Mafia Sayings And Quotes

What do you mean, like do I carry a membership card that says 'Mafia' on it?

There were a lot of terms you had to learn, as opposed to the shylock business where all you had to know how to say was 'Give me the fuckin money.

When people say 'let's do something about it', they mean 'let's get hold of the political machinery so that we can do something to somebody else.' And that somebody is invariably you.

I thought I told you I don’t play by the rules,” I argue. “Ye’re mistaken,” he says. “Ye just walked into my world unbidden. So you will play by the rules, butterfly. You’ll be playing by all my rules.

You mean to say a family of hot-tempered Mafia people are all cosying up with each other on a Saturday night to sit down and watch a movie about a family of hot-tempered Mafia people...? Is that really what you're telling me?

You’re a killer,” she says. The words should hurt me, but they only feel like the truth. “Yes. And I want to be a killer for you, Ana.

Tutti colpevoli, nessuno colpevole,’ as the Italian saying has it: ‘If everyone is guilty, no one is guilty.

Well, you can't go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Crosicans or the Mafia," said the Colonel. "Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system

There's a proverb, a maxim, that runs, 'The dead man is dead; let's give a hand to the living.' Now, you say that to a man from the North, and he visualizes the scene of an accident with one dead and one injured man; it's reasonable to let the dead man be and to set about saving the injured man. But a Sicilian visualizes a murdered man and his murderer, and the living man who's to be helped is the murderer.

Some people did business with me because they wanted to get close to me, others did business with me because they were afraid to say no.

As we Italians say, the husband is like the government at Rome, all pomp; the wife is like the mafia, all power.

Tell him, Cosa Nostra says, HELLAO!

You’re the only woman for me, Mariya. I’ve waited patiently while building my empire, and now that I’m the head of –” I catch myself before saying Italian mafia in front of Elvis. “Now that I’m at the top, there’s only one thing missing from my life.” I step closer to her as I admit, “You.” My thumb brushes over the diamond on her finger. “Everything I have, everything I am, is yours, Mariya.

Mmmm,” he murmurs, a rawness to his tone. “We can still make a mafia wife out of you after all.” I pause halfway down the steps, my eyes going wide as my heart kicks into action. “What did you just say?

She gave me the letter that led me to you and Grace.” Saying her name made my stomach turn again, and unwanted memories resurfaced. I sat up, away from Luca’s warmth. I drew my legs up against my chest, overwhelmed by all that had happened.

It was not very long afterwards that Michael woke up one morning with a curious feeling inside him. He knew, the moment he opened his eyes, that something was wrong but he was not quite sure what it was. "What is today, Mary Poppins?" He enquired, pushing the bedclothes away from him. "Tuesday," said Mary Poppins. "Go and turn on your bath. Hurry!" she said, as he made no effort to move. He turned over and pulled the bedclothes up over his head and the curious feeling increased. "What did I say?" said Mary Poppins in that cold, clear voice that was always a Warning. Michael knew now what was happening to him. He knew he was going to be naughty.

The psychologist Daniel Wegner has this beautiful concept called transactive memory, which is the observation that we don’t just store information in our minds or in specific places. We also store memories and understanding in the minds of the people we love. You don’t need to remember your child’s emotional relationship to her teacher because you know your wife will; you don’t have to remember how to work the remote because you know your daughter will. That’s transactive memory. Little bits of ourselves reside in other people’s minds. Wegner has a heartbreaking riff about what one member of a couple will often say when the other one dies—that some part of him or her died along with the partner. That, Wegner says, is literally true. When your partner dies, everything that you have stored in that person’s brain is gone.

Muslim religious leaders — from Al-Azhar in Cairo to local imams throughout the world - need to say exactly what Pope Francis said to the Catholic members of the Mafia: ‘Any Muslim who commits an act of terror — that is, deliberately murders civilians of any nationality or religion — goes to hell.

Calvin clears his throat. “Do you have anything to drink?” Booze. Right. This is the perfect situation for some booze. I jump up, and he laughs, awkwardly. “I should have thought to get champagne or something.” “You bought the dinner,” I remind him. “Obviously the champagne was on my list and I dropped the ball.” Pulling a bottle of vodka from the freezer, I set it on the counter and then realize I have nothing to mix it with. And I finished the last beer the other night. “I have vodka.” He smiles valiantly. “Straight-up vodka it is.” “It’s Stoli.” “Straight-up mediocre vodka it is,” he amends with a cheeky wink. His phone buzzes, and it sets off a weird, giddy reaction in my chest. We both have full lives beyond this apartment, which remain complete mysteries to each other. One difference between us is that Calvin likely doesn’t care about my life outside of this. Yet I care intensely about his. Having him here feels like finding the key to unlock a mysterious chest that’s been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for a year. Buzz. Buzz. Looking up, I meet his eyes. They’re wide, almost as if he’s not sure whether to answer. “You can get it,” I assure him. “It’s okay.” His face darkens with a flush. “I . . . don’t think I should.” “It’s your phone! Of course it’s okay to answer it.” “It’s not . . .” Buzz. Buzz. Unless, maybe, it’s some Mafia drug lord and if he answers his ruse is up and I’ll kick him out. Or—gasp—maybe it’s a girlfriend calling? Why had this not occurred to me? Buzz. Buzz. “Oh my God. Do you have a girlfriend?” He looks horrified. “What? Of course not.” Buzz. Buzz. Holy shit, how long until his voicemail puts us out of our misery? “. . . Boyfriend?” “I don’t—” he starts, smiling through a wince. “It’s not.” “ ‘Not’?” “My phone isn’t ringing.” I stare at him, bewildered. His blush deepens. “It’s not a phone.” When he says this, I know he’s right. It doesn’t have the right rhythm to be a phone. I lift the vodka to my lips and chug straight from the bottle. The buzzing has the exact rhythm of my vibrator . . . the one I tucked beneath that cushion on the couch days ago. I’m going to need to be pretty drunk to deal with this.

Say what you will about the Mafia, but it works because everyone has a specific role to play. They all do what they do for the greater good of the organization. They'd willingly die for each other. The other reason a wolf pack is like the Mafia? Because, for both groups, there is nothing more important than family.

