It was almost dawn when the plane touched down in New York. Wilmer was refreshed--he had slept during the flight. Most of the other passengers had fidgeted. Air travel was still too new for most people to feel comfortable with it. But Wilmer was a cold-blooded assassin--or had been, till he joined up with Sam. He was able to sleep anywhere, under any circumstances, because he had to be--survival often depended on being quick and alert.

He picked up his single bag, wondering if the baggage handlers had thought anything about its weight, wondering if they had speculated on what it might contain. They hadn't checked, or he'd be surrounded by security by now.

He stood in front of the terminal and watched the sun rise, considering whether or not it was too early to go to the Corleone house. They'd be on alert now, and on edge. It wouldn't be safe for anyone to just show up--especially someone like Wilmer. The Corleone soldiers would smell danger on him. He decided that it would be prudent to call ahead. He'd also like to get some idea of the atmosphere he'd be walking into.

Wilmer went to the bank of public phones and dialed the familiar number. The voice that answered was terse. "Yeah?"

"I remembered you as being more talkative, Clemenza."

"Who the hell is this?"

"An old friend of the family. The Don sent me out to California years ago to take care of a little business, and I stayed. I heard there was trouble, and I'm back."

"Wilmer!" The old man's voice was happily surprised. "You son-of-a-bitch! When did you get into town?"

"About ten minutes ago."

"How did you know about all this?"

Wilmer never gave up more information than he had to, so he didn't mention Michael's call. He just said, "They have newspapers back there, too, ya know."

"Yeah, yeah, you was always readin' the papers. Look, don't bother with gettin' a hotel, huh? We got plenty of room here, and we can use all the good men we can get."

"Thanks, I'll do that. Tell the boys to be looking for me--I don't wanna get my hair parted the hard way." He hung up on Clemenza's gritty laughter.

The cab ride out to the Corleone compound was silent. The hack was a seasoned pro, well able to gauge the mood of his passengers. He took one look at Wilmer as the slender man was hefting his own case into the back seat, and knew that chitchat would be a bad idea. He was sure of it when the two men, hands inside their dark coats, stepped out into the street in front of him. The passenger didn't seem at all surprised. As one of the men approached cautiously, the passenger put both hands flat on the top of the seat, leaving them resting, calm and still, in plain sight.

The guard paused while still a couple of yards from the taxi, and bent down. His eyes flicked quickly and efficiently over the driver, then moved on to a more thorough study of the passenger. Finally he said, "Wilmer?" The man nodded. "Hold on. Someone will be down from the house in a minute." The man paused, remembering what he had heard about the small, pale man sitting in the back of the taxi, and decided that a little appeasement wouldn't be out of place. "You understand, right?" Wilmer nodded, expressionless.

In a moment they hear a motor approaching, and a car came down the drive, stopping at the gate. The door opened, and Clemenza hauled himself out of the driver's side, grunting and swearing. He shuffled the few feet to the gate and peered through, expression both fierce and anticipatory. Wilmer, hands still in place, leaned over to peer out the window so the old man could get a good look. Clemenza's craggy face split in a huge grin, and he held out his hands in greeting. "Hey! The prodigal comes home." He gestured at the guards. "Let 'im in, let 'im in. Don't keep the man waitin' in the street like a common mendicante."

Wilmer climbed out of the cab, reached in, and took out his suitcase. The guard started to reach for it. Wilmer didn't say anything--he just pulled the bag back, giving the man a flat look. Clemenza called. "Sciocco! Leave that alone. Get out of his way, eh? You," he pointed at the second guard. "Open the fuckin' gate." As Wilmer walked over to the gate, Clemenza said, "Wilmer, I'm sorry about not lettin' him drive you to the door, but..."

Wilmer waved away the apology. "I'd be damn worried if you had."

Clemenza nodded. "I knew you'd understand, but still I apologize. A good soldier like you deserves respect. Tell you what, paisan, you drive us back. I hate drivin'." He grinned. "It's a measure of what I think of you, huh, kid? I couldn't wait for a driver, I come down myself."

