The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,20

this bar. And I’m always careful. How do you think I haven’t been shut down by the police yet?”

Carmine suppressed a groan. “The police aren’t nearly as dangerous as the il Sacchis.”

She rolled her eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak, but someone cleared his throat, and Carmine turned.

“Mr. Battaglia?” A young bartender gestured over his shoulder. “You have a telephone call.”

Carmine sighed. This conversation was not over, but his work was never done either. He thumped the bar with his knuckle. “I mean it, Giulia.” He started toward the back office. “Be careful.”

She grumbled something after him. He didn’t catch it.

Whoever was on the phone probably had something urgent that couldn’t wait. They always did.

Less than an hour after Carmine got the call, his driver, Fedele, parked the car in front of one of the warehouses Carmine oversaw out in Industry City near the water’s edge in Brooklyn.

Teeth grinding and chest tight with fury, Carmine snatched up his hat, stepped out of the backseat into the ice-cold wind, and stalked toward the warehouse.

The Pulvirenti family held a number of warehouses like this one throughout the city, and they controlled the movement of several types of products coming into New York, including certain varieties of fruits and nuts from the Caribbean, a number of textiles that were in high demand in the shoe and garment industries, and over a dozen popular brands of cigars and cigarettes. Carmine was responsible for four of those warehouses, including this one, and he was not happy right now.

Vincente, the man who ran the operations and reported directly to him, was waiting at the door. “Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to—”

“How did they get in?” Carmine demanded as they strode into the warehouse. “How did they know we had what they came to steal, and where the hell was security?”

Vincente shook his head. “We don’t know, boss. Only way I can think of was an inside job.”

Carmine stopped dead and glared at the man. “An inside job?”

Vincente put up his hands. “I ain’t got any idea who it is, but we’re looking. Eddie and Gino are squeezing some of the dock and warehouse workers for answers, but so far…nothing.”

“I want to know who it is,” Carmine growled, and they continued walking.

The warehouse aisles were stacked high with crates and barrels, and midway down the fourth aisle, two workers were carefully picking up scattered debris. Splintered crates and packing straw, by the looks of it.

“How much is missing?” Carmine demanded.

“Five cases,” Vincente said. “Looks like they tried to take a barrel, too, but I suspect it was too heavy for them to move.”

Carmine grunted in acknowledgment. Five cases meant thirty bottles, which was an inconvenience, not a catastrophe. Theft happened, and a loss this small could be absorbed. It was the fact that someone knew where the hidden liquor was, accessed it, and stole it without being caught that had his teeth on edge.

Scowling, he surveyed the damaged crates. “Whoever it was knew exactly what they were looking for and where to find it.” He gestured at the crates around it. “They didn’t even try to get into any of the others.” He turned to Vincente. “Bring in more security. I want men walking these warehouses night and day. Remind every man who sets foot in here what happens if they cross the Pulvirenti family. I find out who’s stealing from me, they’ll regret ever thinking about it. Am I clear?”

Vincente nodded vigorously. “Y-yes, boss. I’ll get right on that, and I’ll make sure everyone knows. Err, that they’re reminded.”

Carmine gave a sharp nod. The two workers cleaning up debris exchanged nervous looks, but then focused on sweeping up wood and straw.

Carmine glared at the opened crates before he walked away to see if any other merchandise had been disturbed.

Anyone else running operations like this would’ve fired everyone and quite possibly shot a few to make an example. Maybe Carmine was a bit soft-hearted for this job, but he remembered all too clearly Papa coming home from the docks in Catania with barely enough money to keep the family fed. They’d struggled just the same as so many people struggled here in New York. After Papa had died, the family had been destitute almost overnight. If his uncle hadn’t sent them money to come to America, there was no telling what would have become of Mama, Giulia, and Carmine.

So, soft-hearted or not, he was reluctant to cut loose any of the men working for him unless he knew