What is wrong with you?” I say in lieu of greeting. “You went to Morris’s dorm and declared your intentions?” He offers a faint smile. “Of course. It was the noble thing to do. I can’t be chasing after another guy’s girl without his knowledge.” “I’m not his girl,” I snap. “We went on one date! And now I’m never going to be his girl, because he doesn’t want to go out with me again.” “What the hell?” Logan looks startled. “I’m disappointed in him. I thought he had more of a competitive spirit than that.” “Seriously? You’re going to pretend to be surprised? He won’t see me again because your jackass self told him he couldn’t.” Astonishment fills his eyes. “No, I didn’t.” “Yes, you did.” “Is that what he told you?” Logan demands. “Not in so many words.” “I see. Well, what words did he actually use?” I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “He said he’s backing off because he doesn’t want to get in the middle of something so complicated. I pointed out that there’s nothing complicated about it, seeing as you and I are not together.” My aggravation heightens. “And then he insisted that I need to give you a chance, because you’re a—” I angrily air-quote Morris’s words “—‘stand-up guy who deserves another shot.’” Logan breaks out in a grin. I stab the air with my finger. “Don’t you dare smile. Obviously you put those words in his mouth. And what the hell was he jabbering about when he told me you and him were ‘family’?” All the disbelief I’d felt during my talk with Morris comes spiraling back, making me pace the bedroom in hurried strides. “What did you say to him, Logan? Did you brainwash him or something? How are you guys family? You don’t even know each other!” Strangled laughter sounds from Logan’s direction. I spin around and level a dark glower at him. “He’s talking about the joint family we created in Mob Boss. It’s this role-playing game where you’re the Don of a mob family and you’re fighting a bunch of other mafia bosses for territory and rackets and stuff. We played it when I went over there, and I ended up staying until four in the morning. Seriously, it was intense.” He shrugs. “We’re the Lorris crime syndicate.” I’m dumbfounded. Oh my God. Lorris? As in Logan and Morris? They fucking Brangelina’d themselves? “What is happening?” I burst out. “You guys are best friends now?” “He’s a cool guy. Actually, he’s even cooler in my book now for stepping down like that. I didn’t ask him to, but clearly he grasps what you refuse to see.” “Yeah, and what’s that?” I mutter. “That you and I are perfect for each other.” No words. There are no words to accurately convey what I’m feeling right now. Horror maybe? Absolute insanity? I mean, it’s not like I’m madly in love with Morris or anything, but if I’d known that kissing Logan at the party would lead to…this, I would have strapped on a frickin’ chastity gag.

I take a step in Brooklyn's direction. Just thinking her name makes me cringe. Her parents had named her after a city known for housing the Russian mafia and call girls. Not to mention dirty. Dirty, little Brooklyn. It's a nice place to visit, but no one wants to live there. I bet you it says that under her name on her birth certificate.

His eyes widened. “Pain? Darling, you haven’t yet experienced the pain I can inflict when I’ve been played for a fool. I’m in awe at your gall to try and fool me.” Bree went still as panic froze her. Oh, God. No. “Ah, the light bulb finally goes off,” he purred against her face; his voice low and cold. Even knowing who he was, and the family he came from, Bree could say that deep inside, she’d never felt any real fear of him. She did now. He knew. The look on his face told her he knew that she had lied about him being her baby’s father. Frantically, she grasped for any foothold she could find. “I don’t know what you’re talking-“ “DON’T!” he snapped, grabbing the sides of her face.

In the dream he says wedding vows and touches me as if we were soulmates.

She was my everything. Everything I could say I whispered in her ears, hoping that even in her sleep, she could hear me.

I love it when you say my name,” he chuckled before planting a soft kiss on my ear before releasing me.

Say my name like that again, and I will fuck you raw.

Do you have any idea, how love works? Me neither. Think not how love works, Just give up, and let love work you.

You’re mine,” he says suddenly. A feral man’s way of saying I love you.

I love you so much more than I ever thought I could love anyone,” he says in a gravelly voice. Will you marry me?

What are you looking at?" He persists, so I say the only thing that's on my mind. "Him. I want him." I don't know who he is, but I know one thing. He is mine. And I'll do whatever it takes to make him mine.

They say chaos breeds misery. That those who smile in the midst of danger are past the point of salvation. But Belle was able to save the Beast from his curse, even after everything he did to her. So why should I believe that Kage is beyond redemption?

She stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "I'm a f*cking human being! You can't just kidnap me like this and expect me to do whatever the hell you say." "I can. And I did. And you will." Fire warmed her gray eyes. "Or what? You'll kill me?" She pushed herself up from the floor, and I could practically see her entire body vibrating with her anger. It was fucking beautiful. A rage that rivaled my own. "Go ahead," she spit the words at me. "Death would be preferable to staying here with you and being your puppet." God, she was stunning. And infuriating. My own men didn't mouth off to me the way this woman did. I crossed the room and stood directly in front of her before she had time to run. Grabbing her jaw, I forced her to look at me. "Keep mouthing off to me, Veda. I dare you." Taking a step back, she jerked her chin from my grasp, then slapped me across the face. Hard. A deadly calm came over me. Slowly, I turned my head back around until our gazes clashed. Whatever she saw there wiped the rebellious look from her face. A heartbeat passed. Then another...

Last night, Bree had been taken. Thoroughly, utterly taken. Gently or roughly, it didn’t matter. This man had reached into the darkest part of her mind, had brought out and laid bare the desires she admitted to no one but herself in her most secret, quiet moments. Her hunger had been allowed to run free. There’d been no guilt, no remorse. Nothing was ‘wrong’. And God, the feeling of freedom was damned addictive. What did that say about her? How could she love Michael, yet give a part of her she’d never felt comfortable sharing with Michael to this stranger.

Mmm,” Bree licked the ice cream scoop and tossed it into the sink. “Let’s just say that for the sake of the baby, Alessandro and I have reached a sort of…an...agreement, I guess.” “Does that mean I can’t punch him anymore? ‘Cause that was fun.” “Yes. It does. Sorry.” “So are you two…” “No. Hell no. Not after him using Rebecca Malford as a scratching post,” Bree grumbled, her stomach clenching tight at that little reminder. “He’s what? Alessandro and that...viper?” “That’s right.” Bree clenched her teeth. “Rebecca and Alessandro? Oh my God. Mental bleach! I need mental bleach!” Meggie rubbed her temples. “Yeah, keep doing that for another week and you might be where I am right about now.” “Oh, he’s a smooth one, that’s for sure,” Meggie said with a sudden smile. “What’s with that look?” “You’re so jealous,” Bree snorted, turning away from her and taking a seat opposite of Will. “That’s ridiculous.” “And so true.

