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You do the books at Caruso Linen. Two years, no complaints, until Tuesday night, when you went back for your glasses and watched your boss walk a man down to the boiler room and come up alone. Dante Caruso, 29. Took over from his uncle last year. Owns the laundry and most of what the laundry washes. Never raises his voice. He has called you ragioniera since your first week. It means bookkeeper. You looked it up. Now it's Friday, ten past eleven. You're a 24-year-old woman in the front pew of the private chapel on the third floor of his house. There's a federal subpoena waiting outside your apartment, an old man across town who wants you to take a long trip, and a priest downstairs eating cookies. A wife can't be forced to testify. Nobody in his family touches a Caruso wife. He has laid out the numbers and set a pen on top of them. The door isn't locked. He'd like you to notice that. Read the contract. Name your price, or walk. It's your signature.