I was, finally, at a loss for words after this bizarre monologue, so what could I say but, "Capish."

Bellarosa laughed. "Ca-peesh. Have another." He filled my glass with sambuca, and I tried the word again, but this time in my mind. Capisce. Susan, who as I said is a little naive in some ways, asked the head of New York's largest crime family, "Did you report the theft to customs?" "Sure." Bellarosa chuckled. "That's all I need. Right? The papers get hold of that story and they'd laugh me out of town."

"What do you mean?" Susan asked.

Bellarosa shot me a glance, then said to Susan, "They think I steal from the airport."

"Oh, I see. That would be ironic."

"Yeah. Ironic." Bellarosa sipped his capella delicately. "Ah. Very nice." He looked at Susan. "My wife's coming. She has to make sure everything is perfect. I said to her, 'Relax. These are our neighbours. They're good people.'" He looked at me. "But you know how women are. Everything's a big deal. Right?" "No comment," I replied wisely. Just then the swinging door opened. I adjusted my eyeglasses and prepared to stand, but it was not Mrs Bellarosa. It was a homely young woman in a plain black dress and a maid's apron, carrying a tray. She placed the tray on the sideboard, then set the table with cups and saucers, silverware, napkins, and such. She turned and left wordlessly, with no bow, curtsy, or even an Italian salute.

Bellarosa said, "That's Filomena. She's from the other side."

"The other side of what?" I inquired.

"The other side. Italy. She doesn't speak much English, which is all right with me. But these paesan' pick it up fast. Not like your Spanish. You wanna get ahead in this country, you gotta speak the language." He added, "Poor Filomena, she's so ugly she could never marry an American boy. I told her if she stayed with me three years and didn't learn English, I'd give her a dowry and she could go back to Naples and get herself a man. But she wants to stay here and be an American. I'll have to find somebody blind for her."

I looked at Bellarosa. This was indeed the don, the padrone, in his element, running people's lives for them, being both cruel and generous. Susan asked him, "Do you speak Italian?"

He made a little motion with his hand. "Cost, cosi." He added, "I get by. The Napoletan' understand me. That's what I am. Napoletano. But the Sicilian' – the Sicilians – who can understand them? They're not Italian." He asked Susan, "Where did you learn Italian?"

"Why do you think I know Italian?"

"Dominic told me." He smiled. "He said to me – in Italian – 'Padrone, this American lady with red hair speaks Italian!'" Bellarosa laughed. "He was amazed."

Susan smiled. "Actually, I don't speak it well. It was my language in school. I took it because I majored in fine arts."

"Yeah? Well, I'm going to test you later."

And so we chatted for another ten minutes or so, and I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't entertaining. The man knew how to hold court and tell stories, and although nothing of any importance or even intelligence was said, Bellarosa was lively and animated, using more hand gestures and facial expressions in ten minutes than I use in a year. He filled everyone's glass with sambuca, then changed his mind and insisted we try amaretto, which he poured into fresh glasses while he continued to talk.

This was a man who obviously enjoyed life, which, I suppose, was understandable for a person who knew firsthand how suddenly it could be cut short. I asked him bluntly, "Do you have bodyguards here in the house, or just Anthony out there?" He looked at me and didn't reply for a long time, then answered, "Mr Sutter, a man of wealth in this country, as in Italy, must protect himself and his family against kidnapping and terrorism."

"Not in Lattingtown," I assured him. "We have very strict village ordinances here."

Bellarosa smiled. "We have a very strict rule, too, Mr Sutter, and maybe you know about it. The rule is this – you never touch a man in his own house or in front of his family. So nobody in this neighbourhood should worry about things like that. Okay?"

The conversation had turned interesting. I replied, "Perhaps you can attend the next village meeting and assure everyone for the record." Bellarosa looked at me but said nothing.

Feeling reckless, I pushed on, "So then, why do you have security here?"