Wait, and you had to ask him if Faye’s in danger? IF? Okay, first of all, I’m just going to admit that I didn’t know Japan had a Mafia, but I also didn’t know they got a Disney World. If someone gets an invitation from the Mafia, I’d say there’s potential for a bit of danger, wouldn’t you? I mean, am I the only one here who saw Goodfellas?

What did you do to make him smile?” “Ah…” Alessandro bit back a grin and cleared his throat. “I might’ve sung a song.” “Really? What song?” “As his mother, I don’t think I should repeat it for you,” Alessandro said, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink. “Oh come on, Alessandro. The windows didn’t break so you couldn’t have done that bad a job.” “It’s not my ability that I’m referring to,” Alessandro replied. Bree narrowed her eyes. “Just what were you singing to my son? And so help me if you say anything by Sir Mix-a-lot I’ll castrate you,” “Not quite,” Alessandro said. “All right. But, remember you asked for it. Your cousin Max, taught it to me.” Bree crossed her arms over her breasts and waited.

Bree blinked her tears back and shook her head. “Wow. Then I guess you really are your father’s son, huh?” “You have no idea,” Alessandro snapped before leaving. Part of her wanted to run after him but a stronger part of her knew he wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say while the red haze was still burning inside of him. He wanted a fight. She’d give him one

sit back and let Sierra handle it. “I think there must be something wrong with my hearing,” she says, sitting up straighter. “Because I could not have heard that misogynistic comment coming from Leo, of all people. Shocker right there.” Leo grins, and I know he said that on purpose to get a rise out of her. It’s his way of trying to distract her and lighten the mood.

Alessandro watched as Luke burrowed his nose in the snow and then shook his small body. “Well, that depends on whether you want a male or a female horse.” “Mmm. I tink I want a boy horsie. Girl horsies have babies and dat’s too much trouble.” Alessandro bit back a laugh. “Male horse it is then. Let’s see. My favourite horse’s name is Abbott.” “A But?” Will asked laughing. “Abbott,” Alessandro corrected. “Chimney,” Will suddenly decided, stopping. Alessandro blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Chimney’?” “It make sense,” Will assured him. “Santa come down da chimney and he is my pesent, right? So his name be Chimney.” “I agree. Quite logical,” Alessandro nodded. “Well, dat one ting on my list. Der be more.” “Duly noted,” he said.

How did you know?" She asked. "About cookies?" I frowned, thankful for the subject change. She nodded. I could lie. But it was Christmas and my sister did say to be nice. So, even though, I knew I'd regret it later, I leaned in and whispered in her ear, "Day one, the first day you were here, you snuck cookies into your room. Day two, you did the same thing." I hesitated. "Whose stash do you think you keep stealing, hmmm little thief?" - Dante and Ella, A Very Mafia Christmas

My, my, and you accuse the Dardanos of trying to run the world. As you so succinctly put it, you have no desire to be a part of my life, which means you have no say in where I choose to live, sunshine. I, on the other hand, made no such declaration.” “God, I hate you,” Bree seethed. Alessandro smiled and tapped the end of her nose playfully, resisting the urge to tear her thick coat off of her and take her right against the wall. “You keep telling yourself that, love. We both know better.

Bree rubbed her belly. Figured; Alessandro wasn’t one to live in quiet but strained tension. She stared up at the fabric of the canopy and then squeezed her eyes shut. “Alessandro, considering that the outside world has the sterile hospital rooms, not to mention the epidurals, yeah. For goodness sake, Alessandro. You know we can’t stay here forever. I’m entering my eighth month here.” “I must say, I’m surprised you’re so anxious to leave.” “Why?” Bree asked, turning to look at his strong profile. “You know why, Brianna. As soon as we walk out that door, you and I are over.” Bree felt a guilty tightening in her chest. “Perhaps that’s what you want, though.” “That’s not fair,” Bree whispered even as she feared he was right. No. He’s wrong. I love him. She wasn’t going to let anyone shake what she and Alessandro had built here. She’d let her family know that she wanted Alessandro in her life and that she wanted to be a family with him. “Thanks for your confidence in me, though. Really.

That girl didn’t have a moment’s peace from the day Adriano Dardano set foot in Galway and started chasing her.” Sister Brannigan said, as she led them around the convent garden. “Nice of Francesca to stay still for him to catch her then wasn’t it?” Alessandro remarked dryly. “Mmph,” the nun responded. “My grandfather loved Francesca,” Alessandro insisted. “Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead. But let’s call a spade a spade, hmm? Your grandfather was a charmer. Now perhaps he didn’t realize just how naïve our Francesca was and how besotted with him she was.” “Mmm, very generous of you,” Alessandro grumbled. “I will say that on the times he brought some food he had made with Francesca up to the convent, it was clear he had a wonderful talent in the kitchen. Now mind ye, the Italian food was a bit rich for my taste but still, rather good.” “I’m sure my grandfather’s resting easier in his grave now that the holy sister has complimented his cooking,” Alessandro whispered in Bree’s ear making, her laugh out loud and Sister Brannigan turn to her in question.

I’m insatiable? I am?” Alessandro asked cocking an eyebrow as he ran his warm hands along the satin material covering her body. “Alessandro. You’re alive. I can touch you, look into your eyes and hear your arrogant English voice. We’re gonna spend the rest of our lives together, that’s plenty romantic for me.” Bree pressed her mouth against him. He tasted of coffee and peppermint. He nibbled slightly on her lower lip before pulling away. “Darling, that sounds lovely, but my wedding night fantasy was more along the lines of fucking you into the mattress.” Bree smacked his shoulder. “Patience, Dardano. Tonight we take things slow, the mattress fucking will come in time. Now, get on your back and let me put my hands on you and assure myself that you’re real.” Alessandro sighed but did as she ordered. “Now if you feel anything-” “I certainly hope so or we have a very big problem,” Alessandro joked. She smacked his chest. “If you feel any pain you let me know and we’ll stop.” “Says the woman who’s smacked me twice in the past five minutes,” Alessandro said, but his eyes were shining with amusement.

Alessandro shrugged and pushed the blade in, dragging it down the man’s skin, making him cry out. He struck him again with his fist, blood spurting onto Alessandro as well. “Did Arturo tell you that the mother of my child was in that limo? She’s carrying my baby inside of her, and that her son was in the limo too? I’m sure he did. I’m sure he left explicit instructions as to who exactly you were supposed to dispose of, didn’t he?” “He’ll kill me. I swear, he’ll kill me,” the man cried, tears mixing in with his blood. “Next, I’ll take an eye, you snivelling little shit!” Alessandro growled, raising his bloody blade to the man’s left eyeball. The unmistakable scent of urine filled the air. Alessandro stepped back in disgust and turned to Jason and his other man, Marty, two of the best Dardano soldiers, loyal and efficient. They took his cue and slipped on their brass knuckles. “Just say the words, ol’ boy, and we’ll stop this,” “Fuck you,” the man shouted. Alessandro smirked. “Such defiance for a man who just pissed himself.” He crossed his arms as Marty and Jason went to work. It only took a minute. “All right. Okay! Stop! Stop! Fine, I’ll talk!

