The sale on stage has not yet begun. The curtains, thick and blood-red, are still drawn, and the men here to bid are circulating around the room, drinks in hand.
It is a who’s who of the North American underworld—mob royalty as far as the eye can see. I find my father stationed at the back of the room, overseeing the proceedings. There is much to be learned from who talks to whom and which little cliques cluster together.
He’s talking to a tall man with dark hair and broad shoulders, dressed impeccably in a navy suit. I hang back, but when my father spots me, he ushers me towards him.
“Tomas, you remember Mayor Vaknin, don’t you?” he says. “We visited him in Toronto recently.”
I turn to him. “Yes, of course. How are you?”
Gavril Vaknin shakes my hand and nods. “Doing well, son. I’m in
