The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,170

rows of shelves stacked high with crates and barrels. Off to one side, discarded straw and other packing material was piled high amidst broken pallets and boxes. That unnerved Carmine—a fire in a Pulvirenti warehouse had started when a careless security guard had dropped a cigarette near a similar pile of packing material, and the whole place and its contents had been a total loss. Since then, such piles were forbidden except outside the warehouses and far from anything else that might burn if they should ignite.

To his right, James was bound to a chair as well, but he seemed unhurt aside from the scrape on his cheek, the black eye, and the cut on the corner of his mouth, all of which Carmine was pretty sure had already been there. “You all right?”

James nodded as he tongued his cut lip. “I’ve had worse. And I reckon we’re both going to have worse.”

Carmine shuddered.

Two armed men guarded them. They leaned against some shelves, occasionally smoking, but mostly looming silently from a few paces away. More than once, they glanced toward James, and Carmine caught them turning away to cross themselves a couple of times.

A door at the other end of the warehouse squealed open. Fast, sharp footsteps entered, along with a loud conversation in progress.

“…don’t want your excuses,” Salvatore was shouting. “Tear the whole damned city apart if you have to, but find me that Irishman!”

Carmine swallowed.

“He’ll burn the city to the ground looking for Danny,” James said under his breath.

“I know.”

“I just pray Danny’s as smart as I know he is, and he’s already on a train to someplace else.”

Mute, Carmine nodded. His and James’s fates were sealed and he knew it. The bullets hadn’t yet been fired, but they were as good as dead as any of the men in that speakeasy’s back room. The only thing they could hope for was Danny saving his own skin and getting the hell out of New York.

Salvatore strode out from an aisle of shelves, a pistol in his uninjured hand and the plastered arm held tight against his side. Behind him were two huge bodyguards with rifles in their hands. As he came closer to Carmine, Salvatore’s lip curled in disgust. “I don’t believe you, Battaglia.” He shook his head and laughed bitterly. “You make peace with my uncle over my brother’s death, and then you hire the man who murdered him. Why? So you can send him on more hits?”

“He’s not a killer,” Carmine growled.

“Isn’t he?” Salvatore laughed, sounding maniacal. “Don’t you remember what he did? Or did your whore of a sister convince you that—”

“Your brother threatened her,” Carmine snapped.

“So your sister and that Mick say. But no one else heard it or saw it, did they?”

Carmine gritted his teeth. He didn’t dare tell Salvatore there’d been another Irishman in the room who’d corroborated the story. He definitely didn’t mention that he’d hired that man too.

“And it wasn’t just Ricky,” Salvatore continued. “I’ve got two men dead of gut shots because of him.”

“What?” Carmine cocked his head. “Who?”

“The men who picked him up and were taking him to me. They’re—”

“So he killed two of your men and escaped?” Carmine laughed. “Maybe you should’ve picked someone more competent to guard—”

Salvatore hit him hard enough he’d have sent him sprawling if not for the bindings. “Enough. You hired the man who murdered my brother, and now he’s killed two of my men. And I’m going to make sure you suffer for it as much as he does.”

Carmine spat blood, then glared up at Salvatore. “And you think that’ll bring your brother back?”

Salvatore narrowed his eyes, but after a moment, he laughed, a wicked, almost frenzied sound, and he shook his head, and his gaze drifted to James. His expression shifted again, and he seemed to be studying James. When Salvatore stepped closer to the priest, Carmine fought against his bindings, but one of the guards stilled him with a firm grip on his shoulder. Even if he hadn’t, Carmine was tied securely. There was nothing he could do to get between Salvatore and James.

“So, Venetian, you have a murderer running rum for you.” He grabbed James’s chin and glared at Carmine. “And a vicar as your muscle?”

“He’s not part of this,” Carmine said. “Let him go.”

“If he’s not part of this, then why was he in that meeting, huh?” He let go of James, all but shoving his face away, and he turned to Carmine. “Listen, all I give a