Okay. I'm ready for this.

Yeah, he was ready. Except – except he couldn't breathe. He was cold with fear, trying to squeeze air in and out of his lungs. It felt like he was up to his chin in rapidly setting concrete, his ribs crushed in by weight on every side. He'd seen the FBI photos, the victims buried alive in wet cement, lungs flooded with concrete. Ray knew what it felt like to drown. The brothers might do that to him, then slap a building on top. His permanent tombstone - a new casino or hotel, and Ma would never know.

Breathe. The reality of the situation had been sinking in, ever since he'd been picked up at the gas station, and now, finally, show time. They were in Vegas. Armando had returned to the loving arms of the Iguanas – Sal at least was convinced he was Armando – but now he had to make as grand an entrance as possible. Not just the Strip needed to see him as the Bookman, but the sullen mobster sitting opposite him, glaring from the other side of the limo.

Come on, Vecchio, you can do this.

Jackie Iguana, did not look like a loving cousin. In fact, he looked like he wouldn't mind putting a bullet between Ray's eyes.

Does he guess, Ray wondered, yet again. He can't know I'm not Armando, but does he guess something's off? He's not a stupid man.

Jackie wasn't a trusting man either – one reason he had survived so much longer than many of his contemporaries. Jackie would stop at nothing to protect the business. Everyone knew that he'd killed his best friend – he wasn't beyond killing his cousin. He loved Armando, there was no doubt, but that did nothing to reassure Ray. He had to keep Jackie's confidence and trust, but right now the man was glaring at Ray like a particularly vicious biology teacher, getting ready to dissect a frog for the class.

"Well, go on then. Get a fucking move on," Jackie snapped. "You kept us waiting long enough. We don't have time to mess around."

Shit, Ray unbuckled his seatbelt. Don't just sit there staring at him. We're here. Wake the fuck up.

"It wasn't his fault." Sal was defending him. "Come on, Jackie, Chiara just died."

"Yeah, well, so will we, if he doesn't pull his head out his ass. The fucking idiot
disappeared for weeks."

"Leave it, Jackie. He's here now, so try not to be a dick all your life." Sal patted Ray comfortingly on the shoulder. "Come on, Mando. Don't mind Jackie. He was just worried about you."

Jackie leant forward over his knees and fixed Ray in his gaze. "I still am," he said. "You got a lot of explaining to do. You can explain, can't you?" He scowled.

Ray had seen a lot of photos of this man scowling, but up close and personal it was even uglier than he expected. Jackie seemed to be demanding a staring contest. Ray had to play along, or seem weak. I'm gonna die, Ray thought, meeting Jackie's gaze. They're gonna kill me. All it takes is one fuckup, one guy to realise I'm not Armando, and then – He smiled coolly, watched Jackie's face relax a little. And then they take me somewhere, and it won't be quick. One slip-up here, they'll still be killing me a week from now.

"Yeah, well," Jackie broke the standoff. "It'd better be a good explanation, that's all I'm saying." He jerked his finger at the door. "You," he said, "You're gonna go in there, and you're gonna scare the shit out of every single one of those fucking traitors. Think you can handle that?"

"Yeah," Ray said, and he was surprised by how smooth and sure his voice sounded. "Yeah, I can handle that."

With Sal and Jackie Iguana flanking him he strode through the front doors into the lobby of Caesars Palace. Despite the fact the Feds had shown him photos, he wasn't expecting... this.

Music, laughter, chatter - all wrapped in a blaze of luminous gold. He'd always imagined Vegas as sounding crasser than this, coins rattling, machines pinging all over the place, but it was more sophisticated than he'd expected. At least this place was. It wasn't even that loud. Just liquid noise. Not overbearing, not clatter. The music they piped in wasn't elevator awful, wasn't demanding to be heard. The voices of the patrons (customers, suckers, marks?) were exultant, happy, warm. People were having a good time here.

And why shouldn't they? The casino was halfway between a church basilica and a shopping mall. He didn't know whether to go for his wallet or fall to his knees… maybe that was the idea. Get people to do both, shop till they dropped, then worship the gods of gaming. He wanted to laugh at the sheer gaudiness, but it was too horrible. Pa would've loved this place. And it was cool, cool as the breath of a ghost. So fine to step into from the desert, so sweet to be in such a honeyed shade.

And the place itself was luminous. All mirrors and dazzle, lights bouncing off reflective glass. Life-sized Roman statues stood around… not the statues he had grown up with, not the statues of the saints, but old gods, the pagan gods of Ancient Rome. Venus, naked; naiads rising from a pool. Caesar, clothed, his arm raised in eternal salute; all around them, the sound of running water, living fountains. In the building itself, even, in the damned foyer…

Right in the heart of the desert, Vegas worshipped water as a god.

Ray struggled not to stare. This was his first time here, but not Armando's, so he didn't break stride. Instead, he allowed himself to fall into a gangster swagger, walking in step with the Iguana brothers... We look like the Rat Pack, he thought, feeling slightly giddy, slightly crazed. All eyes turned toward the group, then widened when they saw that it was him. Yeah, go on, stare. You thought I was dead, didn't you…

No… they thought Armando was dead, he reminded himself, and they were right. He shuddered. He was walking, literally, in a dead man's shoes.

