“This way.” He was still breathing hard as he gestured toward Fifth Avenue. “We can go through—”
The woman grabbed his arm and brought him up short. Small as she was, she was strong as an ox, pulling him to such an abrupt halt he nearly slipped on the frozen ground. “You have to get out of here,” she panted. “Fast.”
“I know.” He motioned toward Fifth again. “So let’s go.”
“No.” Hugging herself against the cold, she shook her head vigorously, the beads on her headband swinging with the motion and twinkling in the glow of a nearby streetlamp. “I need to stay. You have to go, and you need to get far, far away from here.”
He blinked. “No one saw a thing. You got us out before anyone saw my face.” He held up his gloved hands. “And my fingerprints won’t even be—”
“They’ll figure out it’s you, and when they do, they’ll kill you.” She shifted, frustration etched all over her face. “The man you killed? That was—”
“Yeah, I know. A gangster.” Danny shuddered. “I—”
“No, you idiot.” She grabbed his collar and looked him straight in the eyes. “Listen to me. That wasn’t just a gangster. That was Enrico il Sacchi.”
Danny’s knees buckled, and his blood was instantly colder than the wind biting at his face. “Enrico… No. Bushwa!”
“It’s true. And they’ve probably already figured out that whoever killed him got away, and they’ll be looking for you. So you need to get as far from this hotel as you can get. Now.”
Danny couldn’t even be insulted that she hadn’t taken a moment to thank him for helping her—they both understood the urgency of this situation. Gratitude could wait. A man who’d just killed a notorious Sicilian underboss? He couldn’t wait.
So he didn’t.
Without another word or even another look, he darted away from her. He dodged cars and carriages alike, slipped and slid on the icy cobbles, and nearly broke his neck half-running, half-sliding down the stone stairs into Central Park. Down here, away from blinding lights and prying eyes, he paused to glance back at the Plaza Hotel.
He’d just killed a man.
He’d just killed Enrico il Sacchi.
What in God’s name should he do now?
Finally, Danny did the only thing a man in his position could do:
He ran like hell into the night.
Chapter 2
In the light from the huge, sparkling chandeliers overhead, every polished surface in the Plaza Hotel’s lavish Grand Ballroom gleamed, and so did all the beautiful women. In amongst men in tuxedos, the women of New York’s wealthiest and most elite families glowed in colorful evening gowns, furs, and jewelry that rivaled buildings for value.
At the edge of the room, with a view of everyone and everything, Carmine Battaglia lounged in a horseshoe-shaped red velvet booth, sipping smooth brandy from a crystal highball.
A few of his competitors sat and drank nearby, and there’d been some icy looks exchanged between men, but Carmine’s boys knew better than to start anything. So did Cola Schiro’s, Joe Morello’s, and Agosto il Sacchi’s. A public altercation at a high society event wouldn’t be good for anyone; they were, after all, here as guests. Starting trouble at someone else’s party was hardly the gentlemanly thing to do, and every gangster worth his salt was a gentleman first, criminal second. Anything else was bad for business,
So they all drank and socialized and were visible. Some high society aristocrats gave them sour looks, and one particularly elegant couple had words with Inspector Coolidge, one of Commissioner Enright’s top men in the police department, sitting just a few tables away from Carmine. The woman clearly wanted Carmine and all the other thugs and lowlifes escorted from the premises, but Inspector Coolidge just smiled and apparently reassured them that the situation was under control. The pair glared at Carmine and at Agosto il Sacchi, then stalked away. Coolidge gave Carmine an amused look and a subtle nod. Carmine returned it.
He wasn’t worried about being thrown out. Not so long as everyone on his payroll was on their best behavior, which they were. After all, it was in Coolidge’s best interest not to cross the men who ran most of Lower Manhattan, and who’d greased enough palms to know who was bribing whom at Tammany Hall. Or who supplied the illegal brandy he was happily sipping.
A couple of campy entertainers made their way through the room, one standing out from all the demure high society wives only because of his height and his wild, animated mannerisms. Nearer to Carmine’s table was a somewhat slighter man who wore a tuxedo along with copious rouge and loud, red lipstick, and the way he batted his long, painted eyelashes at various men had guests howling with laughter. At one point, he dropped into the lap of Inspector Coolidge, an arm sliding around the man’s wide shoulders and a coquettish expression on his face as he flirted shamelessly. The inspector and his guests all played along and laughed, especially after the entertainer left a bright red lip print on Coolidge’s cheek.
With a gasp of mock horror, the entertainer grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped at the mark, succeeding only in smearing it. “Can’t leave any prints,” he said in a loud whisper. “Too many cops around.” More uproarious laughter followed.
The man finished his pansy performance, and he got up with a flourish, bowing theatrically to the applause of everyone around him. Before he moved on, he briefly met Carmine’s eyes. Though few in the room probably expected subtlety to be a part of the entertainer’s flamboyant repertoire, the wink he sent Carmine’s way was definitely subtle.
Carmine grinned behind his glass before taking a sip of brandy. In other times and places, Carmine and this particular entertainer—Rosie was his stage name—had spent a handful of enjoyable evenings together. Dressed as he was tonight, Rosie was surely ready and willing, and the way he’d looked at Carmine left little to the imagination, but Carmine wasn’t here for pleasure and leisure.
Another night, maybe. He watched Rosie’s backside as the man sashayed toward another table. Yes. Definitely another night.
Sal, his bodyguard, nudged his arm, pulling Carmine’s mind away from those pleasant memories. “Wonder what’s going on over there.” He gestured surreptitiously toward the il Sacchi table.
Equally surreptitiously, Carmine slid his gaze in the same direction. Someone was leaning over and saying something to Agosto il Sacchi, and the expression on the boss’s face was grim. A moment later, he was on his feet and striding out of the ballroom. He didn’t run out, but he walked with the kind of purpose that said he just might break into a sprint the moment no one was looking.
“Interesting,” Carmine mused into his glass. He supposed it was nothing. Men of his profession often had urgent matters to attend to at all hours of the day and night, and the occasional call in the middle of a high society party was to be expected. In the circles where he and the il Sacchis moved, though, one of those urgent calls could be disastrous, so he kept his guard up.
What was definitely unusual was when, moments later, a hotel employee approached Inspector Coolidge and whispered something in the cop’s ear. Gone was Coolidge’s easy smile after his playful encounter with Rosie, and he got up and walked out as quickly and with as much determination as Agosto il Sacchi had.