Well, no, Sister Brannigan was the one putting her name on the checks to the cemetery. Someone else was making the deposits into her personal account.” “But now that she’s gone?” “I suppose the Neapolitan benefactor will have to find someone else if he wants to remain anonymous.” Bree snorted, “For a second I thought maybe it might be Bernardo.” “Well, why not? I mean, a little bank fraud isn’t likely to keep my father up at night,” Alessandro said. “But he’s in New York,” Bree reminded him. “Geography, darling?” Alessandro asked amused. “You say that with such pride it scares me,” Bree said rolling her eyes. “I love you too,” Alessandro smiled. “But no. If he was, why let us go off on this whole journey?” “It’s Bernardo. If there’s something I’ve learned about your father it’s that the rules of logic don’t apply to him. Or any other kind of rules,” Bree added, “Maybe this is all some kind of big elaborate plan and we’re gonna go home and find out he’s been keeping Francesca and Adriano frozen in his basement in one of those sci-fi freezers that they say you can buy and use to come back to life in a hundred years.” Alessandro shook his head at her, not impressed with her sense of humour.

The difference between a monarch and a dictator is that the monarchical succession is defined by law and the dictatorial succession is defined by power. The effect in the latter is that the fish rots from the head down — lawlessness permeates the state, as in a mafia family, because contending leaders must build informal coalitions. Since another name for a monarchist is a legitimist, we can contrast the legitimist and demotist theories of government. […] Perhaps unsurprisingly, I see legitimism as a sort of proto-formalism. The royal family is a perpetual corporation, the kingdom is the property of this corporation, and the whole thing is a sort of real-estate venture on a grand scale. Why does the family own the corporation and the corporation own the kingdom? Because it does. Property is historically arbitrary. The best way for the monarchies of Old Europe to modernize, in my book, would have been to transition the corporation from family ownership to shareholder ownership, eliminating the hereditary principle which caused so many problems for so many monarchies. However, the trouble with corporate monarchism is that it presents no obvious political formula. “Because it does” cuts no ice with a mob of pitchfork-wielding peasants. […] So the legitimist system went down another path, which led eventually to its destruction: the path of divine-right monarchy. When everyone believes in God, “because God says so” is a much more impressive formula. Perhaps the best way to look at demotism is to see it as the Protestant version of rule by divine right — based on the theory of vox populi, vox dei. If you add divine-right monarchy to a religious system that is shifting from the worship of God to the worship of Man, demotism is pretty much what you’d expect to precipitate in the beaker.

Bree crossed her arms over her protruding belly. “I’m fine. No one has shot at me in the last twenty four hours, and my family is talking to me again. Things are looking up.” He grimaced at the mention of her family. “How fortunate for you.” Bree narrowed her eyes at him, picking up on the derogatory tone. “Well, you should know all about the importance of family. You’d do anything for yours, right? Bernardo says jump, you ask ‘how high?’ “ Alessandro felt a sick twist of guilt in his chest, “Well, congratulations, Brianna. You’ve worked very hard for the title of O’Reiley doormat. I hope it’s all you’ve ever wanted. I hope you’re happy.” “Blissfully,” Bree shot back and turned on her heel, leaving him there filled with anger and regret.

Dominic, with the powerful aura, got under my skin before I had a chance to ward him off and now I’m screwed. Even more now I know his taste and how hard he feels against the soft, wet parts of me. Dominic just introduced me to the most dangerous man in New York. Fuck. Fuck. Clarity pours over me. Does this mean Dominic is a member of the mafia after all? Only it wasn’t only a little kiss, was it? I’m sexually frustrated and Dom is standing there with his hands in his tailored pants pockets, aroused. The bulge is unmistakable. “Gabriella…” God, I’m wet too. If I rub my thighs together, I’ll feel how much. He’s hard, I’m wet… it’s a match made in heaven. “Gabriella…” he says again, thick and tarnished as I look him up and down. “Yeah?” “I said you’re too far away,” he murmurs, cutting his dark gaze my way. Stirring me. “Come here to me, cara.” he hooks two fingers with a motion and smirks like a devil with the key to all my desires. I swear my belly bottoms out as my feet carry me forward. Unable to refuse the invisible rope he has around my waist, pulling me closer. “Bossy aren’t you?” “I am your boss.” “I don’t think you want to remind me of that.” He hums and the rumble hurtles down between my thighs. How does he do that? Turn me on with just a noise. “I guess you’d like it if I called you sir, wouldn’t you?” His eyes flare and then darken, he drops his chin to his chest. “Do you really wish to turn me on right this moment?” Oh, fuck. Do I? I do. Yeah, I really do.

She has to find someplace to pull into. If she could find a Nova Sicilia franchulate, that would do it—the Mafia owes her one. Or a New South Africa, which she hates. But the New South Africans hate jeeks even more. Scratch that; Hiro is black, or at least part black. Can't take him into New South Africa. And because Y.T. is a Cauc, they can't go to Metazania. “Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong,” Hiro says. “Half mile ahead on the right.” “Nice thinking—but they won't let you in with your swords, will they?” “Yes,” he says, “because I'm a citizen.” Then she sees it. The sign stands out because it is a rare one. Don't see many of these. It is a green-and-blue sign, soothing and calm in a glare-torn franchise ghetto. It says: MR. LEE'S GREATER HONG KONG

If a gentleman held a door for me, I would accept the courtesy and thank him. Gentlemen enjoy offering little gallantries; a lady enjoys accepting them graciously, with a smile and a word of thanks. I mention this because, by the 1970s, there were many females who would snub a man unmercifully if he offered a gallantry, such as holding a chair for a woman, or offering to help her in or out of a car. These women (a minority but a ubiquitous, obnoxious one) treated traditional courtesy as if it were an insult. I grew to think of these females as the “Lesbian Mafia.” I don’t know that all of them were homosexual (although I’m certain about some of them) but their behavior caused me to lump them all together. If some of them were not Lesbians, then where did they find heterosexual mates? What sort of wimp would put up with this sort of rudeness in women? I am sorry to say that by 1970 there were plenty of wimps of every sort. The wimps were taking over.

