Wild Cards V by George R. R. Martin

Not kidding.”
    â€œYou know the aces jingle.”
    â€œParts of it.”
    â€œâ€˜Golden Boy ain’t got no joy,’” she recited. “‘If it’s Demise, don’t look in his eyes…’—that’s him: James Spector is Demise’s real name.”
    â€œI never knew that,” he said. Then, “I never heard any verses about me.”
    â€œI don’t remember any either.”
    â€œCome on. I always wondered.”
    â€œâ€˜Sleeper waking, meals taking,’” she said slowly. “‘Sleeper speeding, people bleeding.’”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œIf I call you and you’re that far along…”
    â€œIf I’m that far along, I don’t return calls.”
    â€œI’ll get you a couple of dry napkins,” she offered. “Sorry about the storms.”
    â€œDon’t be. Did anyone ever tell you you’re lovely when you exude moisture?”
    She stared at him. Then, “I’ll get you a dry fish too,” she said.
    Croyd raised his hand to blow her a kiss and gave himself a shock.

 
    Breakdown
    by Leanne C. Harper
    THE PAIR OF BODYGUARDS left Giovanni’s first. Behind their dark glasses they immediately began scanning the street, looking for trouble. At a wave from the man on the right, another bodyguard preceded Don Tomasso, head of the Anselmi Family, onto the street. The don had to be assisted in walking. He was an old man, bent and in obvious pain, but his old-fashioned black suit had been hand-tailored and pressed into sharp creases. He surveyed the street as well, swiveling his shaking head from between his hunched shoulders like an aging turtle. The red and green neon of the restaurant’s sign alternately revealed and hid his weathered face.
    Don Tomasso’s black Mercedes limousine was double-parked directly in front of Giovanni’s entrance. Surrounded by his men, the don approached his car with his head held as high as possible in defiance to any unseen observers. A dark BMW pulled up behind Tomasso’s Mercedes. He nodded in recognition at the driver before ducking his head and climbing into the limousine. One of the bodyguards followed him. The others moved back to the BMW. Both cars were in motion before the doors of the BMW were shut.
    Lit by a dull orange streetlight, two children played on the sidewalk in front of a brownstone half a block down the street from the restaurant. The boy had just tossed the baseball to the younger girl when the Mercedes exploded, followed instantly by the BMW’s destruction. The fireballs bloomed and met as pieces of the cars and bricks from the nearby buildings crashed back to earth.
    Rosemary Muldoon continued to watch the flames on the oversize video screen in front of her. She said nothing until the tape ran down into static. She sat immobile in the carved black walnut chair at the head of the long table, but her hands clutched the chair’s arms until her knuckles were white.
    Chris Mazzucchelli got up from the chair beside her to pull the tape from the VCR. Rosemary glanced around her father’s “library” where strategy meetings for his Family, the Gambiones, had always taken place. She had left almost everything in the penthouse the same, only bringing in some high-tech equipment such as the video and her computer to help her run the empire she had inherited. Right now, the room felt very empty, as if even her father had abandoned her.
    When Chris came back to the conference table, he laid the tape down and stroked her dark brown hair. As his hand cupped her face, Rosemary roused herself.
    â€œOnly two of us left now. Don Calvino and I. Three dons dead in a matter of weeks, and we don’t even know who’s destroying us. All we know is who they are using.” Rosemary shook her head. “The Five Families have never faced a threat like this. We’re not prepared to fight on this scale. We’ve lost