For a moment, Armando walked beside him, and Ray kept his eyes narrow and his face mean.

"They thought I was dead, didn't they," he muttered to Sal from the side of his mouth.

"Well, yeah…" Sal gave a bitter quirk. "There were rumours. Maybe they were just hoping."

"Let's go shake 'em up. See who's the most overtly ostentatious with their sympathy."

Ray flickered a smile. He'd read transcripts of the way Armando talked, listened to his voice. The main difference between them was that his brother sometimes used fancier language than Ray did. So, he wasn't as clever as Armando, but he could fake it.

"'Overtly ostentatious,'" Sal chuckled. "Right." He gave Ray's back a big thumping pat that echoed and stung, and smiled, appreciatively, the way Ray did when Benny'd come out with a good one. "I like that."

"Yeah." Ray nodded, managing not to bring his arm up to protect his aching shoulder. "Because whoever protests too much, they're probably invested."

"You understand this crap more than we do, Cuz," Jackie chimed in, ever the pragmatic one. "But we'll keep our eyes out for bull-shitters."

"That's another way to put it." Ray was smiling languidly, casting his gaze to the left and right as patrons of the casino tried to catch his eye, nodding occasionally when he recognised someone 'important,' ignoring the rest. "Let's try not to kill 'em with no proof though," Ray cautioned. "Bad for business." Bad for the FBI too… he'd been in Vegas less than an hour, and already he knew that his 'cousins' were prepared to do bloody murder for him.

"There's Onofri," Sal said, sotto voce. "He hasn't seen us yet."

"Oh," Ray said, remembering the files he'd read on the Onofri Family. "This should be fun." He winked conspiratorially at his 'cousins' and took a quick step forward, clapping his hand on Onofri's shoulder.

"Hey, Pete, how you doing?"

Pietro Onofri swivelled on his seat, away from his lady companion, and twisted toward Ray. His face turned grey. For a split second he was rigid as a stone, the next he was expansively smiling and getting to his feet. He gathered Ray up into an embrace, and patted him hard on the back. Jesus, Ray thought, they're gonna kill me by hugging. I'm just getting over pneumonia, not to mention this morning's little 'op', and these guys keep thumping me. He was gonna have to talk to the Fed doctor when he next got a chance. His chest was still stinging inside. And as for his shoulder…

Damn. He couldn't afford to show weakness, but he was gonna have to cough.

He wafted his hand in front of his face, in a comic gesture. "You still smoking those fake Cubans? You know we can get you the real deal."

"Armando," Onofri said. "Where've you been? We were so worried."

Ray allowed his face to settle into menace. "Were you? What have you had to worry about?"

"Well, there was the accident, and then you and Chiara disappeared…"

"Accident, you say?"

"What…" Onofri's eyebrows climbed into exaggerated surprise. And this guy runs casinos, Ray thought, contemptuously. He could no more play poker than I could do brain surgery. "It wasn't an accident?"

"No. No, Peter, Petey, Pete." Ray smiled, dangerously. "No. It wasn't. But you probably guessed that."

"Well, I didn't know that… but people were worried."

"I bet they were."

"How… how's Chiara? She was missing too."

Ray felt the world go still, and the noise of the casino faded all around him. For a moment he was in a cold room, on his knees, while a white sheet was pulled back from a little girl's face.

Then he was back in a Vegas casino, talking to one of the biggest players on the Strip.

"Chiara died."

"Condoglianze," Onofri said, and gathered him up in another colossal hug. Ray stood as still as one of the statues of the gods. Onofri kissed him, loud smacks on his cheeks. Ray smiled, and endured it.

Behind Onofri, he saw the ghost of his brother, face like a mask. He raised an eyebrow at Armando and questioned, silently: 'Ostentatious much?'

Armando cast a cold eye back. 'Indeed.' It wasn't proof that Onofri had taken out the hit, but Ray liked him for it. Apparently, so did Armando.

Ray pulled himself back from Onofri's embrace. "Grazie," he said. He stood for a moment, aware that all eyes were upon them. He took swift stock of his surroundings.

The casino floor was full of people, but most of them were harmless. Over to his right, an FBI agent was tending bar. He'd have to tell his handlers that the guy needed to brush up on his skills. If Ray could spot him, perhaps an actual mobster could. Behind him, and to the left, at eight o'clock, he could feel the weight of eyes upon him. He'd spotted them coming in, Onofri's heavies. And then there were the social climbers, the professional gamers, the wannabe players… and, of course, the innocent tourists, who only knew that these guys must be important because everyone else was looking at them.

Ray waited long enough to be sure that everyone was watching the return of the Bookman, then deliberately stroked a hand on Onofri's jacket, a proprietorial gesture. 'Remember who's in charge,' the movement said, as his hand glided across the smoke grey fabric. Smooth as milk, Ray thought, still astonished, although his own suit was similarly exquisite. Fine Italian wool, so delicately spun and woven that it hardly felt like wool at all, and everything lined in silk. He was never getting used to this.

