The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,125
eyes and bruised throats.
But none of them dared show their faces at Old St. Patrick’s in women’s makeup, and anyway, no amount of powder could hide a swollen-shut eye or a split lip. For that matter, there wasn’t a bit of paint in New York that would cover up dazed faces and haunted eyes. Even if there hadn’t been a mark on any of them, every last member of the crew wore their ordeal as plainly as James wore his cassock and his white collar.
Looking around the crowded cathedral, Danny caught sight of a woman in black sitting in the last row of pews. She had on a black toque with a thin net over her eyes, but he recognized her face—Giulia. From across the sanctuary, her tear-reddened eyes met his, and she acknowledged him with a faint nod. He returned it. He desperately wanted to invite her to sit with them. To offer her some of the comfort they all had to know she needed.
But the crew’s bruises and Francis’s death were scandal enough. Giulia was already grieving. She didn’t need people gossiping about her involvement with “those hoodlums.”
When Mass began, Danny kept his eyes down and focused on his rosary. Tried to. It was impossible to think about anything except all the horrors that had unfolded starting the moment they’d stopped at that roadblock. Even now, safe and sound, he couldn’t shake the bone-deep fear that had taken hold when Agosto il Sacchi had driven away with him. It had only been a few minutes between the realization that il Sacchi wasn’t letting him go and the cops stopping the cars, but those minutes had stretched into hours in Danny’s mind, and the fear still clung to him as if he were still in that car with the chilly-voiced boss. He had a feeling he’d be revisiting those minutes in his nightmares for a long, long time to come, and he still couldn’t explain how the cops had been there at all. How they’d known to stop il Sacchi the way they had.
Mass ended at long last, and Father O’Reilly left with Francis and the family for another quieter service beside his grave in the cemetery. Giulia was nowhere in sight—she’d probably slipped out before anyone could recognize her.
While the lads rejoined their families, Danny stepped outside into the thick late morning heat, desperate for some air and some quiet. His brothers’ funerals had ripped him apart, but there hadn’t been this unshakable guilt those times. Anger, yes. Grief, Lord, yes. But there’d been nothing he could do to stop Hugh or Robert from being killed. Everything that had happened to Francis had been Danny’s fault.
Because Danny had killed Ricky il Sacchi.
Because Danny had accepted Carmine’s offer of work.
Because Danny had conceded and let Giulia join their crew.
Because of Danny, they’d all been there that night, stopped by “police,” and Francis had tried to save Giulia, and…
He squeezed his eyes shut, letting some hot tears slide free. Wiping them away, he exhaled. It was probably just as well he lived with a priest most of the time. He’d have to spend hours in a confessional to get all this off his soul.
A heavy hand was suddenly on Danny’s shoulder, and he jumped, his head full of visions of dangerous men with plenty of reasons to want him dead.
He spun around, but it wasn’t a gangster or even an Italian.
“Danny.” Rowan’s voice was sharp and low, and that along with his intense scowl reminded Danny of their father. “We need to talk.”
“I—”
“Now, Danny.”
Danny wasn’t so sure he could take whatever it was his brother meant to say, but he nodded numbly and followed Rowan out of the churchyard. They walked for a while, leaving the crowd of mourners well in the distance before Rowan finally stopped, and they faced each other.
Heavy silence hung between them as Rowan stared at Danny, studying him, possibly trying to read something in the marks on his face and the bruises on his throat. Finally, eyes boring into Danny’s, he said, “Bridget told Eliza someone gave the family money for his burial, and then some. A lot of money.” He glared harder. “You have any idea where that money came from?”
Danny looked away.
“Where did it come from? Answer me. For God’s sake, where—”
“Does it matter?” Danny demanded, looking Rowan in the eye again. “His family can give him a proper burial and still have some money to—”