were ruthless about dominating as much of Manhattan and surrounding areas as possible, and about occupying and defending territory, and his family had the bloodstains to prove it. Nearly a decade ago, he and his three elder brothers had come to America, and now two of them were dead because of those gangs. Robert had been murdered along with two other young Irishmen after they’d gotten into a fight with some Sicilians who’d tried to encroach on their gym, not realizing those men belonged to a notorious gang of Black Hands—violent extortionists with no compunction about killing those who crossed them. Within months, Hugh had joined the White Hand Gang, determined to not only avenge his brother’s death but to push all the Italians out of Manhattan and, eventually, all of New York. Now two of Danny’s brothers were dead, the White Hands were nearly gone, and Danny…
Danny had just killed a powerful Sicilian gangster.
He was an Irishman, he was a Moore, and he had a Sicilian gangster’s blood on his hands. If the woman told a soul he’d been the one to kill Ricky il Sacchi, Danny was a dead man for sure.
A hand on his shoulder startled Danny out of his wits, but he knew even before he’d finished gasping that it was James.
“Hey.” James gave his shoulder a squeeze, then took the other chair. “What are you going to do? About the situation with the gangster?”
Slumping forward, Danny exhaled and raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ve got a choice but to go see Battaglia.”
James was quiet for a moment, as if considering it. “Should I come with you?”
Danny lifted his head, and his friend’s face was full of sincerity just like it always was. If Danny asked, James would come with him. He had no doubt about that. And for all the Irish and Italians fought bitterly in this city, the church was the one place where they agreed more often than not. Even a gangster wouldn’t lay a hand on a priest.
But…no. There was still a certain element of danger, and he couldn’t put James in it. Deep down, he wasn’t even sure James could cope with it. Not with the way a couple of men having a fistfight on the street could send him back to the war that was never far enough behind him. Taking him to see Battaglia meant too much danger, and too much risk of a visit from James’s demons.
Shaking his head, Danny murmured, “I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?”
No, he wasn’t sure. Going to see Battaglia like this? Alone? After what had happened last night at the Plaza Hotel? He wasn’t the slightest bit sure of anything.
Anything except that he couldn’t put James in danger, and that he had to obey the summons if he wanted to keep his friends out of the workhouse.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
“I’ll pray for you.”
Danny nodded. “Thank you.”
He’d need every last one of those prayers.
Danny had no idea where to find Battaglia himself, but everyone knew which families ran which blocks, and it wouldn’t take much to make it known he wanted to see the underboss. There was a restaurant in a neighborhood that even the cops knew was run by the Pulvirentis. In fact, Danny was pretty sure there was a speakeasy in the back—these days there were speakeasies in the back rooms, attics, and basements of damn near everything—though no one had ever confirmed it.
It seemed like as good a place to start as any, so with more than a little trepidation, Danny took off his cap and walked in through the front door.
The restaurant was nothing out of the ordinary. White linen tablecloths covered ten or twelve small tables, most of which were unoccupied this time of day.
A waiter approached with a warm smile. “Table for one, sir, or will more guests be joining you?”
“No table, thank you. I, um…” Danny cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Carmine Battaglia.”
The waiter’s expression darkened. “He’s not here.”
“All right, but maybe someone can help—”
“There is no one here by that name.” The waiter’s voice was cold now. “Sir, if you’d like to eat, I’d be happy to—”
“Wait, wait.” An irritated-looking Italian stepped up to them and peered at Danny. “Who’d you say you was looking for?”
Danny tried not to sound as nervous as he was. “Carmine Battaglia. He, uh… He asked for me.”
Nodding the man said, “Carmine told me he was expecting some Irishman to come around.”