The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,23

prompted a nervous swallow. “Won’t the il Sacchis think the Pulvirentis paid me to kill him or something, then? Or that you’re supporting what I did?”

“I’d say the Pulvirenti family has a better chance against them than you alone, wouldn’t you?”

Daniel seemed to consider it, and for one shining moment, Carmine thought he might have persuaded him to work together. But then the fury returned to Daniel’s expression, and he shook his head. “I swear on the graves of my brothers, I will never take a penny from you or any man like you.” He squared his shoulders. “Shoot me if you’re going to, but I ain’t working for you.”

Carmine glared back at him. “You sure you want to walk out before you even hear what I have to offer? And walk out without any protection I might—”

“I don’t need your protection,” Daniel said through his teeth. “The il Sacchis can shoot me in the street and leave my carcass in a gutter so long as I don’t have to tell God I sold my soul to the likes of you.”

Frustrated as he was, Carmine was suddenly glad this punk was rejecting his offer. He didn’t need a crew of Irishmen sabotaging his already thin supply lines out of hatred and racial spite. He could find other rum runners.

“Sal,” he called out.

Daniel jumped. When the door opened, he jumped again, and he braced like he was expecting a fight.

Carmine gestured at Daniel. “Show him out.”

Sal reached for Daniel, but Daniel jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

Sal turned to Carmine, silently asking for guidance.

“You’re not leaving without the hood,” Carmine said flatly.

Daniel glared at the bag in Sal’s hand, then at Carmine. Finally, he sighed and held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

Sal did, Daniel put it on, and not a moment too soon, Sal escorted him out of the office.

After the door had shut behind them, Carmine leaned against his desk and exhaled. Between his sister and Daniel, Carmine had had his fill today of idiots driven by stubborn pride.

Though he supposed Daniel’s rebuffing him went deeper than pride and the grief of losing two brothers. Even if his brothers had been alive and well, he likely still would have rejected Carmine’s offer and barely stopped short of spitting in his face.

Carmine had heard the stories from men who’d come to New York before him. The Irish who’d already been here and those who came after—their hatred of those from Italy was hardly a secret.

As his uncle had explained to him when he’d first emigrated, the Irish—Catholic and Protestant alike—had all played right into the hands of the Temperance Movement, which had exploited any excuse imaginable to ban liquor. During the war, they’d seized upon the fear of Germans and had beer outlawed in places, driving the breweries—mostly run by Germans—out of business. Then the Ku Klux Klan had jumped aboard, throwing gunpowder on people’s hatred of Italians, Catholics, Blacks, Jews—anyone not white enough, not American enough. Carmine had never been sure how the Irish felt about the Klan, especially the Irish Catholics, only that they both hated Italians, and in the end, thanks in part to both the Klan and the Irish, the movement had succeeded and the Volstead Act had killed what remained of the liquor business.

Or, well, that had been the idea. Not a day went by that Carmine didn’t think about how the money that was piling up faster than he could spend it had all been a direct result of the Temperance Movement, the Klan, and all the anti-Italian and anti-immigrant and anti-Catholic and anti-every-goddamned-man-alive movements. Perhaps those men had won in the halls of law and legislation, but on the streets, it was the Italians, Jews, and Blacks who were getting rich.

But still the animosity lingered. Even as Italians worked for Irish and Irish worked for Italians, Carmine doubted there’d ever be peace between the two factions. There was just too much hatred and bloody violence for peace to emerge without a miracle. Not in this city.

And damn it, he still didn’t have a crew to replace his rum runners.

Chapter 5

It took a few days, but bit by bit, the lads sold what little they’d stolen. What hadn’t been confiscated by the police, that is, which amounted to everything Bernard, Francis, Danny, and Mathew had taken: a watch, a few pieces of jewelry, a whiskey flask, and two pairs of fine shoes.

The Saturday after New Year’s, in the back room of Daisy’s, a lounge