Dread prickled Danny’s spine. It was never that simple with gangsters. “So you were let go…on what condition?”
Eyes locked on Danny’s, Tommy said, “He wants to see you.” Tommy’s expression turned from puzzled to pleading. “He told us the man in charge of our crew has got three days to go to him, or he’ll make sure all four of us do time in the workhouse. A lot of time.”
Danny swallowed. A gangster in that snugly with cops was dangerous. “Who was he?”
“Carmine Battaglia.” Tommy furrowed his brow. “I think that’s the guy they call the Venetian. One of the Pulvirentis.”
Nodding slowly, Danny murmured, “Yeah. That’s him.” He’d never met Battaglia, but he knew him by reputation. Everyone did. The man was an underboss in the Pulvirenti family. Word on the street was that he was made despite being only half Sicilian, and nobody got made unless they were full Sicilian. That meant this wasn’t just some wise guy. And if he had the power to tell cops to cut loose four men who’d stolen Plaza Hotel uniforms and broken into the suites of wealthy guests, and the power to get them arrested later if they didn’t do what they were told? That wasn’t somebody Danny or his crew needed to cross. Especially not after Danny had already crossed the il Sacchi family.
“Are you gonna go see him?” Tommy’s eyes were wide and hopeful.
“I don’t think I’ve really got a choice, have I?” Danny shifted nervously. “If they’d only busted us stealing, then maybe I could just give him the slip, but I killed an il Sacchi underboss. That family finds out it was me, I’m a dead man. Don’t seem smart to get on the Pulvirenti family’s bad side too.”
“Hmm, aye,” Bernard murmured.
Danny and the lads exchanged worried looks. He turned to James, hoping he had some of his usual wise insight.
James leaned on the doorframe, forehead creased as he inhaled from his cigarette, but he offered nothing.
“Think about it,” Tommy said. “Let us know what you decide.”
Unsure what to say, Danny nodded.
Bernard and Tommy didn’t stay long. They told Danny they needed to start working out where and how to sell what they’d stolen, but he couldn’t help thinking they wanted to be as far from him as possible. As if the gangster’s summons had marked him somehow, and men or God Himself would show up at any moment to strike him down.
After his friends had gone and he was sitting alone by the fire, an untouched cup of coffee between his fingers, Danny couldn’t shake the feeling that there was no escaping this. No way it would end well for him or anyone else.
He had no idea what to do. A Pulvirenti underboss wanted to see him? That was dangerous for sure. Obeying the summons was arguably not much safer for him than running, but if it kept his crew safe…
With an exhausted sigh, he brought his coffee to his lips.
Crime had become a means of survival, but none of them wanted to get involved with the gangs any more than they had to. Sometimes it was inevitable. The only way to avoid stepping on the wrong toes was to keep up on who had what territory, who tolerated what, and where the big men and wise guys frequented so nobody picked the wrong pocket or stole the wrong car.
They’d very carefully avoided crossing any of the gangs that ran the city, Sicilian or otherwise. Even as cautious as the lads were, those gangs were difficult to avoid. Not long ago, Francis and Paddy had noticed some finely dressed men hanging out in a particular café, and they’d begun hatching a plan to bribe the waiters into helping them lift some cash or other valuables off the men. Thank the Lord Bernard had listened in and realized that among the men they’d been intending to steal from was none other than Arnold Rothstein, a powerful Jewish gangster who no one crossed. After that, they’d wised up to how gangsters dressed.
Even that wasn’t foolproof. Tommy had tried to pick someone’s pockets, only to realize a moment too late that the man’s overcoat pockets had been sewn shut—something gangsters had begun doing to prevent cops from planting guns on them during searches. Fortunately, Tommy had brushed off the attempt is simply bumping into the man while rushing past him, and the look he got from the wise guy had told him to keep running.
And just last night, despite carefully planning their every move and scrutinizing the list of guests, Danny and Bernard had wound up in the suite occupied by Ricky goddamned il Sacchi. The sewn-up pockets had tipped him off that he was in the wrong man’s room, but it had been too late, and now il Sacchi was dead.
Danny was sick over it. Absolutely sick. He’d been in a gangster’s suite. He’d killed a gangster. He’d killed someone.
Thing was, out of everyone in the crew, it was Danny who was especially wary of the gangs and the Italians. They were ruthless about dominating as much of Manhattan and surrounding areas as possible, and about occupying and defending territory, and his family had the bloodstains to prove it. Nearly a decade ago, he and his three elder brothers had come to America, and now two of them were dead because of those gangs. Robert had been murdered along with two other young Irishmen after they’d gotten into a fight with some Sicilians who’d tried to encroach on their gym, not realizing those men belonged to a notorious gang of Black Hands—violent extortionists with no compunction about killing those who crossed them. Within months, Hugh had joined the White Hand Gang, determined to not only avenge his brother’s death but to push all the Italians out of Manhattan and, eventually, all of New York. Now two of Danny’s brothers were dead, the White Hands were nearly gone, and Danny…
Danny had just killed a powerful Sicilian gangster.
He was an Irishman, he was a Moore, and he had a Sicilian gangster’s blood on his hands. If the woman told a soul he’d been the one to kill Ricky il Sacchi, Danny was a dead man for sure.
A hand on his shoulder startled Danny out of his wits, but he knew even before he’d finished gasping that it was James.
“Hey.” James gave his shoulder a squeeze, then took the other chair. “What are you going to do? About the situation with the gangster?”
Slumping forward, Danny exhaled and raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ve got a choice but to go see Battaglia.”
James was quiet for a moment, as if considering it. “Should I come with you?”
Danny lifted his head, and his friend’s face was full of sincerity just like it always was. If Danny asked, James would come with him. He had no doubt about that. And for all the Irish and Italians fought bitterly in this city, the church was the one place where they agreed more often than not. Even a gangster wouldn’t lay a hand on a priest.
But…no. There was still a certain element of danger, and he couldn’t put James in it. Deep down, he wasn’t even sure James could cope with it. Not with the way a couple of men having a fistfight on the street could send him back to the war that was never far enough behind him. Taking him to see Battaglia meant too much danger, and too much risk of a visit from James’s demons.
Shaking his head, Danny murmured, “I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?”
No, he wasn’t sure. Going to see Battaglia like this? Alone? After what had happened last night at the Plaza Hotel? He wasn’t the slightest bit sure of anything.