I encounter forms of this attitude every day. The producers who work at the Ostankino channels might all be liberals in their private lives, holiday in Tuscany, and be completely European in their tastes. When I ask how they marry their professional and personal lives, they look at me as if I were a fool and answer: “Over the last twenty years we’ve lived through a communism we never believed in, democracy and defaults and mafia state and oligarchy, and we’ve realized they are illusions, that everything is PR.” “Everything is PR” has become the favorite phrase of the new Russia; my Moscow peers are filled with a sense that they are both cynical and enlightened. When I ask them about Soviet-era dissidents, like my parents, who fought against communism, they dismiss them as naïve dreamers and my own Western attachment to such vague notions as “human rights” and “freedom” as a blunder. “Can’t you see your own governments are just as bad as ours?” they ask me. I try to protest—but they just smile and pity me. To believe in something and stand by it in this world is derided, the ability to be a shape-shifter celebrated. Vladimir Nabokov once described a species of butterfly that at an early stage in its development had to learn how to change colors to hide from predators. The butterfly’s predators had long died off, but still it changed its colors from the sheer pleasure of transformation. Something similar has happened to the Russian elites: during the Soviet period they learned to dissimulate in order to survive; now there is no need to constantly change their colors, but they continue to do so out of a sort of dark joy, conformism raised to the level of aesthetic act. Surkov himself is the ultimate expression of this psychology. As I watch him give his speech to the students and journalists, he seems to change and transform like mercury, from cherubic smile to demonic stare, from a woolly liberal preaching “modernization” to a finger-wagging nationalist, spitting out willfully contradictory ideas: “managed democracy,” “conservative modernization.” Then he steps back, smiling, and says: “We need a new political party, and we should help it happen, no need to wait and make it form by itself.” And when you look closely at the party men in the political reality show Surkov directs, the spitting nationalists and beetroot-faced communists, you notice how they all seem to perform their roles with a little ironic twinkle.

Emma, calm down. I had to know-" I point my finger in his face, almost touching his eyeball. "It's one thing for me to give your permission to look into it. But I'm pretty sure looking into it without my consent is illegal. In fact, I'm pretty sure everything that woman does is illegal. Do you even know what the Mafia is, Galen?" His eyebrows lift in surprise. "She told you who she is? I mean, who she used to be?" I nod. "While you were checking in with Grom. Once in the Mob, always in the Mob, if you ask me. How else would she get all her money? But I guess you wouldn't care about that, since she buys you houses and cars and fake IDs." I snatch my wrist away and turn back toward our hotel. At least, I hope it's our hotel. Galen laughs. "Emma, it's not Rachel's money; it's mine." I whirl on him. "You are a fish. You don't have a job. And I don't think Syrena currency has any of our presidents on it." Now "our" means I'm human again. I wish I could make up my mind. He crosses his arms. "I earn it another way. Walk to the Gulfarium with me, and I'll tell you how." The temptation divides me like a cleaver. I'm one part hissy fit and one part swoon. I have a right to be mad, to press charges, to cut Rachel's hair while she's sleeping. But do I really want to risk the chance that she keeps a gun under her pillow? Do I want to miss the opportunity to scrunch my toes in the sand and listen to Galen's rich voice tell me how a fish came to be wealthy? Nope, I don't. Taking care to ram my shoulder into him, I march past him and hopefully in the right direction. When he catches up to me, his grin threatens the rest of my hissy fit side, so I turn away, fixing my glare on the waves. "I sell stuff to humans," he says. I glance at him. He's looking at me, his expression every bit as expectant as I feel. I hate this little game of ours. Maybe because I'm no good at it. He won't tell me more unless I ask. Curiosity is one of my most incurable flaws-and Galen knows it. Still, I already gave up a perfectly good tantrum for him, so I feel like he owes me. Never mind that he saved my life today. That was so two hours ago. I lift my chin. "Rachel says I'm a millionaire," he says, his little knowing smirk scrubbing my nerves like a Brillo pad. "But for me, it's not about the money. Like you, I have a soft spot for history." Crap, crap, crap. How can he already know me this well? I must be as readable as the alphabet. What's the use? He's going to win, every time.

Yeah, well, he’s having a hard time dealing, you know?” Bree asked uneasily. “That’s understandable. How are you coping?” he asked, reaching out and touching her arm. Gianni shifted in her arms and looked down at Colin’s hand. “It’s taking some getting used to. Let’s just say it’s a bit of a relief to take a break for a little while. I’m more worried about the kids though and this is affecting them so I’m hoping to get in to see Dr. Graham. She was a big help to Will a while back.” “Oh, yeah. I hear great things about her. You know she doesn’t just work with kids, right?” Bree narrowed her eyes but smiled in amusement. “Is that a hint?” “Not a very subtle one, I know. Hey Gianni, how you doing, huh? Wow, you’re sure getting big,” Colin remarked. “He sure is. He’s almost standing all by himself now, aren’t you, Gianni? You wanna show Colin?” Bree asked. “Nooo,” Gianni insisted, burying his face in Bree’s neck. “Oh, speaking of Mr. Cranky Pants, huh? He didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” Gianni lifted his head and then looked down, and it was then that Bree noticed Colin still had his hand on her arm. “Dat,” Gianni said. Bree cleared her throat and took a step back, not wanting to make the movement seem like she was uncomfortable with Colin touching her.

[Magyar] had an intense dislike for terms like 'illiberal,' which focused on traits the regimes did not possess--like free media or fair elections. This he likened to trying to describe an elephant by saying that the elephant cannot fly or cannot swim--it says nothing about what the elephant actually is. Nor did he like the term 'hybrid regime,' which to him seemed like an imitation of a definition, since it failed to define what the regime was ostensibly a hybrid of. Magyar developed his own concept: the 'post-communist mafia state.' Both halves of the designation were significant: 'post-communist' because "the conditions preceding the democratic big bang have a decisive role in the formation of the system. Namely that it came about on the foundations of a communist dictatorship, as a product of the debris left by its decay." (quoting Balint Magyar) The ruling elites of post-communist states most often hail from the old nomenklatura, be it Party or secret service. But to Magyar this was not the countries' most important common feature: what mattered most was that some of these old groups evolved into structures centered around a single man who led them in wielding power. Consolidating power and resources was relatively simple because these countries had just recently had Party monopoly on power and a state monopoly on property.

