The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,106

me.”

Carmine’s blood turned colder the more she told him. He had so, so many questions. Who were they? What happened to the rest of the crew? Losing that much liquor would be expensive, but what about the men?

What about Danny?

After a moment, she seemed to collect herself a bit more. “One of the cops… I think he saw me, so I ran. I don’t know what happened to anyone after that, but I think…” She met Carmine’s gaze as a tear drew a muddy streak down her face. “I think they killed Francis.”

Carmine winced. “And the rest?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I ran until I was sure I’d lost the man who came after me, and when I came back, there was nothing left but the burning trucks.” She swallowed hard. “And blood on the ground.”

His heart went into his throat. He had to stay strong, both for his sister and so he could do something to save the crew. To save Danny. “Did you see who did this to them?”

“They were cops.” She sighed. “That’s all I saw.”

Carmine sat back, stomach roiling as reality sank in. His sister had escaped, and for that he was grateful, but there was no telling where the others were, or if they were alive.

“What do we do?” Giulia whispered.

“We do nothing.” He pushed himself to his feet. “You get some sleep. I’ve got some people to call.”

“Carmine, don’t leave me out of—”

“You’re too close to this already. I need you to stay here where I know you’re safe while I—”

“They’re my friends.” She stood and glared up at him. “You’re not getting rid of—”

“You’ve already helped them by telling me.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Let me handle it from here.”

She set her jaw. She clearly wasn’t happy about it, but she was also clearly exhausted. After a run with the crew, the ordeal with the police, and then finding a way back from Long Island to Manhattan, it was a miracle she was still standing. Carmine suspected it was sheer stubbornness that had kept her upright this long.

Her shoulders sank under his hands. “You’ll tell me when you know something?”

He nodded. He might’ve been lying—even he wasn’t sure—but it would be enough to let her rest for a few hours.

Hugging her gently, he said, “Whatever happens, I’m glad you’re all right.”

She sighed and returned his embrace. “I just hope the others are too.”

So do I.

It only took a few telephone calls to have over a dozen of Carmine’s soldiers and lieutenants arriving at the house. By the time the sun began to rise over Manhattan, the first floor was crowded with men drinking coffee and waiting for Carmine to give them the word to go bust some knees.

What didn’t come was answers. Who had taken the rum runners? Where were they? What had become of them? Was there any point at all in searching anywhere besides the Hudson or the Atlantic?

Carmine had plenty of men who were ready to help, but he had no information to give them or direction to send them.

Shortly after sunrise, though, a roadster pulled up front of the house. In a matter of seconds, the men inside the car dumped two limp bodies on the sidewalk in front of the stoop, and then tires squealed as they sped away.

Two of Carmine’s soldiers had been smoking on the sidewalk, and they jumped into a car to tear after them even before people in the house had started pouring out to see what the commotion was all about.

To Carmine’s horror, two young men were lying on the pavement. His own men crouched beside them, but by the time Carmine had reached the bottom of the steps, they’d moved away from one of the two. It didn’t take much to figure out why—his face was battered and his chest wasn’t moving.

Carmine went to the other, and when one of the men moved aside, his heart stopped.

Bruised and bloodied or not, he knew that face. He remembered this kid nervously staring back at him from a chair in the Plaza Hotel on New Year’s Eve, terrified and in over his head.

He was part of Danny’s crew. The youngest, he thought. No more than fourteen or fifteen.

“Is he all right?” Carmine couldn’t even tell if the boy was alive.

Then a low moan told him that, yes, he was alive, if only for now. His face was mottled with bruises, the fair skin of his throat dark as if