He leaned toward me and spoke softly. "You asked me what I learned at La Salle. I'll tell you one thing I learned. No matter what kind of peace treaties you got, you post a twenty-four-hour guard. That keeps everybody honest, and makes people sleep better. Don't worry about it." He patted my shoulder. "You're safe here."

I smiled in return and pointed out helpfully, "You've got double protection, Mr Bellarosa, compliments of the American taxpayer. Capisce?" He laughed, then snorted. "Yeah. They watch the front gate, but I watch my ass." He inquired, "So, you know about that, do you, Mr Sutter? How'd you know about that?"

I was about to reply, but I felt a kick in the ankle. A kick in the ankle, of course, does not mean, "You're being so charming and witty, my dear, please go on."

Susan asked our host, "Can I help Mrs Bellarosa in the kitchen?" "No, no. She's okay. She makes a big deal. I'll tell you what she's doing now, because I know. She's stuffing cannoli. You know, when you buy them already stuffed, they sometimes get soggy, even in the good bakeries. So my wife, she gets the shells separate, and she gets the cream or makes it herself, and she stuffs, stuffs, stuffs. With a spoon."

Susan nodded, a bit uncertainly, I thought.

It sort of surprised me, I guess, that this man was so artless and ingenuous, and that his wife was in the kitchen of their mansion stuffing pastry with a spoon. He wasn't putting on any airs for the Sutters, that was for sure. I didn't know if I was touched or annoyed.

Anyway, the door opened again, and in came a full-bodied blonde, carrying a huge tray, heaped with enough pastries to feed a medium-size Chinese city. I could barely see the woman's face, but her arms were stretched way out so that the pastry could clear her breasts, and I knew in a flash it must be Mrs B. I stood, and so did Bellarosa, who took the tray from the woman and said, "This is my wife, Anna." He put the tray on the table. "Anna, this is Mr and Mrs Sutter." Anna brushed her hands on her hips and smiled. "Hello." She and Susan shook hands, then she turned to me.

Our eyes met, our hands touched, our lips smiled, her brow wrinkled. I said, "I'm very pleased to meet you." She kept looking at me, and I could almost hear the old synapses making connections between her narrowed eyes. Click, click, click. She asked, "Didn't we meet or something?"

It was the 'or something' that caused me some anxiety. "I think I saw you in Loparo's," I said, mentioning the name of the Italian market in Locust Valley in which I wouldn't be caught dead.

"Yeah," she agreed without conviction. "No," she changed her mind. "No… I'll think of it."

If I were a real man, I would have ripped off my glasses, jumped on the floor, and revealed my true identity. But I didn't see what good would come of that. "Why are we all standing?" asked Mr Bellarosa, who also couldn't understand why we had stood around in the palm court. "Sit, sit," he commanded. We sat and he poured his wife an amaretto. We all made small talk.

Mrs Bellarosa was sitting directly across the table from me, which I didn't like, but it gave me the advantage of watching for signs that she was beginning to recall her terrifying Easter morning. If you're interested, she was wearing what I think are called hostess pyjamas. They were sort of an iridescent orange, but the colour kept changing every time she moved. She wore huge triangular gold earrings, which, if connected to a shortwave radio, could have picked up Naples. Around her neck was a gold cross sort of nestled in her cleavage, and for some reason I was reminded of Christ of the Andes. Also, five out of her ten fingers held gold rings, and on each of her wrists were gold bangles. If she fell into the reflecting pool, I wondered, would the gold sink her right to the bottom, or would the buoyancy of those two big lungs keep her afloat. I should say something about her looks. She was not unattractive. It depends on what you like. The makeup was overdone, but I could see she had fair skin for an Italian woman. Her eyes were hazel, her full lips were painted emergency-exit red, and her hair, as I said, was bleached blond. I could see the dark roots. She seemed pleasant enough, smiled easily, and had surprisingly graceful gestures. She also wore a nice perfume.