There were men at the gates when Michael arrived at his father's house. One of them came to the driver's side window and leaned down to study Michael. When his jacket swung open, Michael could see the gun. The other man, still by the gate called, "Hey, it's Michael. It's the Don's youngest. Get outta his face." The other man gave him a sheepish smile and went back to the gate to help the other man open it.

Up at the house another man took his car to park it, as Michael went to the door. He couldn't just walk in, because it was locked now, of course. Michael took out his key ring and sorted through the keys till he came to one. He ran his thumb over it. It had been years since he had used it, not since he'd gone away to college. Would it still work?

It turned smoothly in the lock, and he opened the door. He saw Clemenza peering at him from a sofa in the living room, his hand thrust deep between the cushions. When he saw Michael his tensed bulldog face relaxed. "Jesus, Mikey! You carryin'?" Michael didn't need to ask 'carrying what'? He shook his head. Clemenza drew his hand from between the cushions, and Michael saw that he was holding a large, ugly gun. "Good. I wouldn't wantya to blow me away, like I almost did you. Knock when shit like this is goin' down, Mikey. Knock!"

The older man got up and came over to Michael, giving him a hug. "It's good to see you, kid. Your mama, she's over in the hospital with your papa. It looks like he's going to pull through, thank God, but we need you here now. C'mon, Sonny an' Tom are in the study." Michael started down the hall, and Clemenza said, "Hey. Lock the fuckin' door, okay?"

Michael followed Clemenza down the hall to his father's study. Sonny was sitting behind the desk, talking to Tom, who stood nearby. Tessio and Paulie sat on a sofa by the wall. Clemenza said, "Hey, look who's here."

Tom came to Michael and embraced him warmly. "Mike. I'm glad you're here. The Don has asked for you. You'll go see him tomorrow, eh?"

"Sure, Tom. They're sure he's gonna be all right?"

"He'll be good. He's a tough old bird, Mike."

Sonny had come from behind the desk, and as Tom released Mike, he stepped forward. Micheal quickly held out his hand. Sonny stared at it for a moment, then slowly took it. He didn't shake, he just held it, staring into Michael's eyes. "It's good you're here, Mikey. This is were you belong. You belong with us." His eyes said, *You belong with me.* Sonny felt the slight tremble in his younger brother's hand. He didn't know whether to smile, or cry. Did it mean Michael feared him, hated him, or felt something much, much different? He let go. "Paulie, don't sit there like a lump. Take Michael's coat." He spoke to Michael again. "You'll stay here."

Michael hesitated. The others were watching him expectantly. What else could he say? He'd never be able to explain his reluctance. "Yeah, sure." Paulie slipped Michael's coat from his shoulders.

"Hang that up in the front hall, Paulie. Hey, you all right? I hear you were sick."

Paulie fidgeted, then coughed. Michael looked at him curiously. That hadn't been a very convincing cough. It sounded like something one of Sonny's eight-year-old twins might have come up with on the day they had a math test. "Yeah, but I'm all right. Gettin' better."

"You hungry? We got plenty of food here--you could check the fridge. What is that, feed a cold, starve a fever?"

"No, thanks."

"How about a drink? Couple of brandies, sweat it out of you."

"That sounds good. I may do that."

"Yeah, you do that." When Paulie left, the smile left Sonny's face, and he spoke coldly to Clemenza. "I want you to take care of that son of a bitch right away. Paulie sold out the old man, the bastard. I don't want to see him around here again. You make that your number one priority, you hear?" Clememza nodded.

Sonny took his seat again behind the desk. "So, Tom, you're consiglieri now, what do you think?"

Clemenza spoke up. "There's a lot of bad blood here--Sollozzo, Philip Tattaglia, Bruno Tattaglia, Garbone..."

Tom shook his head. "This is getting much too personal."

Michael had been leaning against a bookcase, watching in silence as the men discussed the situation. He spoke up. "You should kill all of them."

The other men grew quiet for a moment, surprised. Michael had always kept himself far away from this side of the family. He'd always been 'the citizen'. Such a blood-thirsty statement from him was startling. But they looked in his eyes and saw that he meant it.