Onofri squirmed very slightly as Ray tugged on his lapels, straightening his jacket. For a moment he remembered getting Little Tony ready for a family wedding, and how he had wriggled while Ray tried to pin a carnation in his buttonhole. This guy was in his sixties, almost as tall as Ray, and dignified. Musta been handsome back in the day. He obviously didn't appreciate being treated like a kid in front of all Vegas. Ray smirked as he brushed off imaginary crumbs. Onofri submitted to Ray's ministrations, and managed to keep the smile plastered on his face. "Listen, Pete," Ray said, in oily tones, "I'm glad we ran into each other. We need to set up a meeting. Get your guys to call my guys."

"Yeah, sure, Armando."

Ray jerked his head at the ceiling, signalling upstairs. "VIP suite," he said. "We'll do lunch. Whaddaya say tomorrow?"

Onofri affected an air of uncertainty. "It's short notice. They may already have a booking…"

"Oh, don't worry." Ray smiled. "They'll make an exception for me."

"Of course," Onofri smiled back. "What was I thinking?"

"Until tomorrow then," Ray said, and kissed Onofri on the cheek. The word 'Judas' shuddered through him, though he wasn't sure if he was the traitor, or Onofri. "For now," he said, "I have to go to see my wife."

"Give her my condolences."

"Oh, I will," Ray said, pointedly. "You can be sure that I will."

Swimming through the shark infested waters of the Strip was one thing. Meeting Armando's wife was a different thing altogether.

"You'll be fine," Agent Cash had told him, the last time he had seen the agent. "They've been estranged for over a year, and – you're a natural at this. I knew you'd be good, but…" he paused and shook his head, then continued with genuine admiration. "We've had a double blind trial conducted on the tapes, including the ones where you're talking with the Iguanas, and our best experts couldn't tell you and Armando apart."

"Yeah. You'd think we were twins or something."

Cash sounded pained. "You know, I'm sorry it worked out like this."

"Not as sorry as Armando." Ray fired back.

Of all the Feds, Cash was the one he was most comfortable with. Ray reminded himself how very uncomfortable that fact should make him. He couldn't afford to forget that the Feds had bullied and manipulated him until he had no choice but to take the job. And somewhere in the Bureau, he was sure, were conspirators in the deaths of Armando and Chiara Langoustini.

Armando had been a grown man, had made his own rotten choices. Not only had he been a grown man, he'd been a bad man too… nobody could say that he hadn't deserved to die. But Chiara had been three years old. She had never hurt anyone, and she was just as dead as her father. And now Ray was going to meet Alexie Langoustini. She would look at him and see Armando, the father of her children: of their son, still in the hospital; their daughter, recently arrived at the undertakers.

Ray was not looking forward to this.

Jackie Iguana was sitting opposite him in the back of the limo, hands looped between his knees. His hair was slicked back smoothly, but his long jowly face never quite looked clean shaven. He might have been good-looking once, in a droopy kinda way, but it was hard to tell now that he was so overweight. To the uninitiated, he seemed slow, but he was a clever and ruthless man. He had risen through the ranks the traditional way; a combination of loyalty and shrewdly applied viciousness. Behind the sullen exterior, was a sharp mind, all gears, and wheels, and levers.

Sal Iguana was next to Ray, a mute supportive presence, his big arm, yet again, draped across his shoulders. The younger of the brothers, he took the more public role in the organisation – mainly because he looked good. Six foot five, stupidly handsome, his curly hair already greying at the age of forty – Ray was glad Frannie had never met him. Women must fall flat at his feet. When Armando Langoustini had been a boy, Sal was the big brother he had never had.

Ray had read every scrap of information he could to try and figure out how these guys were together, had tried to read between the lines, but so far all he really knew was that Sal had looked out for Armando, and that Armando had been heard to claim, on several occasions, that Sal had saved his life.

Now that they were no longer in the public's gaze the Iguana brothers were exuding sympathy from every pore. Even Jackie had dropped the attitude, now that Vegas was suitably cowed. Ray was sitting by the smoked window, not saying anything at all, because… well, because he was in a closed metal box, speeding through an alien city, with two guys he didn't know at all. Oh, he knew everything that he'd read in their files, he knew that they were amongst the nastiest assassins he'd ever come across, and that if they ever realised he wasn't Armando, they were going to kill him, very very slowly indeed. But he didn't know how to talk to them. Didn't know exactly how Armando had related to them privately. He would have to edge his way into relationship with them, carefully. The FBI surveillance tapes could only go so far.

When Ray had been a kid, fear had sometimes made him talk too much, even when he knew it would only make things worse. It had gotten him hit upside the head often enough in the past, and sometimes still did. Benny must think he lived with his foot permanently in his mouth, the amount of times he'd put it there. But there always came a level of fear so deep that everything in you went still, poised on that point between fight and flight, trapped in the crosshair, an angel dancing on a pin. Ray watched the lights of Vegas thin out around him, as they sailed toward the desert.