As Wilmer got behind the wheel he said, "You didn't have to do that. I do a lot of walking over in Cali--I'm fit."

Clemenza had settled his bulk into the passenger seat. As Wilmer backed around and headed for the house, he said, "I can see that. Damn, you don't look a day older than you did when we sent ya out there. You discover the fuckin' fountain of youth or somethin'? Share the secret with an old man."

"Clean living and a clear conscience," Wilmer said blandly.

Clemenza chuckled. "Yeah. Either that or you're like that English fag my granddaughter had to read about in school--what's his name? Dorian something."

Wilmer's expression didn't change, but his hands tightened slightly on the wheel. He knew that Clemenza was making a joke--he couldn't have any idea of Wilmer's relationship with Sam. Still, he could feel his nerves pulling just a little tighter. He wondered if anyone in the family had any idea of what had transpired between Michael and Sonny. *Probably not. If anyone suspected, I can't believe that word wouldn't have gotten back to the Don, and if he knew... Shit, I don't know. He loves Sonny, but Michael is his heart.*

A man was waiting at the door when they pulled up, ready to take the car around the side of the house. They wanted to keep the approach to the house unobstructed, with a clear line of fire--just in case. They stepped into the front hall, and Clemenza called out, "Sonny! Michael! Get your asses down here, you lazy bums. You got company."

As Wilmer set down his suitcase, Sonny appeared at the top of the stairs. His face lit up. "Wilmer! Hot damn!" He hurried down, then gripped Wilmer's hand, pumping it, while he slapped him on the shoulder. "Son of a bitch, it's good to see you. I should have known you'd be back. You'd never let Dad face something like this without you."

Michael had appeared at the top of the stairs. Wilmer was always observant--very little escaped him. He noticed the bandage that didn't quite conceal the spreading bruise on Michael's cheek. He saw the dark circles under the young man's eyes, and the rumpled clothes. Most particularly, he noted that Michael had come from the same direction as Santino, and that his expression was both bleak and pained.

He resisted the urge to try to crush the bones in Sonny's hand. It just wouldn't be sensible. Wilmer was a realist--he knew that he couldn't best Sonny in a purely physical confrontation, not even with the element of surprise, and he had little macho pride when it came to survival. Besides, he didn't need to be distracted from the main reason he'd come--to help protect the Don. There would be plenty of time later to make Sonny pay.

Wilmer smiled at Sonny, shoving down the hatred so that it wouldn't show on his face, or in his eyes. "Don Corleone has been good to me." He looked at Michael, catching his eyes. "I don't abandon the people I care about." Wilmer wanted to offer the simple reassurance of an embrace, but he knew that it was impossible. He had to settle for trying to let his love and reassurance flow through his grip as they shook hands. "Michael."

"Thanks for coming." He touched his bandage. "I go through the war without really being hurt, then come home and a crooked Mick cop busts my chops." His eyes were saying more. They were saying, 'Listen closely. Sonny didn't do it.'

"Well, there's someone else who has a lot to answer for." Wilmer's tone was even, but Michael could read eyes, too. Wilmer's were saying, 'This time.'

"The answerin' has started," said Sonny. "I had the boys take out Bruno Tattaglia last night."

Everyone stared at him. Michael said, "Sonny..."

"It was before I went up to check on you, Mikey. We had to respond."

Clemenza sighed heavily. "Sonny, couldn't you have held off a little while?"

Sonny's jaw lifted stubbornly, a pugnacious glint coming into his eyes. "You gonna start second-guessing me now?"

"No, I just..."

"Who's in charge right now?"

They stared at him. Finally Clemenza said slowly, "You. But Sonny--your father isn't dead yet. You couldn't wait a coupla more hours till you could talk to him about this?"

"There's no reason to bother him about this. He's sick, he should rest, not have to worry."

*He will, thought,* thought Wilmer. *He knows how Sonny is, and the second he's aware enough to know what happens, his stress is gonna go through the roof. Jackass still hasn't learned that restraint can be just as effective as a hard strike.*

Michael was shifting. He said, "Look, what are we doing--keeping Wilmer standing in the hall like this? C'mon, I'll show you to a room."

