Surrounded by sycophants, Russo possessed star power that commanded attention. He wore a cashmere coat slung over his shoulders that, on him, looked neither pretentious nor dramatic. His bodyguard removed it and hung it on a coat rack. Maybe Russo had the same neatness fetish Benny did, he thought at the time. Russo’s wife was plain but pretty, in an old-fashioned, European way. No makeup but beautiful skin and dark eyes, lustrous black hair pulled into a chignon. Certainly not the flashy starlet type one would expect a leading mobster to have on his arm. Russo was overtly affectionate toward her the whole evening. Benny watched, finding the scene unexpectedly sweet. How had Russo avoided the recent slew of police arrests that weakened the decades-old structure of organized crime? Many of those remaining ruled their crumbling families from prison, and were, like Russo, old. He’d managed to avoid the net, due to the meticulous way he did business. No one squealed on Russo.
