“What’s your name, kid?”
“It ain’t ‘kid,’” Danny growled, hoping his nerves didn’t betray him.
A dark eyebrow arched.
Danny gulped. “Daniel. My name is Daniel Moore.”
To his surprise the Italian got up and came around the desk. He was slightly shorter than Danny—an inch at most—and he looked Danny right in the eye as he extended a hand. “Carmine Battaglia.”
Unsure what else to do, Danny shook Battaglia’s hand.
So this was him. Carmine Battaglia. The gangster who’d demanded Danny’s presence and threatened to send four of his friends to the workhouse if he didn’t show.
And maybe if Danny hadn’t been so uneasy with this whole situation, he’d have spent a little more time focusing on those full lips and near-black eyes. Or the way the bare electric bulbs cast harsh shadows on sharp, olive-skinned features.
He’s one of them, Danny fiercely reminded himself. Stop staring and find a way out of here.
“Well? You wanted to see me.” Danny spread his arms. “I’m here.”
“Yes, you are.” Battaglia leaned casually against his desk, head tilted his head as he studied Danny intently. “I understand you’re in charge of a group of thieves who broke into some suites at the Plaza Hotel on New Year’s Eve.”
Danny swallowed, not sure how to proceed.
An odd smile formed on Battaglia’s lips. “I’m not the police, Daniel. I’m—”
“You’re a gangster.” The words came out with more venom than perhaps was wise. “Just tell me what you want so you won’t send my friends to the workhouse.”
Battaglia shook his head, chuckling softly. “I’m not interested in sending you or your friends to the workhouse.”
“But you said… If I didn’t come…”
“And you did come.” Battaglia shrugged. “You held up your end of the deal, and now I’ll hold up mine.”
It wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be. Nothing ever was with gangsters involved.
“So what is it you want?”
“What I want is to put you and your crew to work.”
Danny blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want to put—”
“Yeah, I heard that part.” Danny stared at him in disbelief. “You want us to come work for you. For gangsters. For Sicilian gangsters.”
Battaglia inclined his head. “You would hardly be the first Irishmen on my payroll.”
Setting his jaw, Danny glared at him. “Your kind put two of my brothers in the ground. I’d sooner work at Tammany Hall than with the likes of you.”
Battaglia’s expression hardened just slightly, but his voice stayed calm. “And you don’t think plenty of my kind are in the ground thanks to Irishmen?”
“With any luck, they’re in hell.”
The gangster’s eyebrow rose slowly.
Danny’s heart went wild. This was dangerous. So dangerous. He may as well have spat in the man’s face and cursed his mother.
Perhaps not the wisest thing to do when he was in a locked underground office with a powerful gangster and not the faintest clue how to get back to street level.
But he didn’t take it back.
Two Nights Earlier
New Year’s Eve, 1923
“Would you hurry up with that thing?” Bernard whispered, looking furtively up and down the hallway between the luxury suites. “Someone’s gonna see if we stay out here too long.”
Danny rolled his eyes and continued picking the lock, a task that would have been much easier without gloves on. “If your man had gotten us keys like I’d asked—”
“Just open the bloody door.”
Gritting his teeth with both nerves and irritation, Danny kept working at the lock. Bernard’s contact had provided them these uncomfortably starched uniforms so they could blend in with hotel staff, and he’d given them a list of the suites where the richest guests would be staying. Bribes had persuaded security to look the other way as the “staff” had come up to “tidy rooms” and “freshen up linens” while guests were at the big party downstairs. So maybe a set of keys to the suites was asking too much, but it would’ve made the task easier, faster, and safer.
It would also be easier, faster, and safer if Bernard shut his mouth and let Danny work, but Bernard had never been the patient sort and he apparently didn’t mean to start tonight.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Danny.” Bernard’s foot tapped beside where Danny was crouched. “Would you hurry up already before—”
The last tumbler fell into place, and the lock gave with a satisfying click.
Danny pushed open the door and rose, giving Bernard a dirty look. “You want it done fast? Close your head and let a man work.”
Bernard ignored him and slipped into the suite. Danny glared at his back, but said nothing. He glanced down the hall. Mathew loitered by another door, a cart partway full of linens beside him, and they exchanged nods. Reassured the lookout was in position, Danny followed his impatient friend into the suite.
After he’d quietly shut the door behind him, he paused to survey the room. Bernard had switched on the lights, and a warm glow flooded the parlor and all its luxurious appointments. Gilded wallpaper. Polished hardwood and marble furniture. Gleaming fixtures. Rich red upholstery and carpet.
Danny wrinkled his nose as he wandered deeper into the suite. He could do an honest man’s work every day of his life, and he’d never have the money to stay here at the Plaza Hotel. Not even for a single night, and certainly not in a sprawling suite like this one, which must’ve been double or more the size of his apartment. He’d never have the prestige or the power to be invited to a lavish event like the New Year’s Eve soiree going on downstairs in the Grand Ballroom.
If he had any doubts left about what he and his crew were doing tonight, if there was some part of him that still wrestled with the morality of it all, it only took a glance around this room to silence his nagging conscience. The rich bastards staying in here and partying down there—every one of them dripping in jewelry and swimming in illegal liquor—could’ve changed the world for all the people struggling to survive where he lived on the Lower East Side. Watching the way they spent money like it fell from the sky, it was hard for even a good Catholic man to feel guilty about relieving them of some of that rainwater. They probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone.
“But it isn’t yours to take, Danny,” his conscience told him. When had that inner voice switched from his father’s to James’s? He supposed it didn’t matter. Whatever the voice—could’ve been God Himself—Danny was doing this tonight.
He slipped from the parlor to the bedroom, where Bernard was rifling through a drawer. “Find anything?”
“Not yet.” Bernard shut the drawer and opened the next one down. “Still think doing this during the party is a waste of time.” He glanced over his shoulder at Danny. “They’re all gonna have their jewelry and things with them.”
“That ain’t the stuff we want to steal.” Danny opened a trunk by the foot of the bed. “What we take, they won’t miss.”