"Yeah, you do that," said Sonny. "But you both come down pretty soon. Don't go lockin' yourself up to go over old times. All hands on deck, eh?"

Michael led Wilmer upstairs, taking him to one of the bedrooms. "This was Connie's room. Ma did it over when she moved out--made it a little less girlie." Wilmer was putting his case on the bed, opening it. "Maybe she should have waited a little while. Connie and Carlo aren't getting along too good. Maybe she'll leave him."

"Italian women don't leave their husbands, Mike." Wilmer was reaching into the case, under the clothes.

"This isn't the turn of the century. Connie's a modern woman, and that SOB beats... he used to beat her. Sonny went after him, and he eased up some, but I think he still hits her sometimes... Wilmer, what the hell?"

Wilmer was holding a gun--heavy, black, and deadly. "I couldn't very well wear it while I was traveling, Mike. Air marshals get really pissy if a passenger is armed." He slipped it into his shoulder holster. "That's better. I feel naked without it." He went to Michael, laying a hand on his shoulder. "How are you?"

Michael's eyes shifted. "I'm okay." Wilmer stared at him silently. Michael took a deep breath. "I'm not good, but... But I can handle it. The important thing is that we make sure Pop is safe."

"What about you, Michael? Are you safe?"

Michael thought about pretending that he didn't know what Wilmer was talking about, but when he looked into the other man's grave, concerned face--he couldn't. He sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. Wilmer sat beside him, saying quietly, "Did it happen again?"

Micheal didn't move, didn't look at him. "No." He paused. "Not--really. He... he didn't hurt me."

"But he didn't leave you alone, either." It was a statement, not a question.

When Michael looked up, there were tears standing in his eyes. "I knew he was going to do it. The second I saw him in the door to the bedroom, I knew. Hell, even before that. And I didn't do anything!" He suddenly clenched his hands into fists, bringing them down hard on his own thighs. "Nothing." He pounded again, harder. "Nothing!"

Wilmer grabbed his wrists, holding firm, keeping him from striking himself again, though Micheal strained to do so. "Stop it. Don't hurt yourself like this."

"Wilmer, I just laid there like a fucking rabbit caught in the headlights, waiting to be run down." His voice fell to a whisper. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Mike, you know that saying, 'time heals all wounds'? It's bullshit. Time may let something scab over, but if the wound isn't treated, the healing is only half-way. It's like a badly broken leg that isn't set right. It might knit to the point that you can hobble around on it, but it will be crooked, and there will always be pain. You never got what you needed to heal proper. If I let go, are you going to be sensible?"

Michael nodded, and the older man released his wrists. Michael ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Maybe now things can ease up some." He looked at Wilmer. "He apologized. He said he was sorry for what he did."

"Yeah?"

Wilmer sounded supremely unconvinced, and Michael remembered thinking that an apology from Sonny was like an apology from a small child--something recited to make things easy again--very little real regret involved. "Yeah."

"But he used you again."

"I... not exactly. He... What he did..."

"He let you fuck him?" Michael felt the blood sweep into his cheeks at the bluntness of the crude question. "No."

"Didn't think so."

"But he... Wilmer, he... he sucked me."

Wilmer grunted. "And you think that sucking cock can't be an aggressive act?" He smiled tightly. "All this, and you're still a little naive. Did you ask him to stop?"

Michael's voice was a whisper. "At first."

Wilmer closed his eyes briefly. At last he said quietly, "Mike, it doesn't matter if it ended up feeling good. Answer one question, honestly. Did you want it?"

Michael was quiet for a long moment, and Wilmer could see doubt and emotion flickering in his expression. Finally Michael said simply, "No." He quickly took Wilmer's hand, his voice ernest, and said, "But it's a sickness with him, Wilmer. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

Michael was relaxing a little, when they heard Clemenza call from downstairs. "Wilmer, Mike! Get down here! Tom's here. Those bastards snatched him, then sent him back with a message."

Michael jumped up and ran out the door. Wilmer got up and followed more slowly, thinking, *I understand. That doesn't mean I forgive.*