The invitation came in a manila envelope, hand-delivered to O'Brien's Bar at closing time. Eddie O'Brien read it by the neon sign buzzing above the bar door: FBI. Internal Affairs. One week. Complete evidence or you're done.
He was twenty-eight, Italian-American, and owner of the most popular speakeasy in Greenwich Village. To his customers, he was just a bartender with good music and better whiskey. To the FBI, he was "Lucky"—their inside man. To Salvatore Moretti, he was the son he never had. The bar was his. The life was Moretti's. And the line between them had been blurring for three years. "Boss wants to see...
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