The air in my lungs freezes at his statement. At the name. Not once, in thirty-six years, has my father ever called me Jacob, even though it’s what my mother called me, to his great dismay. To hear it from his lips now? It’s a plea. And Salvatore Ricci didn’t become head of the Brooklyn syndicate by begging for anything. “How long?” “The doctors say three to six months, depending on treatment.” “Does anyone else know?” If the news got out that my father is sick, there’s no telling what our enemies would attempt. “Only Paulie.” He pauses. “For now.” Paulie Lasco. My adopted uncle, and my
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