It was the best thing, not to speak. Armando, apparently, was not a man given to small talk or babbling. Given the circumstances, that he was supposed to have survived an attempted hit, that he was going to see his wife for the first time since their daughter died, since their son came out of his coma, it was understandable that Armando – that Ray – wasn't saying much. And Ray knew that he'd be fine, once he was out of the limo, once he wasn't crushed into such close proximity with the brothers. But for right now everything was too dense, the air was thickening, and the walls were closing in.

He started to cough. Not just a tickle, but a real, gut wrenching cough.

The FBI doctor had warned him earlier in the week that this might happen.

Oh God, not now, Ray thought, doubling over his knees, and coughing harder. Wouldn't it be just my luck to get a fucking relapse. The last thing he needed was to become delirious again, and lose the filter between brain and mouth. Shit… The coughing had subsided, and he was wheezing now. Sal's arm had tightened around his shoulder, his good one, thank God, and both brothers leant up close to him, looking concerned.

"Armando?" Jackie was handing him a bottle of water, directly from the minibar. This wasn't a limo, it was a goddam tour bus. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Ray said, swigging water, and trying to settle his breathing. He could feel beads of sweat on his forehead, triggered by the fit of coughing. The Feds had told him that when he was in public, he couldn't afford to show weakness, but that he could trust the Iguanas to look after their own. Ray decided to trust them now. He slid his hand into his pocket, and pulled out his bottle of pills, shook his dose into his hand. "Sorry, I gotta take these."

Jackie plucked the bottle from his fingers, sniffed it, turned it around.

Ray raised an eyebrow. "You could always read the label."

"Yeah," he said. "I know." Jackie grinned, playing dumb. "Antibiotics stink, don't they?"

"Well, these ones do," Ray agreed. They sure had a funny smell.

Jackie nodded, and gave him back the bottle.

Interesting, Ray thought. He's checking up on Armando, wants to make sure the meds are what they say they are.

"What are they for," Sal asked, gently, giving Ray's back a pat.

Ray winced against the pain, and smiled at the irony. For once he was going to be able to tell the truth.

"After the… 'accident', I got pneumonia."

"Shit, Mando, I know you said you fell to pieces, but I didn't think you meant literally, like… physically."

"Oh," Ray said, dryly. "So you expected me to lose my mind, but not my health? I was in a fucking car crash."

"I didn't mean it like that, Mando," Sal said, gently. "You know I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean you'd lost your mind. You're nothing like her."

"Like who," Ray said, before he could stop himself. Shit… he was supposed to know this stuff. What the fuck have the Feds missed now? Ray covered the fact that he had no clue what Sal was talking about by turning his head, and giving the man an angry stare, as though he knew exactly what he'd meant and didn't like it. It clearly worked. Sal's gaze drifted to the side, and he looked away, ashamed.

"Jeez, I'm sorry Mando. I didn't mean to bring it up. You've got enough on your plate."

Ray nodded, and looked back out the window.

"You'll have to let me have a look at you," Jackie said, leaning back. "When you've finished talking to Lexie. You maybe popped a few ribs on the safety belt. That'll do it. Surprised you only got pneumonia. God, I'm just glad you're okay."

Ray nodded and wrapped his arms across his ribcage. Armando had got far worse than pneumonia; Armando had got a steering column through his chest. Ray bit back a groan, sweat springing to his forehead. And damn, but all that pounding on his back and hugging and so on… It felt like he'd pulled a few stitches. If Jackie was going to do his amateur doctor thing (and the Feds had been pretty sure that he would) then he was probably going to want to take a good look at the 'injury.' Damn…

At least they had planned for it. Didn't mean it didn't hurt though. Who's stupid idea was this, anyway?

Jackie leaned forward, and squeezed his knee. "You're doing fine, Cuz. We'll talk to Lexie, then you can stop working for the day. We'll stay with you, you stay with us, whatever you like."

"I should see Joey," Ray said. Armando would have wanted to see Joey… hell, Armando already had seen Joey, standing phantom guard at the bottom of his bed. Sometimes Armando crept into Ray's head with these little insights, and it gave him chills just how normal that felt.

Armando would want to see him, and Joey was Ray's nephew too. He should go to him.

He wanted to… he didn't want to. That boy was going to look up, see Ray, and think he was his father. Ray had no idea what that would do to him. But he should see the boy all the same.

"Mando," Sal said, soothingly, "you can see him tomorrow. He's fine, and besides, he'll probably be asleep. You'll have a better visit if you get some rest yourself."

Ray nodded, mutely, glad to be able to put the visit off for at least a little longer. He had another meeting fast approaching. They were gliding up to it now, through rising hills. Armando's home was a sprawling villa, set behind white walls and metal gates, high enough that any approach from below could be seen from miles away. The limo paused, the driver wound down his window and spoke into the intercom. One of Armando's security guards replied, and then they were in. Parked, and disembarking, and…

Ray stood there, surrounded by his brother's opulence, his adobe walls, his Italianate villa, with the blue pool shimmering like a jewel beneath the desert sun. Again, he'd seen pictures… but here, he was struck dumb.