Colin. Just the name made Alessandro’s gut burn. He knew the man wanted his wife, even if Brianna was too blind to see it. The moron had been cuckolded by the paragon of supposed virtue, his wife Carrie and now he had finally opened his eyes and seen what Alessandro had known all along. Brianna put every other woman in New York to shame. No woman could come near her beauty, her passion, her fire. Colin had tossed her aside for the angelic Carrie and now he was changing his mind. Oh no you don’t, you miserable fucker. “Her friend indeed,” Bernardo drawled, his Italian accent thick with unmistakable implication. “Dat’s da truth. He no make her cry all da time.” That was directed at Alessandro, with small dark accusatory eyes. “He nice.” Alessandro couldn’t look at those eyes without feeling a sickening pang of guilt. She’s mine! He wanted to scream. Mine! Mine! Mine! “Oh yes. Very nice. He was very nice when he held her at the cemetery and very nice when he was dancing with her at Adresca.” That made Alessandro’s head lift in surprise. “Oh yes, my boy. She’s been there, cleaning up the rubble and word is that she’s working on re-opening it. Her friend Colin has been quite helpful in that endeavour.” “I don’ like how you say dat,” Will said scowling. “Really young William, I only speak the truth,” Bernardo taunted. Alessandro’s mind was racing. NO! Not Colin. He could not let that imbecile take Brianna away from him. He’d have to be eliminated somehow. Alessandro began to plot all the different ways he could ensure that Colin Neally stayed away from his wife, permanently. They all involved grisly, violent methods. He could not be allowed to win Brianna.

[Magyar] had an intense dislike for terms like 'illiberal,' which focused on traits the regimes did not possess--like free media or fair elections. This he likened to trying to describe an elephant by saying that the elephant cannot fly or cannot swim--it says nothing about what the elephant actually is. Nor did he like the term 'hybrid regime,' which to him seemed like an imitation of a definition, since it failed to define what the regime was ostensibly a hybrid of. Magyar developed his own concept: the 'post-communist mafia state.' Both halves of the designation were significant: 'post-communist' because "the conditions preceding the democratic big bang have a decisive role in the formation of the system. Namely that it came about on the foundations of a communist dictatorship, as a product of the debris left by its decay." (quoting Balint Magyar) The ruling elites of post-communist states most often hail from the old nomenklatura, be it Party or secret service. But to Magyar this was not the countries' most important common feature: what mattered most was that some of these old groups evolved into structures centered around a single man who led them in wielding power. Consolidating power and resources was relatively simple because these countries had just recently had Party monopoly on power and a state monopoly on property. ... A mafia state, in Magyar's definition, was different from other states ruled by one person surrounded by a small elite. In a mafia state, the small powerful group was structured just like a family. The center of the family is the patriarch, who does not govern: "he disposes--of positions, wealth, statuses, persons." The system works like a caricature of the Communist distribution economy. The patriarch and his family have only two goals: accumulating wealth and concentrating power. The family-like structure is strictly hierarchical, and membership in it can be obtained only through birth or adoption. In Putin's case, his inner circle consisted of men with whom he grew up in the streets and judo clubs of Leningrad, the next circle included men with whom he had worked with in the KGB/FSB, and the next circle was made up of men who had worked in the St. Petersburg administration with him. Very rarely, he 'adopted' someone into the family as he did with Kholmanskikh, the head of the assembly shop, who was elevated from obscurity to a sort of third-cousin-hood. One cannot leave the family voluntarily: one can only be kicked out, disowned and disinherited. Violence and ideology, the pillars of the totalitarian state, became, in the hands of the mafia state, mere instruments. The post-communist mafia state, in Magyar's words, is an "ideology-applying regime" (while a totalitarian regime is 'ideology-driven'). A crackdown required both force and ideology. While the instruments of force---the riot police, the interior troops, and even the street-washing machines---were within arm's reach, ready to be used, ideology was less apparently available. Up until spring 2012, Putin's ideological repertoire had consisted of the word 'stability,' a lament for the loss of the Soviet empire, a steady but barely articulated restoration of the Soviet aesthetic and the myth of the Great Patriotic War, and general statements about the United States and NATO, which had cheated Russia and threatened it now. All these components had been employed during the 'preventative counter-revolution,' when the country, and especially its youth, was called upon to battle the American-inspired orange menace, which threatened stability. Putin employed the same set of images when he first responded to the protests in December. But Dugin was now arguing that this was not enough. At the end of December, Dugin published an article in which he predicted the fall of Putin if he continued to ignore the importance of ideas and history.

Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta Verse 1 Damn it feels good to be a gangsta A real gangsta-ass nigga plays his cards right A real gangsta-ass nigga never runs his f**kin mouth Cuz real gangsta-ass niggas don't start fights And niggas always gotta high cap Showin' all his boys how he shot em But real gangsta-ass niggas don't flex nuts Cuz real gangsta-ass niggas know they got em And everythings cool in the mind of a gangsta Cuz gangsta-ass niggas think deep Up three-sixty-five a year 24/7 Cuz real gangsta ass niggas don't sleep And all I gotta say to you Wannabe, gonnabe, cocksuckin', pussy-eatin' prankstas 'Cause when the fire dies down what the f**k you gonna do Damn it feels good to be a gangsta Verse 2 Damn it feels good to be a gangsta Feedin' the poor and helpin out with their bills Although I was born in Jamaica Now I'm in the US makin' deals Damn it feels good to be a gangsta I mean one that you don't really know Ridin' around town in a drop-top Benz Hittin' switches in my black six-fo' Now gangsta-ass niggas come in all shapes and colors Some got killed in the past But this gangtsa here is a smart one Started living for the lord and I last Now all I gotta say to you Wannabe, gonnabe, pussy-eatin' cocksuckin' prankstas When the sh*t jumps off what the f**k you gonna do Damn it feels good to be a gangsta Verse 3 Damn it feels good to be a gangsta A real gangta-ass nigga knows the play Real gangsta-ass niggas get the flyest of the b**ches Ask that gangsta-ass nigga Little Jake Now b**ches look at gangsta-ass niggas like a stop sign And play the role of Little Miss Sweet But catch the b**ch all alone get the digit take her out and then dump-hittin' the ass with the meat Cuz gangsta-ass niggas be the gang playas And everythings quiet in the clique A gangsta-ass nigga pulls the trigger And his partners in the posse ain't tellin' off sh*t Real gangsta-ass niggas don't talk much All ya hear is the black from the gun blast And real gangsta-ass niggas don't run for sh*t Cuz real gangsta-ass niggas can't run fast Now when you in the free world talkin' sh*t do the sh*t Hit the pen and let the mothaf**kas shank ya But niggas like myself kick back and peep game Cuz damn it feels good to be a gangsta Verse 4 And now, a word from the President! Damn it feels good to be a gangsta Gettin voted into the White House Everything lookin good to the people of the world But the Mafia family is my boss So every now and then I owe a favor gettin' down like lettin' a big drug shipment through And send 'em to the poor community So we can bust you know who So voters of the world keep supportin' me And I promise to take you very far Other leaders better not upset me Or I'll send a million troops to die at war To all you Republicans, that helped me win I sincerely like to thank you Cuz now I got the world swingin' from my nuts And damn it feels good to be a gangsta

Aguilar says: “The cartels are turning into more of a Mafia-like organization that are specializing not just in any one crime, not in

It’s as if Facebook is saying, “Pay us or you don’t exist.” They’re becoming the existential mafia.

