The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,124

“I just… I thought I was dead.”

“Anyone would’ve,” James whispered, carefully stroking Danny’s hair. “I can’t even imagine.” He paused. “And Ricky il Sacchi’s brother knows it was you that killed him?”

Shuddering, Danny nodded. “They beat the truth out of the crew. Especially Liam. About who we worked for. And why.”

James winced. “That poor boy.”

“Aye. They went right for him, and they broke him.”

James whispered a curse.

Danny just nodded, wondering if he’d ever sleep again without hearing Liam’s tortured cries in his dreams.

“So what happens now?” James asked.

“I don’t know.” Danny sat up, wiping his eyes with a shaky hand. “I’m exhausted. I can’t think. I can’t…” He exhaled.

“Maybe what happens now is you sleep.” James squeezed his arm. “Do you think you can sleep?”

Danny nodded. “I’m surprised I’m still awake, if I’m honest.”

“Me too. Come on. You need to rest.”

James helped Danny out of his coat and shoes, and he tended to a few cuts and scrapes. Then the two of them climbed into the tiny bed, and Danny didn’t think he’d ever been so grateful for his friend’s arm around him while he tried to go to sleep. The nights were warmer now, but he was cold all over, and James’s warmth helped. Danny couldn’t help wishing it could be Carmine beside him, but he’d never turn away the comfort of his friend.

It was tough to get comfortable, even with James beside him. Everything hurt, and there was no way to lie without pressing something against the bed or James.

Still, exhaustion took over before long. Though his conscience would surely be loud and furious tomorrow, it couldn’t quite cut through the fatigue.

Safe in his familiar apartment, hoping nightmares didn’t await him, Danny drifted off in his friend’s comforting arms.

Walking into Old St. Patrick’s for Francis’s funeral Mass made Danny’s heart hurt. His whole body hurt already, but the ache deep in his chest wasn’t one that would heal any time soon.

His friend was gone. Murdered by gangsters. Lord knew how close Tommy or any of the rest of the crew had come to joining him. And why? Because they’d all foolishly followed Danny’s lead and gone to work for the Pulvirentis? Because they’d picked a side in a war that wasn’t theirs and made themselves a stranger’s enemy?

The gun in Danny’s jacket was heavy and conspicuous, its weight doing nothing to quell his lingering fear. That fear mingled with guilt and grief, and that pain in his chest was nearly unbearable. This was his fault. He’d brought this on all of them, and for what? Filthy money? Protection for him that none of them needed and even he couldn’t fully depend on?

His gaze drifted toward the confessionals. Could those tiny booths contain all the sins he had weighing down on him now? Would he live long enough to detail every one of them, never mind repent and atone?

As he and the lads moved deeper into the cathedral, the sound of a woman sobbing inconsolably made him wince. Unsurprisingly, it was Francis’s mother, beyond distraught over the violent death of her youngest boy, crying loudly in a front pew as her husband, sisters, and elder sons tried to comfort her.

Danny paid his respects to the family, who regarded him and his friends coolly but didn’t make a scene. Francis’s sister, Bridget, looked from one man to the next, but she didn’t ask. She didn’t press for why they had bruises that weren’t unlike those her brother had been found with, or why none of them could quite hold anyone’s gaze. Maybe she was too grief-stricken to ask. Maybe she just didn’t want to know.

You don’t, Bridget. I promise you that.

After they’d delivered appropriate condolences, they left the family to grieve, and Danny sat a few rows back in a pew with the lads instead of with Rowan and Eliza. His crew needed the comfort, and anyway, he wasn’t so sure he could look his brother in the eye. Not now.

He didn’t know how much people knew about what had happened. They stole glances at them and whispered behind their hands, and Danny tried and failed to ignore them. He knew what they were probably saying. That they’d noticed that the seven men closest to Francis—the friends he’d run with since they were boys—were bruised and battered. Danny supposed they could have bribed Gladys for some of the makeup she and the others used; if it could hide stubble and Lord knew what else, surely it could hide some black