“So, we are short on hookers in Al Meccho,” Tom said, scanning the report. The room around him breathed with old wood and rest, reminding him of times when he was a little colt under Alexandro’s tutorship, playing with his sister and brother, while his father talked to big ponies in suits. Now, he was just such a big pony in a suit, talking to his father, who was significantly older, but never lost his charm nor his presence of awe and calm display of power. “Our people in Manehattan ask for assistance with the booze trade. The police had been exceptionally nosy lately.”

Alexandro Philarmonico sniffed, tapping his hoof against the solidwood table, then extinguished his cigar into the large marble ashtray. “Cannot they bribe the police themselves?” He looked around, even though he and his adopted son were the only ponies present in the room. “Do I have to go down to Manehattan and do everything myself? Is this what they are expecting?”

“Alexandro,” Tom tried patiently. “Times have changed. Not all police officers take bribes now. I suggest that we use our influence with the Parliament to get at them.”

“The Parliament doesn’t really control the agency, despite what their Constitution says,” Alexandro replied without irritation, but with deep disgust at the document. “We’ll have to talk to the Minister.” He stopped tapping and looked at his consigliere expectively. “As for the… hired mares, send McGregor to talk to the casino owners.” He smiled. “Sometimes it takes somepony from Stalliongrad to remind those Al Mecchans what the colts from Scoltcilia expect from them in return for our help. As for Manehattan, send Damien to talk to the Mayor, if the Minister asks too much. I bought the bastard at the elections and he’s not doing his part of the deal.” He leant back in his chair and lit up another cigar, a swift attempt through which Tom stood still. “What happened to loyalty, Tom? What happened to honour?” He took a small puff on the tobacco. “Ten years ago you only came in here to report our victories and losses, to talk about our friends and enemies. Now you come here with news that our friends may not be friends any more; that our contacts rat out; that our operations are infiltrated. What happened to the golden days of the marefia?”

“That was ten years ago, Father,” Tom replied softly, addressing Alexandro in the special form. “Now the world has changed. Way too much to my liking,” he added quietly.

“Mine too,” Alexandro agreed. “Now, if that’s all, send in a waiter. I’d like to have dinner.”

“Sure, Alexandro.” Tom nodded. “Straightaway.” He walked out of the door quietly and closed it behind him. He took a few steps down the corridor and picked up the black phone from the wall. “To capos: McGregor to talk to all casino owners in Al Meccho. Damien? Come up to my office; it’s about Manehattan.” Tom lingered before the phone. “No, no time. Damien? Private line, now.” There was a beep. “We need to remind the Minister of Defence who sponsored the air tank division during the war. And if he asks too much, talk to the-” Tom pauses, figures in his head dancing around. He is just walking over Father… No, Father is just too kind to traitors like him. “Whatever he asks, pay him. It’ll all be fine in the long run. Have one of our economists run it through and tell us how we can get a payback. As for Manehattan, Don Philarmonico has reasons to believe that the Mayor got out of hoof. It would be better for the family if we eliminated the old mayor and ‘elected’ a new one. What?” He listened attentively. “Mayors are assigned now?..” He paused, thinking. “Well then, run through our people in the State Affairs department, let’s see if we can ‘assign’ a new mayor. The old one has to go. Understood?” He listened for the moment, and then put the receiver back on the wall.

Tom smiled, finally. That’ll teach him once and for all. And what we pay to the minister will be mitigated by booze trade, uninvestigated by the police. Al Meccho will be dealt with, and- Oh. Tom picked up the receiver again. “And send in a waiter to the Don’s office.”

He nodded to the receiver. “Yes, Don Philarmonico will be having dinner.”

***

“You don’t even want to have dinner?”

Gliss sighed, watching the four mares at the table. “No, thanks, Lyra. I think I should go on a diet…”

“What for, honey?” Bon-Bon wondered, taking a glance at her very own belly. “A mare’s beauty is-”

“I know, I know…” Gliss lamented, “but I really want to lose some weight.” She dragged a chair and set it aside from the table.

“What for, Slidey?” Vinyl forked her peas greedily. “You’re slim enough.”

“Of course, dear,” Octavia confirmed, attaching butter to her toast. “You are a slim, beautiful young mare. Why would you want to lose weight?”

Gliss blushed, averting her eyes. Damn. Do you have to be so nosy about everything? “I… I just want to,” she tried weakly.

Lyra whistled, lighting up a cigarette, much to everypony’s disapproval. “Woah! Looks our little filly’s here got a crush on somepony!”

Bon-Bon smiled comprehensively, while Octavia and Vinyl exchanged meaningful glances. “Is it true, dear?” Bon-Bon wondered shyly.

“I may or I may not have a crush on somepony,” Gliss avoided the inevitable; or, rather, prolonged it. Damn. I need to get out, quick.

“So who’s the lucky filly?” Lyra wondered bawdily, wiggling her brow. “Oh! I know. That String mare you’re hanging out with. Yeah, a tad older, but still your type, I gotta admit.” The lyrist immediately received a nudge from her wife. “What, Bonnie? I’m just telling the truth!”

“It isn’t Golden String,” Gliss countered, after a moment of consideration, if only to clear up her friend’s name. Oh boy, I knew the time would come. “I…”

“Is it some other filly we don’t know about?” Vinyl interrupted, putting down her fork and exchanging another glance with Octavia.

“No,” Gliss said firmly, preparing herself. “Mom, Mother. Lyra, Bon-Bon.” Might as well address everypony. “I do not have a crush on a filly. I think I might have a crush on Silver.”

There was a moment of silence in the kitchen. “But…” Vinyl said finally, lacking understanding. “He is a colt?..”

“Yes.” Gliss took a breath. “I am straight. I am into colts.” She paused. Time to spill everything. “And, frankly, I hate jazz.”