Anything except that he couldn’t put James in danger, and that he had to obey the summons if he wanted to keep his friends out of the workhouse.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
“I’ll pray for you.”
Danny nodded. “Thank you.”
He’d need every last one of those prayers.
Danny had no idea where to find Battaglia himself, but everyone knew which families ran which blocks, and it wouldn’t take much to make it known he wanted to see the underboss. There was a restaurant in a neighborhood that even the cops knew was run by the Pulvirentis. In fact, Danny was pretty sure there was a speakeasy in the back—these days there were speakeasies in the back rooms, attics, and basements of damn near everything—though no one had ever confirmed it.
It seemed like as good a place to start as any, so with more than a little trepidation, Danny took off his cap and walked in through the front door.
The restaurant was nothing out of the ordinary. White linen tablecloths covered ten or twelve small tables, most of which were unoccupied this time of day.
A waiter approached with a warm smile. “Table for one, sir, or will more guests be joining you?”
“No table, thank you. I, um…” Danny cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Carmine Battaglia.”
The waiter’s expression darkened. “He’s not here.”
“All right, but maybe someone can help—”
“There is no one here by that name.” The waiter’s voice was cold now. “Sir, if you’d like to eat, I’d be happy to—”
“Wait, wait.” An irritated-looking Italian stepped up to them and peered at Danny. “Who’d you say you was looking for?”
Danny tried not to sound as nervous as he was. “Carmine Battaglia. He, uh… He asked for me.”
Nodding the man said, “Carmine told me he was expecting some Irishman to come around.” He pointed a thick finger at Danny. “This must be him.”
“Aye,” Danny said. “He said he wanted to see me. Now I’m here.”
“Well, he ain’t here now.” The Italian pulled a card out of his inside pocket and handed it to Danny, looking him right in the eyes. “Be at this address tomorrow night. Ten o’clock. Mr. Carpenter will be waiting for you.”
Danny swallowed hard. “I’ll be there.”
God help me…
Chapter 4
“For the last time, I am not going back to Sicily!” Eyes flashing, Giulia slammed her fist down and glared across the bar at Carmine. “I am not a coward, and I am not going to—”
“You were the last person seen with Ricky il Sacchi before he was murdered,” Carmine snapped back. “How am I supposed to keep you safe from—”
“I don’t need you to keep me safe. I can take care of myself.”
Carmine pushed out a frustrated breath and a mumbled prayer for some saints to intervene. “Giulia, this isn’t a drunk you can chase out of your bar or some cop I can bribe to look the other way. This is the entire il Sacchi gang. Killing someone like Ricky is not going to go unanswered.”
“I didn’t kill him.” She was still fierce and stubborn, but a hint of fear crept into her tone and her face. She was a proud woman, determined to make her own way in a city full of men who said she couldn’t, but she wasn’t stupid. “I told you—we were arguing, and then someone came from behind him, and—”
“And you can’t name the man,” Carmine said. “You were in the room when Ricky was killed, and you ran out of there with the man who killed him. Even if you didn’t kill Ricky yourself, it looks like you helped someone do it and then aided his escape. None of it looks good, Giulia, and I don’t want the il Sacchis coming after you any more than I want the police to. But I can’t promise I can stop them either.”
“So what should I have done? Huh?” She narrowed her eyes. “His boys would have killed me if I’d been the only one in there with Ricky’s body. They would have thought I did it!”
“As far as anyone knows, it was only you in there with him! No one saw these Irish thieves who were conveniently in the room when—”
“And what about the ones they caught on the other floors?” She inclined her head. “It’s just a convenient coincidence that some other Irish thieves happened to be stealing from other suites at the same time?”
Carmine closed his eyes and exhaled. She had a point. And he believed her. Of course he did. Fiery as she was, he didn’t believe she was capable of cold-blooded murder. That, and she’d been shaken in a way that her pride would never let her pretend to be. Not even if it would keep her out of jail.
Whatever had happened in that suite, Giulia hadn’t been the one to kill Ricky il Sacchi. For that matter, she’d kept her story straight no matter how many people—cop or Pulvirenti—made her repeat it.
Meeting her gaze, Carmine adopted a pleading tone. “I know you don’t like the idea, but it would just be safer if you went back to Catania until this all calms down.”
“And when will that be? Huh?” She narrowed her eyes. “When it really calms down, or when you decide New York is safe enough for your baby sister? Or when you find someone who’s willing to marry me and—”
“I’m not trying to marry you off!” Carmine groaned and raked his fingers through his hair. “All I want is to make sure you’re—”
“Make sure I’m not causing trouble for you.” She folded her arms. “I didn’t leave during the Great Flu, and I’m not leaving now. I’m not leaving, Carmine. I’m not. This city is my home, and this bar is mine. I am not going anywhere.”
Carmine closed his eyes and swore. There were days he wanted throw up his hands and tell her, fine, she could do whatever she wanted, and she was on her own. The problem was that he would have to answer to their mother, and Giulia hadn’t gotten her stubbornness or her temper from their late father.
He flattened his palms on the bar and met her gaze. “Will you at least be careful? Maurizio is still trying to smooth things over with the il Sacchis, and in the meantime—”
“In the meantime, I’m running this bar. And I’m always careful. How do you think I haven’t been shut down by the police yet?”
Carmine suppressed a groan. “The police aren’t nearly as dangerous as the il Sacchis.”
She rolled her eyes.
He opened his mouth to speak, but someone cleared his throat, and Carmine turned.
“Mr. Battaglia?” A young bartender gestured over his shoulder. “You have a telephone call.”
Carmine sighed. This conversation was not over, but his work was never done either. He thumped the bar with his knuckle. “I mean it, Giulia.” He started toward the back office. “Be careful.”
She grumbled something after him. He didn’t catch it.
Whoever was on the phone probably had something urgent that couldn’t wait. They always did.
Less than an hour after Carmine got the call, his driver, Fedele, parked the car in front of one of the warehouses Carmine oversaw out in Industry City near the water’s edge in Brooklyn.