Sonny's voice was soft. "Hey, Mikey, do me a favor--stay out of it."

Tom spoke up. "Sollazzo's the key. If we get rid of him, everyone else falls in line. What about Luca? Sollazzo thinks he may turn. If he does, I promise you that we are in a lot of trouble. What about him?"

Clemenza shrugged. "I been tryin' to get ahold of him all night, but there's no answer. Maybe he's shacked up somewhere."

"Luca? No, he never sleeps over with a broad. Mikey, do me a favor and try to ring him up, huh?" Sonny pitched him a small notebook. "Number's in there." Michael began to leaf through the notebook, reflecting that there were probably several law-enforcement agencies that would love to get their hands on it. "So Tom... Geez, I hate sayin' this, but I have to consider everything. What do we do if, God forbid, the old man don't make it?"

Tom rubbed his face. "If the Don goes, we lose our political connections and half our strength. The other New York Families might throw their support behind Sollazzo, just to avoid a long, destructive war. This is almost 1946, and we just got out of one war, and no one wants more bloodshed. You know these people--they're like jackles. They circle, looking for weakness. They smell weakness, they come in and rip you apart. If your father dies, I say make a deal, Sonny."

"That's easy for you to say, Tom. He's not your father," Sonny snapped.

Tom started to say something, but Michael, not looking up from the notebook, said softly, "He's as much Pop's son as you or me, Sonny."

Sonny looked a little embarrassed. "Gimme the notebook, kid." Michael handed it over. "Screw the phone. Tomorrow you take a couple of the boys and go hang around Luca's apartment--see if he shows up."

Tom said, "Maybe we shouldn't get Mike involved in this too directly."

Sonny said, "Maybe you're right. Mike, you should just..."

Michael gave them both a hard stare. "I should do what? Just hang around the house and answer the phone, dust a few knick-knacks? Be a big fucking help? Don't shut me out of this. I'm a Corleone."

Sonny nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, you are."

The door opened and Paulie peeked in. "Yo, Sonny. The guys on the gate sent up a package."

Sonny frowned. "A package? What kind of package?"

Paulie shrugged. He came and placed a brown paper parcel, about the size of a pillow, on the desk. It was crude, wrapped in numurous loops of knotted string. "Some guys in a car."

"Some guys in a car? Jesus Christ, what kind of fools did you put on the gate, Clemenza?" Sonny took a letter opener and began to snap the cords. "Fucking clowns at the circus are guys in cars. What the fuck is this? The funk could knock you out."

When the paper was ripped off he came upon what looked like another layer of wrapping--some sort of dark, quilted material. "It's some sort of clothing."

Clemenza came closer, prodding it. He lifted a corner and said, "Heavy." Clemenz's eyes widened, and his florid face drained of color. "Son of a bitch. It can't be."

"What?" Clemenza did not shake easily. "What is is?"

"It's a bulletproof vest. I recognize it now. It's Luca's--he never goes out on business without it."

"Shit." Sonny unwrapped the vest and the source of the smell was revealed. The large mackerel, scales flaking, mouth gaping, stared up at them with dull eyes. "A fish? What the fuck does this mean?"

Clemenza's voice was heavy. "It's a Sicilian message. It means that Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes."

It was silent in the study for a long moment. Finally Sonny said, "Well, Mikey, I guess you won't need to go out tomorrow."

"Michael, c'mere."

Michael had been slouching against the wall, watching four of the men playing poker at the kitchen table. He walked over to where Clemenza was standing at the stove. The older man was stirring a huge stock pot. He pointed Michael toward a bowl of mushrooms and a cutting board, then handed him a knife. "Slice those, no thicker than this." He held up his fingers, about a fourth of an inch apart. "I'll teach you somethin' useful. You never can tell when you'll hafta feed twenty guys."

