The fire above us groans, a hungry beast devouring the rafters, but down here in the foyer, the air is thick with a different kind of heat. Santino stands there, the bat resting casually against his shoulder. He looks at the dead man at my feet, the guard he just executed to get to me and then his eyes drift back to mine. They are dancing with a sick, twisted kind of pride.

"You burned it all, Love," he says. His voice is conversational, almost tender, as if we are discussing the weather and ...