Sal misunderstood his silence. "Come on, Mando," he said, putting a big hand on Ray's bicep and squeezing it. "Get it over with. You'll be fine."
~*~

Armando's butler was, like everything and everyone else round here, even more imposing than his photos. Only five foot eight, Nero was nevertheless built like a tank. Shoulders, and muscles, and scarred fists. The man had obviously been a boxer. Given his lack of head trauma (his nose and ears were resolutely unflattened and uncauliflowered) he must have had a pretty successful career. He spoke with a cut-glass British accent and wore a crisp white suit. It was the accent that struck Ray as the weirdest thing though. He'd met black Brits before, but somehow he wouldn't have expected this particular black guy to sound like he spoke better English than the Queen.

"Your wife is visiting, Sir," Nero said, redundantly. "She's in the games room."

Yeah, well, that much was obvious. Everyone knew where Alexie Langoustini was from the moment they stepped in. You could hardly miss the noise. She was keening – literally keening. Making a funeral wail. The wail broke off for a moment, and there was a curse, choked off by a sob. The men held their breath – then there was crashing and banging as she threw things around. Silence, and then she was keening again. Ray looked from Nero to the rec room, and back again, not sure how to start.

"I'm sorry, Sir. She's been waiting some time. She seems quite distressed."

Ya think?

Ray braced himself and headed to the games room.

Alexie Langoustini was probably very beautiful, under normal circumstances. She was certainly beautifully dressed, beautifully made up, with beautiful hair. She was also, very expensively, drunk. She had her back to the main room, hadn't seen him yet. Ray stepped through the open doorway just as she started hefting up pool balls, and hurling them at the wall. She turned, and saw him; snarled, grabbed an eight ball, and flung it at his head. He jerked to the side, and it smashed against the dart board, cracked to the floor and rolled.

"You killed her, you bastard," she screamed. "You got our baby killed." She seized the pool cue, started hitting him with it. Ray grabbed the thing, twisted it out of her hands, and she rushed him, started thumping and scratching. She was in bare feet, on tiptoe trying to put her fingers in his eyes, and the top of her head only came to his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her, trying to pin her arms before she clawed him blind, and she lifted her knee in a sharp snap to his groin. Ray folded over, and she started beating him around the head with her fists. "You killed her," she kept sobbing. "You bastard, you killed Chiara, my baby, my poor baby…"

"That's enough, that's enough," Ray heard Sal's voice, angry, bellowing. "Leave him alone, he's lost his daughter too." Ray managed to straighten up, eyes watering and saw Sal. He had Lexie pinned to the wall, one broad hand around her throat, not squeezing but tight, and leaning into her, his forearm across her chest. Her face was white, and her eyes staring, and Sal was huge next to her tiny form.

Ray flew at Sal, wrestled him to the ground. He lifted a fist, then froze. Armando was touching his wrist. Cold shuddered through Ray, and his brother's knowledge.

'Sal won't hurt her,' Armando said, a soundless echo in his skull. 'He knows I'd kill him.' Ray dropped his fist, and stared at Sal. Armando was supposed to be his best friend – and fuck, what kinda friends knew they were prepared to kill each other? Despite himself Ray already almost liked the man, which was terrifying, considering what Salvatore Iguana was.

Ray shook. He wanted to kill him, but he couldn't. They were meant to be friends. He slid off Sal's chest, landing on his ass, shuffled backward while still sitting down. His breath was quick and tight, his heart beating way too fast, and he had absolutely no idea how to play this. Sal sat up, wiping his forehead – he was sweating himself – and Ray said nothing. Instead, he turned to Lexie, who was sobbing now, in a huddled heap in the corner of the room.

"Hey," he whispered, "Lexie…" he knew that much. He knew that was what his brother had called her. Alexie or Lexie, instead of her birth name Alessia. "Honey," he said, which felt right. Armando was still watching them, and Ray shut his eyes at the sheer weirdness of it, as he put his arms around his brother's widow. "It's okay," he said, though he knew damn well it wasn't, and never would be, for her, again. She'd lost her little girl. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She curled up then, hung onto him like a baby chimpanzee clinging to its mother, and sobbed onto his suit. He could feel snot and tears all the way through to his skin. When he opened his eyes, Armando was watching with something peculiarly like gratitude, a lot like envy, as Ray's hand patted up and down on Lexie's back. Sal was standing now, a wry twist to his mouth, and Jackie was leaning against the wall, arms folded, his face a mask.

Ray soothed Alexie Langoustini like a baby. She fell asleep quite quickly, hiccupping a little, and he stood, lifted her in his arms, and winced at the tug of stitches in his shoulder. She wasn't much of a weight, and at least it distracted him from the lingering ache where she'd kicked him. Where the hell did she sleep? Ray looked at the Iguana brothers – no help there. They were staring at him like he'd grown an extra head. He'd done something wrong – they'd picked up on something.