The story reported that Luparelli turned himself in to the FBI and admitted that he and four other men were the ones who’d hit Joey. The article named Yacovelli as the guy who authorities believed ordered the hit. Later, there was all kinds of bullshit. There was an Irishman who wrote a book saying he was the guy who killed Joey Gallo—and Jimmy Hoffa, as long as he was at it. Everybody knew it was bullshit.

Aleksio says, “You especially need to be careful with Viktor. He wasn’t raised right.” Somebody

So it’s true,” she says softly, looking into my eyes. “You’re working with…” The words the mafia hang between us. I nod.

Giorno,” says one of the girls working behind the counter. She looks like she’s around my age, maybe a year or two older. “Giorno.” My reply is timid, slow to dip my toes into the waters of Italian communication. She smiles brightly. “What can I get you?” I gape at her. “How did you know--?” “It is a combination. Camera around your neck? Tourist. Fair skin and lighter hair? Rules out quite a few countries. Accent? Definitely American.” “I only said one word, and it was Italian.” She laughs. “I get a lot of practice.” “Well, your English is perfect.” I’m amazed. And jealous. “Thank you. My parents made sure that I learned from an early age. And my uncle’s family lives in New York, so I spend much time there. Most every summer.” I have to force myself not to think about the Mafia.

Among the organizational means that humans have used to commit aggression against each other, those recognized as governments have been by far the most harmful. However they have not been the only institutional instruments of aggression. Other institutions – churches, corporations, groups such as the mafia and the narco-cartels, etc. – have also committed aggression on a scale that exceeds the individual capacity for evil. Although they did not call themselves governments, one could say they acted governmentally. Meanwhile, though rarely, some governments have mostly left people in peace. Therefore I say that government is as government does.

What a shame you are already married,” he says. Stalling with my hand curled around the door handle, I look over my shoulder at him, arching a brow as my curiosity is piqued. “If you were single, I would marry the fuck out of you.

You didn’t run.” “I told you I wouldn’t!” Her arms are in the air as she screams the words in my face. “Unlike you, my word means something.” She tries to escape my hold once more, but this time I pull her so hard she crashes against my chest. My hand comes up to grip her cheek—a gesture that looks soft but is really anything but. “Stupid girl,” I say softly. “You should have run.” Before she gets a chance to respond at all, I crash my lips against hers in a bruising kiss. Her hands grip my shirt, and whether it’s an attempt to push me off or pull me closer, I’m not sure. All I can focus on is the way her body fits with my own. “Fuck you,” she murmurs against my mouth. My cock jumps at her words, growing harder by the second. “You’re about to.

Your wife is here,” Odhran says in his deep, slow voice. He gazes up at me finally, wide blue eyes surrounded by thick blond lashes. “Yes. Thank you for dropping off her things.” “Yes.” He stands there staring. I try not to show him that he makes me uneasy. Odhran enjoys that. “Are you done?” “No.” “Then speak.” “Can I see her?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “No. You can’t. What the fuck do you want, Odhran? I don’t have time for this.” Odhran runs his hands over his chin and finally speaks. He never hurries anything and it drives me fucking nuts.

Why did you decide to marry me?” “It was an opportunity,” I say honestly. Her eyebrow tics. “An opportunity for what?” I look out at the boats surrounding us and think of the best way to say it. “To have someone of my own,” I finally reply. A claim, a prayer, a wish.

It was one of those moments of regret after spoken words when lips and tongue spat before heart and brain could decide.

Done gawking?” I challenged, tilting my chin up defiantly as I finished adjusting the clothing. Aros’s smirk widened for a split second, then vanished. “Just admiring the fit. Suits you well.” I rolled my eyes. “I highly doubt you care about fashion, given our current circumstances.” He took a step closer, his voice low. “It’s not the clothes I’m curious about, Elani. It’s the woman wearing them.

You know,” I mused aloud, “they say the person you most want is the person you're best without.” Aros chuckled lightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Whoever said that,” he countered, “has never truly been in love.

You're like a drug to me,” he confessed, his voice laced with both desire and resignation. “I know I have to let you go, but I can't bear to be without you, even for a moment.

Who says we don’t have time?” she questioned, placing her lips up against my ear. “You could always introduce me to the mile-high club.

My mother used to say that when demons come to earth, they pretend to be angels, and they get away with it because nobody expects a beautiful demon,” he says, swirling the glass absently.

That’s what I thought,” Gabriel says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “You’ll always be mine, Alexis.

People are funny when they’re covering up pain,” he says. “Are you in pain, Alexis?

I wondered so many times after that night what you would say if you knew that I’d had your baby, but now I know that you wouldn’t give a single shit.

Yes, I am a muslim poet (sufi), I am also humankind's pinnacle of peace and reason. I have done more for integration and humanitarianism than most writers, scholars, and philosophers in history. Now tell me - what were you saying about, all muslims are terrorists!

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” His laugh rumbles against my back. “All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy,” he says. “Now who is forgetting the second part of the adage?

God forbid a woman can say no, we always have to bring in boyfriends as an excuse to refuse drinks or dances.

I am free,” I breathe. “Free of Richard. But not of you.” We’re both on our bare feet, so Dubh watches where he steps as he reaches for me. “You will never be free of me.” I tip my head back to look up at his face. “Maybe I don’t want to be.” “Careful now,” he warns with a gleam in his eyes. “Those are dangerous words to say to a man like me.

I know you,” I say, and I’m starting to see things swirling a little around the edges of my vision. He smirks. “You’re Lucifer fuckin’ Morningstar, cast out of heaven and landed here in the greatest city on earth.