Michael obediently began slicing mushrooms, and Clemenza continued. "All right, first you fry your onions and garlic. Use good olive oil, never that cheap crap. Believe me, it makes a difference. Just get 'em good an' soft, don't color 'em, an' be careful not to burn your garlic. You might as well throw it out if you burn it. Add your tomato paste an' chopped peppers, then your tomatoes. Try not to use the canned kind. Yeah, it takes a little longer, but you think your grandma ever used canned tomatoes? Cook it down. Add some red wine."

He demonstrated. "Taste." Clemenza smacked his lips as he tasted. "Then you add your salt an' pepper. Drop in your sausage, meatballs, mushrooms, whatever. Then..." he dipped his fingers in the sugar bowl and threw a hefty pinch into the bubbling sauce. "a little sugar. That's the secret."

Michael nodded as he scraped mushroom slices back into the bowl. Clemenza had been feeding the family's soldiers during times of 'war' since before Michael was born. He was a man of respect, someone to listen to.

The phone rang and one of the poker players, holding his hand close to his chest, answered. "Yeah?" There would be no greeting identifying the residence--if the caller had managed to reach this carefully guarded number they damn sure should know who they were calling. "Who? Who's this?" He suddenly grinned, his glance darting to Michael. "Yeah, he's here." He held out the receiver. "Hey, Mikey, it's a girl. Say's her name is Kay." His voice was falsely innocent. "you know anybody named Kay? Should I tell her she got the wrong..."

Michael wiped his hands and took the phone. All the players were snickering as the last one sat down. "Smart ass."

"Michael!"

He sighed. "Not you, Kay. This wise guy cluttering up my Ma's kitchen." He slapped the offender on the back of the head, earning a squawk from the man and more laughter from his companions. "They think it's cute to tease the baby of the family."

"Michael, are you all right?"

He rubbed his eyes wearily. "Sure, fine."

"I was worried about you."

Now he frowned, checking his watch. "Kay, it hasn't been more than four hours. Why were you worried?" Silence. He knew. He had told her about his family--their business, the people they dealt with. Her fear wasn't unreasonable, but for some reason he was irritated rather than touched. "Jesus Christ, I'm in my own home. I'm with my brothers. You think they would let anything happen to me?"

The poker players were watching him, making no pretense of disinterest. He snapped, "What? Am I talking to you?" They quickly dealt another hand. Among the family and in the world that they occupied it was widely held wisdom that you didn't fuck with Sonny Corleone, Fredo Corleone was so weak and ineffectual that he never really figured into any equation, and Michael... Michael was a citizen. He wasn't a push-over, but he wasn't a man to be feared, like his brother or his father. But that tone of voice and the sudden snap in Michael's eyes made the other men in the room think that everyone had underestimated the Don's youngest son--perhaps badly.

Kay's voice was small. "I'm sorry, but you didn't call."

Michael sighed. "Yeah, I should have. Sorry."

"How's your father?"

"Good--he's good. He's gonna make it."

"Oh, Michael! I'm so glad."

"Yeah. Look, I'm gonna stay here for awhile. I won't be able to see you for a few days."

"I could come."

"No."

"Michael?"

"No, Kay--not now. You wouldn't be *welcome... needed* comfortable. Okay?"

"Okay. You'll call me?"

"Yeah, I'll call."

"I love you, Mike."

Michael hesitated. Clemenza was watching, slowly stirring the pot. "That's nice."

"Do you love me, too?"

Michael stared at the wall. *Love you? I never said that, did I?* "Kay..."

"Can't you say it?"

Michael turned a little, putting his back to the room. "I'm not alone, Kay. There are people here."

"Oh, all right."

"I'll call."

"Good-bye, Michael."

"Yeah, take care."

He hung up and walked back to the counter. He handed the bowl of mushroom slices to Clemenza, who scraped them into the thick red sauce. "Mikey, that the girl you brought to the wedding?"

"Yeah."

"She's a nice girl, eh?"

"Yeah, Kay's nice."

"So why don't you tell that nice girl you love her?"

"What are you--a love counselor?" Clemenza shrugged. He dipped up a bit of sauce and offered it to Michael. Michael blew on it, then tasted. He smacked his lips. "I gotta tell you, Clemenza--for a love advisor, you're a real good cook