Oh God. I'm an idiot. He'd just let himself be beat up by a woman, and he was being too damn nice to her. Unceremoniously, he slung her over his good shoulder, as though he was carrying a sack of flour rather a person. He still had to figure out where to put her.

Damn. I should know my way around my own fucking house. The floor plans he'd examined had fled from out his head. He glanced at Armando, who nodded, and walked ahead of him. Ray followed, through the open planned living space, until he reached a bedroom. There he dumped Alexie, letting her bounce a little on the mattress. He would have tidied her up, put a blanket over her, but Armando was a bastard. "Keep an eye on her," he told Nero, awkwardly. He couldn't look at the man… how the hell were you meant to talk to servants anyway?

"Certainly, Sir," Nero said, and clicked his fingers. "Water," he said abruptly to a maid, who Ray hadn't even seen. Ah, he thought. So that's how I'm supposed to speak to the staff.

He took a painful breath, and returned to the rec room, where the Iguana brothers were waiting. He wondered if he'd already fucked up and shot Armando's credibility to hell, if the brothers would forgive the lapse in character.

"Mando," Sal turned to him and smiled. Not a bullshit mobster smile, but a worried about his friend smile. Ray sighed slightly with relief. He hadn't blown his cover – yet. "Come here," Sal said, "let me look at you." Ray stepped up, hiding his nerves, and Sal took his face between his hands. Ray tensed, and Armando in his head said, 'trust him.' Ray forced himself to relax, as the mobster examined his face.

"Mando," Sal said, and his sandy-coloured eyes seemed very sad. "Just because she's a woman, don't mean you have to let her slap you about."

Ray bit his tongue. He was about to say 'she was upset,' but his brother was a piece of fucking shit. He was probably more like Pa than Ray – not the kind of man who'd let a woman get away with raising her voice to him, let alone hitting him. I should have thumped her, he realised, and his heart went cold.

"Yeah, well, I'll talk to her in the morning."

"You'd better do more than talk," Jackie growled. "That was fucking pathetic."

"Hey," Ray glared on Jackie. "Back off. I know how to deal with my own fucking wife."

"You'd better, Cuz. Just put her back in her place, that's all I'm saying."

God, what do they expect me to do, beat her up, or rape her?

"Can I wait till the stupid cow's sobered up? I don't want her puking on my shoes."

Sal laughed. "He's gotta point, Jackie. Don't worry, he'll sort Lexie out."

I'm gonna have to get her outta the house first thing in the morning. Shit. And try to make sure our paths don't cross too much.

Sal started turning Ray's head from left to right, probing his skin with his fingertips. There were sharp little points and tracks of pain where she'd scratched his cheeks, but nothing deep or serious. Ray had taken far worse beatings in his time. There was hardly any blood at all. Sal stepped back, smiling, and cuffed his arm. "Look, I know this ain't ever happened before. She wouldn't dare, and God, I know how she must feel, just hearing about Chiara. But it upset me, that's all. She's not like your Ma, I know that, but I didn't like to see it. I'm sorry I got rough."

Ray shoved his fists into his jacket, felt sick. 'Not like your Ma,' Sal had said. That must mean… that meant that Juliana Langoustini had beaten Armando. It was the only thing that made sense of Sal's words. Ray's face tightened up in anger at the thought. Thank God the old bitch was dead, Ray wouldn't have been able to keep his cover with that – that fucking baby thief around. No wonder Armando had seemed so starved when he looked at his real mother. Ray pictured the moment at the graveside, when Armando had kissed Ma's cheek, and his heart clenched. He glanced around for his brother, but he wasn't there.

"It's okay," Ray said, tightly. "Bitch deserved it." He cleared his throat. He thought of his dead brother growing up in the heart of luxury with pretend parents, and a woman who looked bad to the likes of Sal Iguana. Thought of little dead Chiara, and her mother, Alexie, passed out drunk, waited on hand and foot by a butler and maids. Thought of tomorrow, of meeting Armando's son, Joey, in the hospital. Thought of it all, and felt his face grimace into a completely inappropriate smile. He put his hand to his ribs, and cleared his throat, tried to clear his chest. Started coughing again. "Water," he said. "Give me a sec…" 'Sec' wasn't a Bookman word, he reminded himself. A minor slip, and for now it could slide, but he really should remember how to talk.

"Come on," Jackie said, pushing himself off the wall, and putting an arm around him. Sal took his other side, and they walked him from the shambles of the rec room. Ray's instinct was to stay and tidy up, but he knew that Armando would simply expect the servants to do it. Instead he walked between the Iguanas, as they led him out of doors. "Sit here," Jackie said, and the bumbling persona he adopted for outsiders was completely stripped away. Ray sat on a stone bench by the side of the pool, and wondered if anyone ever swam there.

