Michael took his seat. Fredo had been meant to perform the next part. Despite what people like Nick Geraci thought, Michael’s installation of his older brother as sotto capo had been more a means of encouragement than a job. Fredo had been given a few narrowly defined responsibilities, a small crew of reliable but mediocre men, a whorehouse in the desert, and some symbolic responsibilities, which he was discharging with his usual inconsistency. Michael was resigned to this. No matter how hard you beat a donkey, it will never become a racehorse.

Clemenza planted his cane on the floor, grunted loudly, and stood.

Undoubtedly, each of the thirteen already understood the formalities of this arrangement. But there were conventions to observe. Clemenza began by explaining the structure of the Family. Michael Corleone was the Godfather, whose authority is absolute. Frederico Corleone was the sotto capo. Rocco Lampone and himself, Pete Clemenza, were the caporegimes. Clemenza made no mention of the role of consigliere. This had been the case since the death of Genco Abbandando, first because Hagen, who was not Sicilian, could never participate in, observe, or even be mentioned in these ceremonies, then because during Vito’s brief stint as consigliere, the books had remained closed. Clemenza made no mention of Nick Geraci at all.

“Before you join us,” Clemenza said, “you gotta be clear on some things.” He switched to Sicilian and continued, hobbling around the perimeter of the thirteen. “This thing we have is not a thing of business. It is a thing of honor. If you agree to join, this thing of ours must come before country. It must come before God. It must come before your own wife, your own mother, your own children. If you are summoned and your mother is on her deathbed, you will kiss her fevered brow and leave to do the bidding of your superiors.”

He stopped in front of the chair where he’d started. He leaned forward on his cane, so far it seemed he might topple over. “Do you understand? Do you agree?”

The men unhesitatingly gave their assent.

In return, Clemenza nodded slowly and sat.

Michael again stood and, as if to compensate for Clemenza’s frailty, approached the tables with great, vigorous strides. He’d had too much to eat, too much to drink, too much to do, and too little sleep. Acid rose in his throat.

“There are,” he said, “two laws you must obey without question. You must never betray the secrets of this society, observing the ancient tradition of omertà. The penalty for violating this law is death. You must never violate the wife or children of another member. The penalty for violating this law is death. Do you vow, with your very life, to keep these laws?”

They did.

The older men would have noted the absence of a third law, sworn in every initiation Vito Corleone had performed: You must never get involved in the narcotics trade. No one said anything about this, not even a murmur.

“You come in alive,” Michael said, “and you go out dead.”

The day I asked you to marry me, Kay, I said our businesses would be legitimate in five years.

Michael approached Tommy Neri. “The instruments by which you live and die are the gun”-here Michael bit down on the cigar and picked up the Colt with one hand-“and the knife.” He picked up the dagger with the other. He set the weapons back down in front of Tommy, crossed over each other.

“Do you agree,” Michael said, “that, when called upon, you will use the gun and the knife to help this Family?”

“Yes, Godfather.”

Michael took a puff on his cigar and used it to light Tommy Neri’s votive candle. Then he pointed to Tommy’s right hand. Tommy extended it. Michael picked up the dagger, pricked Tommy’s trigger finger, folded it into his palm, and squeezed his fist hard, careful to apply the pressure away from the wound and thus increase the amount of blood.

One by one, the other twelve men gave the same answer and submitted to the same ritual.

Michael returned to the end of the table. He tapped Tommy’s closed fist. Tommy opened it, then brought both hands together, the bloody right and the clean left, turned his palms up and cupped them. Michael picked up the holy card of Saint Leolucas, lit it with the votive candle, and dropped it into Tommy Neri’s hands. “Back and forth,” he whispered.

Tommy juggled the flaming saint from hand to hand.

“If you ever betray your friends,” Michael said, “you will burn.” He blew a small puff of cigar smoke into Tommy’s unflinching face. “Like the picture of our beloved patron saint now burns your bloodied palm. Do you agree to this?”

“Yes, Godfather.”

Michael watched the card turn fully to ash. Then, tenderly as a lover, he rubbed the ash into Tommy’s palms, then kissed him, softly, on each cheek.

One by one, the other twelve men submitted to the same ritual and gave the same answer.

“You are now qualified men,” Michael finally said, “Gli uomini qualificati. Gentlemen, please introduce yourself to your brothers.”

The room exploded in a cacophony of congratulations, popping champagne corks, Italian toasts and benedictions. The men in the outer circle maintained their positions to ensure that the new members did in fact dutifully go around the room introducing themselves, kissing the cheeks of every man in the outer circle, missing no one. Michael had already kissed them. He ducked out the back door and down the stairs. He knew that what might greet him at home was news of the escalation of his troubles. But there was a chance his day was over. There was a chance he could get some rest and fight his fights with a clear head tomorrow. Already, he felt better, getting out of that room, away from the smoke and the liquor fumes. The only kisses he wanted were from his wife, his son, his daughter.

You go out dead.

He made it to the car. While he waited for Al Neri to collect the empty pistols and catch up to him, Michael felt his stomach lurch. For a moment he fought it. Then he dropped to his knees and vomited. It all came up-the strega, the whiskey, the food Enzo had prepared so lovingly, everything from the picnic, and what looked like every last kernel of the movie popcorn.

“You okay, boss?” The pistols clanked against one another in the pillowcase Neri was using to carry them, like Jacob Marley’s chains in the production of A Christmas Carol Michael had been in as a kid. Neri was the chief of security here, but humping down fifteen flights of stairs and through various lobbies and hallways with a pillowcase full of thirteen pistols? Christ.

“Oh, yeah,” Michael said. He was drenched in sweat. He managed, however unsteadily, to stand up. He’d ripped the knee of his tux pants. “I’m perfect. Let’s go.”

The daggers that had been used to cut the men’s trigger fingers were theirs to keep. They were dazzling, jewel-handled things that had cost the Family nothing. Nick Geraci had a guy.