Well, that would be an extreme management style, and probably not appropriate for a white-shoe law firm. But still…

On the personal front, the article mentioned the tragic death of Mr. Gotti’s twelve-year-old son Frank, who had been killed in the street in front of the Gotti home in Howard Beach, Queens, as a result of a neighbor, named John Favara, running over the boy while he was riding his minibike. The death was ruled an accident, but accident or not, four months later, Mr. Favara disappeared, never to be seen again. I recalled when this tragedy happened, and when I read of Mr. Favara’s disappearance four months later, I wondered if anyone had suggested to him that he might have a better and longer life if he moved out of the neighborhood.

But you should never criticize other people’s bad decisions. I mean, as unlikely as it seems, anyone could find himself living next door to a Mafia don who has a personal vendetta against him. In fact, I knew of one such couple. Maybe they should move.

Another personal bit of information about the late John Gotti was that he, like Frank Bellarosa, was a big fan of Niccolò Machiavelli. Well, it’s good to see tough guys trying to improve their minds by reading the Renaissance masters. You’re never too old to learn something new about human nature, how to win friends and influence people, and running a principality or a criminal empire.

On that subject, the article also mentioned that Mr. Gotti saw himself as a Caesar. So apparently he tried to combine these two different management styles – dictatorial and cunning. Apparently, too, he’d succeeded to some extent, just as had Frank Bellarosa, who, in addition to being Machiavellian, was also a big fan of Benito Mussolini.

People like this – Italian or otherwise – love power, and they love to wield power. And you can tell where they’re coming from by the role models they choose. Anthony Bellarosa – Little Caesar – however, was, I thought, basically a man with delusions of grandeur, and he was a failed successor to his father’s empire. But this was not my problem – my problem was that he was a dangerous thug who acted on impulse. His instincts, like his father’s, may have been good, because it certainly wasn’t his brains that had kept him alive so long. I recalled that outthinking Frank Bellarosa was like matching wits with a worthy opposing general; outthinking Anthony was like trying to outthink a predatory animal, who has no intellect – just an empty stomach that needs to be filled.

Well, back to John Gotti. The article also mentioned Mr. Gotti’s penchant for two-thousand-dollar Brioni suits. I said to Susan, “I’m going to buy Edward a Brioni suit.”

“Are they good suits?”

“Excellent. About two thousand dollars.” I added, “Handmade in Italy.”

“You should buy one for yourself.”

“Why not? Maybe we’ll get a deal.”

Edward appeared around 10:00 A.M., and while he was having coffee, Susan made him his favorite breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, and heavily buttered biscuits. This is also my favorite breakfast so I said, “I’ll have the same.”

“No you won’t.”

I mean, someone was trying to kill us, so what difference did it make to my longevity if I ate unhealthy foods? What am I missing here?

Susan had decided to get a car and driver for our city adventure – no waiting in the rain for taxis and no parking hassles – and the car showed up at eleven. It’s true – rich or poor, it’s nice to have money.

Our first stop in Manhattan was the Frick Museum on Fifth Avenue, and I asked Susan if her friend Charlie Frick worked there. She didn’t reply, so I don’t know, and I didn’t see her there.

We sucked up one hour and twenty-seven minutes of art, then had a great lunch at La Goulue, one of my favorite restaurants on the Upper East Side.

Edward, deep down inside, is a New Yorker, and most of his friends live in this city, but he’s chosen a career and maybe a life that will keep him on the West Coast. Susan can’t come to grips with this, but if she had the Stanhope fortune, she’d find a way to get Edward back. Ironically, for an investment of only about fifty thousand dollars, I could have asked Anthony to think of a way to speed up her inheritance. That’s really not a nice thought. It’s moot, anyway; I had my chance, but the timing was wrong.

After lunch, the car dropped Edward and me off at Brioni’s on East 52nd, and the ladies stayed with the car to sack and pillage along Madison and Fifth Avenues.

Edward is as fond of shopping as I am, but we did get him a Brioni suit with matching accessories. Edward really didn’t want a two-thousand-dollar suit, but I told him it would make his mother happy, and it was her Amex card, so all it was costing him was some time and a little boredom. The suit would be ready in eight weeks and sent to Los Angeles. In my next life, I want to be Susan Stanhope’s son. Actually, she did tell me to get one for myself, but we needed to start economizing, though Susan hadn’t come to grips with that yet.

Edward and I decided that was enough shopping for one day, and Edward called the car on his cell phone, and we were picked up and delivered to the Yale Club on Vanderbilt Avenue.

We sat in the big main lounge, read the newspapers, talked, and had a few glasses of tomato juice into which, I believe, someone had added vodka.

Susan called Edward’s cell at five, and he said we were having afternoon tea at the Yale Club. He’s a good boy. Chip off the old block.

Rush-hour traffic in the rain on a Friday was a mess, so we didn’t get home until after 7:00 P.M.

I was shocked to discover that the trunk of the car was filled with boxes and bags, and it took the four of us, plus the driver, to carry them into the house. But before I could make a sarcastic remark, Susan announced, “Carolyn and I bought you a tie.”

Well, I felt just awful about what I almost said, so I did say, “Thank you. I hope you didn’t spend too much.”

I thought I should tell Susan, privately, that she should be storing her acorns for what might be a money famine, but she had as much information as I did on that subject, so maybe that’s what she was doing – storing Armani, Escada, Prada, and Gucci for lean times. Good thinking. Plus, with the Brioni suit, we’d kept the Italian economy in good shape.

I checked for phone messages, and there were several, but none from Mr. Mancuso, who in any case would have called Susan’s cell phone if he had anything important to tell us.

I also checked my e-mail, and there was a message from Samantha that said, Flying to New York tomorrow. Arriving late afternoon. Meet me at The Mark at seven.

Good hotel, but I didn’t think that was going to work out, so I quickly typed, The Mafia is trying to kill me, and I’m engaged to be married. Hard to believe, but… There had to be a better way to say that. I deleted and typed, Dear Samantha, My ex-wife and I have reunited and-

Susan walked in and asked me, “Who are you e-mailing?”

I pushed delete and said, “My office.”

“Why?”

“I’m resigning.”

“Good.” She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Let me help,” she offered.

“Well…” I looked at my watch. “This could take a while, and we should get to the funeral home.”

“This will take a few minutes.”

I guess the time had come to burn a bridge that I’d intended to leave standing. So, with Susan’s help, I crafted a very nice, thoughtful, and positive letter to my firm, letting them know what a difficult decision this was for me, and expressing my hope that this did not cause them any inconvenience, and so forth, assuring them that I would be in London in a few weeks to gather my personal items, and brief my replacement, and sign whatever paperwork was necessary for my separation from the firm.