"Nero," Jackie called. "Water." The elder Iguana knelt in front of Ray then, started to unbutton his shirt. Ray tensed, for an instant, before remembering that the Feds had told him this might happen. Jackie had already implied that he wanted to check Ray's injuries, and he'd have to get used to this. Armando had always seemed comfortable in his own skin… he didn't have Ray's hang ups where that was concerned. Ray couldn't afford to freak out just because he had to take his shirt off. And whatever else happened, at some point, someone was going to frisk him. He didn't like to be touched, or exposed, but it seemed there was no choice. He steadied himself, trying to count his breath and seem calm. His lungs were definitely sore. It felt like he had sand in them. Not the horrid wet burn of full on pneumonia, but pain, nonetheless, and tightness.

Nero was suddenly there, and for a big built guy, he sure could glide. Three tall waters on a tray, ice cubes, lemon, sprigs of mint.

"Thanks," Ray said, reaching for his glass, and started to drink. Sal laughed as Nero walked away.

"You're awful friendly with the help."

Ray flushed. Rookie mistake. He'd been hanging around with the Mountie too much, started being damn Canadian and polite without even thinking about it. The Iguanas might not pick up on the slip this time, but he'd have to do better.

Jackie had unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. "Get it off," he told Ray. Ray kept his face completely still, and slid his shirt and jacket off, let them fall. How rich are these guys, he thought, as thousands of dollars' worth of wool and silk hit the stucco floor.

"Fuck, Mando," Sal said, from behind him. Ray turned his head, squinting against the sun. He could barely make out the other man's face against the dazzling sky. "You took a hell of a pounding."

"Tell me about it," Ray said, and allowed himself to smile. That was, after all, the reaction the FBI had hoped for when they prepped him for this part.

The bruises were real, of course, though fading. He had even got them the old fashioned way… fighting. But when the Feds had realised that Ray's body was not exactly like Armando's, they had to make a few superficial modifications, fast. Because Ray had been shot in the line of duty, once, been caught in an explosion, once. Ray had scars. And the Feds knew that one day someone would notice them… and that they had to be explained. Armando Langoustini couldn't turn up with healed old scars, not when he'd been seen less than a month earlier sunning himself on a beach, with no scars at all.

"What's under the bandage, Cuz," Jackie asked, sitting back on his haunches, examining the square compress taped to Ray's shoulder. The man moved around to check, saw the other one fastened on behind, and folded his arms across his chest, a serious look in his eyes.

"Ah." Ray smiled, finding that, weirdly enough, he was enjoying this. "That would be where I was shot."

"You were shot?" Sal dropped to his knees, hurriedly, grabbing him, and turning him so he could see the bandages more clearly. Ray took the opportunity to wince. Damn… the stuff the doctor had used to freeze the muscle while they 'worked' on him had definitely worn off… Wasn't it meant to hold longer than this? Showtime, he thought. Now we get to see if the Fed's master plan actually works.

"Holy shit, Mando, you've been shot!" Sal was clearly distressed. God, Ray thought, these guys actually do love Armando. If they figure out I'm not him, they're gonna tear me limb from limb. "Why didn't you say so, you asshole?"

"There never seemed to be an appropriate time."

Jackie was shaking his head at his little 'cousin,' equal parts furious and impressed. "You gotta a brain like caciotta," he said, "but balls of fucking steel." He looked up again to the house. "Nero," he shouted, imperiously. "We need the medical kit. The big one."

"I've already had it looked at," Ray pointed out. "There's a big clue right there. See how you can tell? The bandage." Shit, he thought, sweating. Is that even how Armando talks to his cousins?

"I know," Jackie grinned, despite his irritation, and patted his face. From the look of benevolent amusement, then maybe yeah… maybe Armando did get to joke around with these guys, in between killing sprees and intimidation. Shame Ray couldn't just ask the damned ghost, but that wasn't how this seemed to work...

Nero unfolded a white sheet, and started laying out the contents of a first aid kit. He looked far too blasé about this, as though this was standard procedure. Jackie held his hands out, and Nero poured disinfectant on them without having to be told. Jackie shook the excess liquid from his hands, then pulled on sterile gloves. Ray flinched as the man started to peel back the dressing.

"Stay still," Jackie snapped, and lifted the edge of the compress. Then the air hit the wound - because, thanks to the Feds there really was a wound there, again. Ray hissed. Thank you, Feebies, that fucking hurts.

The actual 'surgery' itself had been done at the last minute - less than twenty minutes before they put him on the plane. Within four hours the stitches were itching like hell as the anaesthetic wore off, and now the scars were beginning to throb. Only cosmetic my ass. To be fair, the Feds hadn't been expecting him to be attacked by Armando's wife, and they'd obviously not taken into account all those manly Italian hugs, or the back pounding that went with them.

"If we'd had more time to plan this," the cosmetic surgeon had said, regretfully, "we'd have been able to do something else, perhaps plastic surgery, to get rid of the old scars. But as it is, all we can do is try to explain them. So, we'll have to abrade the original scars, make them look like more recent injuries."

"You mean you're gonna cut me up? Why don't you just take me out and shoot me again, get it over with? Save the Mob a lot of bother…"

"Oh, don't worry," the surgeon had replied, completely missing the point. "It's only superficial. We'll need to make it look good, but we'll stitch it properly, and if you keep it clean then it should heal up fine. So long as nobody starts pushing their fingers too far in, they'll not realise that the actual bullet wound is healed."