Stay with me, Georgie,” I say. “Stay with me and make me your New York Queen. Marry my fortune, take my lands, use my body to sire your heirs.

Seems the saying is true, there’s a fine line between love and hate.

It means little wasp,” I say.

She’s not handling the breakup that well,” he says. “Apparently, she’s still mourning.” “You broke her heart?” “Worse. I canceled the credit card I gave her.

the almighty Roman Petrov strolls in. His cane makes a slight tick sound on the hardwood floor as he approaches with quick steps and leans in close to my face. “You are grounded,” he says through his teeth. “I’m not a child. You can’t grou— What are you doing? No! Leave my laptop alone! Dad!” “NASA?” He puts my laptop under his arm and yanks the power cord out of the wall. “Fucking NASA!?

Then he was told he couldn’t drive it. Such protection was licensed only for the cops and the FBI, and a few VIP commercial business concerns, which excluded working in murder and extortion, loansharking and staging successful stick-ups at newfangled theft-proof venues. Mickey Cohen was aghast. The bootlegger and bodyguard, purveyor of mayhem and mischief, followed through in the American way and in 1949 demanded his rights – his day in court. His legal team received a sympathetic hearing from the judge, who said he understood their client’s needs, given all the bombings and clattering shotguns aimed in the gangster’s direction. He’d make a deal. Mickey Cohen could drive his bulletproof Cadillac if he told the court who had given him permission to have the car tested at the gunnery range of the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD). But Cohen was no stool pigeon. He’d rather not say.

It had nothing to do with trust and everything to do with protecting you. I told you that already. I wasn’t going to drag you into that world.” “But you knew—you knew my father was involved and that I was already neck-deep in the mafia, but you pushed me away anyway. Is that right?” Her eyes blazed, and I could feel solid metal doors closing between us. “I knew your father was connected, yes.” “So instead of trusting me with the truth, you walked away.” With those words, the locks slid shut. Nothing I could say would penetrate. “I did what I thought was best when backed into a terrible situation at the age of sixteen. If that’s something you can’t forgive, then there’s nothing else to say.

Time’s up, Luna,” I whispered in her ear. She fought me all the way back to the room. I put her down, and she spun to face me as I locked the door. I turned to face her. Her cheeks were darkened, and when our gazes met, I saw the glimmer of something surprising. She was turned on by our little game. “You’re insane,” she spat, her voice sharp. “Why do you say that?” I quirked a brow, a smirk tugging at my lips. I found a twisted amusement in her defiance. Her eyes narrowed, turning into slits that could slice through steel. She looked adorable when she was angry, fire dancing behind her eyes. “Because you’re playing some kind of sick game,” she shot back, her breath quickening as I herded her toward the wall. “You stabbed me with a fork,” I reminded her, leaning in until our noses nearly touched. “You kidnapped me,” she countered, trying to sound fierce but failing to mask the slight tremor in her voice. “Kidnapped?” I chuckled, the sound echoing off the cold walls. “I didn’t kidnap you. I just took back what belongs to me.

hissed. The other nodded silently and they moved slowly toward the rear of the apartment. The larger man paused near the bedroom door, squinting in the near dark to inspect a long-barrel pistol he held in his hand. A silencing device was attached to the barrel of the pistol. The other man touched the pistol, his teeth revealing themselves in a smile. “No pissin’ around,” he whispered. “This guy’s good with a gun, they say.” The man with the pistol nodded and slowly turned the knob of the bedroom door, pushed the door wide, and stepped inside, the second man right behind. They were momentarily blinded, squinting into the bright rectangle of sunlight beyond the bed, but the gunman raised his arm and squeezed off three quick shots into the huddled lump on the bed, the big pistol “plutting” dully under the muzzle silencer. Then there was a sliding sound in the corner

I couldn’t get on the phone and say, “Bim, I’m going to White Plains. Follow me.” Instead, I hoped that he would notice us heading away in my H2 and discreetly follow us. I drove slowly, as usual, so I wouldn’t lose my tail. My torpor behind the wheel always drove Greg crazy. “You drive like an old lady!” he complained. “Hurry up, Jackie boy! It takes you a fucking hour to drive what it takes me half an hour!” “I always go slow,” I told him. “I get flashbacks from an accident I had when I was a kid.” If Greg had been in a hurry, he would have told me, “We gotta get there fast. You’re not fucking driving.” I’d follow him and pretend to get lost, just to zing him. But that wasn’t happening this time. We were all in one car, my car, and I still had no idea what we were doing. On the way, Greg finally explained the nature of our mission. “We’re going to Bloomingdale’s,” he said. “We’re going to find that cocksucker Petey Chops.” Okay, so today’s not my day to get killed. That’s a positive. But why would we look for a recalcitrant Mafia soldier in a department store? Greg volunteered no more information, and as a member of his crew, I was in no position to inquire.

The Flamingo Casino is a slice of Vegas legacy. It’s kind of where it all started. With a reputation steeped in infamy, it’s the place tourists go hoping to spot some vestige of the mafia in the glitzy city. And time after time, they go in, poke around, and come out saying: “Well that’s totally not what I expected—hey look, naked bronze chicks!

term decision-makers,” says Pokorný. “To the IPCC [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change], we have the atmosphere and in the atmosphere are greenhouse gases. If greenhouse gases go up, it’s a warmer climate. It’s different when you consider the biosphere and atmosphere and the energy balance between the universe and surface of the earth. There’s been a simplification of climate change, a train which goes along, driven by lawyers and business.” The CO2 mafia, as they’ve begun to regard it.

Fear has also been used to carry out a redistribution of wealth—which is to say back under the control of the state, where Putin is chief among a collection of officials whose roles more closely resemble those of Mafia dons than public servants.

Force people to live on top of one another like that,” says Al Lovejoy as he describes the townships he knows intimately, “and you are bound to pick up social stress that expresses itself in violence. What I could never understand is why there wasn’t more violence.

Giving him a taste of his own medicine, I say, “I’m thirty, excellent at cooking, and beach sand makes me itch. My favorite color is green.

I can’t believe he puts his cold, dead hands on you every night,” Oliver says, his eyes feverishly bright. “How in the fuck did this happen, Aida? How did he make you fall in love with him when I couldn’t?” That actually makes me feel bad, at least a little bit. I didn’t fall in love with Callum. It’s cruel to let Oliver think that I did. “It wasn’t . . . it’s not . . .” I lick my lips. “It’s not about love, exactly.” “I knew it,” Oliver breathes. “I knew it as soon as I realized what his family is. They’re fucking mafia, just like yours.