gone now, flown south to warmer waters. She picked up her coffee cup, and set it down again.

  The coffee had gone cold.