Fucking Feds, Ray thought, and gritted his teeth as Jackie examined the freshly prepared wound in his back. Damn. There were his fingers now, probing the edges of the injury. He found himself hoping the Fed guy had made a deep enough hole… and how messed up was that? He felt a hand grab his own, and realised from the size of it that it was Sal's. "Squeeze if you gotta," Sal said. "S'okay."

"Hey, don't worry, Cuz," Jackie said, gently. "I'm not gonna operate on you, I just wanna make sure the wound is clean."

This'll work. This has to work. Don't panic… Jackie would take a quick look, not wanting to mess with it too much, wouldn't realise that the 'bullet' didn't go all the way through. The Feds had been pretty sure that it would work.

The Feds had been pretty sure about a lot of things. They'd also been pretty sure that the painkiller numbing his shoulder wouldn't have worn off quite yet. A lot the Feds know…

Jackie tugged lightly on one of the stitches, and made a 'tut' noise. "That's torn," he grumbled, like it was Ray's fault. "Musta been Lexie," he said, "that stupid –"

"It might," Ray snapped back. Wouldn't do for Jackie to think a woman had hurt him. "Or it might have been everyone hugging me. She didn't hit me that fucking hard." He hissed at a needle-sharp pain, and realised that his eyes were tight shut. He tried to open them… he didn't like to be in the dark like this, but he couldn't do it. He bit off a noise again, and felt his eyes water, slightly. That was an actual needle… Jackie was replacing the damaged stitches.

"Warn me when you do that," Ray complained. "Fuck…"

At least the pain was distracting him from the fact that he was scared shitless. Oh yeah, 'don't worry, this is superficial.' He'd like to find that doctor and see how he liked it. When the Feds did this earlier, they'd been very quick about it, and he'd felt nothing. Now he was beginning to see just how insane the whole thing was. 'Really,' he should have said to them. 'This is your plan? Send in a guy who's sick anyway, and just to even things up a little 'abrade' his old wounds? No wonder the bad guys are winning.'

"I'm gonna kill someone," Ray gave vent to his feelings. "Shit."

"Who the hell did this," Jackie replied, tersely. "Looks like the bullet wound was a clean through and through, but you got scars there too… who stitched you up, a butcher?"

"Some of it was glass," Ray pointed out. It wasn't entirely untrue. Some of the wounds from the explosion that time actually had been from breaking glass. "Ow."

"Yeah, well, it's still a mess. So who the fuck sewed you up?"

"Just some guy," Ray gritted out. "Not his fault I wouldn't keep still. Mortician." Christ, that hurt… Sal's hand must be killing him. Ray was squeezing like a sonuvabitch, and he hadn't even noticed that he'd started.

"Fucking hell, Armando," Jackie stopped sewing, mercifully. "Why'd you go to a mortician?"

"I was already a customer of his," Ray said, sticking to the cover story. "He looked after Chiara for me."

Jackie's face was pinched, and he was rapidly applying clean dressings to the wound. "I'm sorry I was a jerk," he said. "When you first got here. I was just pissed you left us in the lurch, I didn't know you'd been, you know..." His voice trailed off uncomfortably. From what Ray knew of him, this was not a man given to apologies. "You gotta get some rest."

"You done torturing me?"

"For now, Cuz."

Ray shut his eyes, and let Sal help him back into his silk shirt and fine woollen jacket. When he opened his eyes Armando was watching Sal with tenderness, as the tall man knelt in front of Ray and buttoned up his shirt. Gradually, Ray felt his heart decelerate. He'd been the Bookman for over half the day and he hadn't died yet. The Iguanas hadn't realised that he was an imposter… I can't believe it, they really think I'm Armando. Not only that, he had won their sympathy and admiration. They'd cut him a little slack now, if he messed up, said the wrong thing. They wouldn't expect Armando to be perfectly on his game after this… Ray started to breathe a little easier. He'd created some wiggle room, a little margin for error. God, he thought. I might actually get out of this alive…

Armando was suddenly right in his face, practically nose to nose, and his eyes were very cold.

Betray them and I'll make your life a hell, the ghost thought in his head. Ray blanched, as all the heat went out of the desert sun.

"Mando? You okay?" Sal was patting his face.

"Yeah," Ray whispered. "Yeah, sorry."

"Come on," Jackie leant over, and helped him to his feet. "Let's get you to bed. We'll be here when you wake up."

"Thanks," Ray whispered, Armando's unvoice echoing in his head.

He had to betray these guys. That was what he was here for, to bring the Iguana brothers down. To protect Ma, and his sisters, and the kids. And yes, he admitted it, to find out whoever the bastard was who'd killed his brother and his niece.

But for the first time he realised that more than his life was at stake. 'I'll make your life a hell,' it had said – the 'thing' that had been his brother.

Armando in the flesh had been a man to be feared. As a ghost…

Ray shut his eyes and prayed.