The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,26

living in that ice-cold tenement without enough food or quilts or firewood?

Daniel rubbed his throbbing temples.

Was honor or his conscience or any other goddamned thing worth watching his loved ones suffer when there was a way—however illegal and dangerous and immoral—he could help them?

No. Damn it, no.

“Something’s troubling you.” James’s voice startled him, and when Danny turned, the priest tilted his head. There was always an air of serenity around him when he was here in church, as if his demons couldn’t follow him onto this consecrated ground, but that ebbed in favor of concern now. “You were someplace else all through Mass.”

“I, um…” Danny’s cheeks burned. “No, I’m…”

James eyed him the way he always did when he knew Danny was lying to him. And why was Danny lying to him? If there was a man on earth who’d tell him what he needed to hear—even if it was that he was a fool—it was James. Dropping his gaze, Danny swallowed. “It’s this… It’s… I can’t get it off my mind.”

“Get what off your mind?” James sobered. “New Year’s.”

“Well, yes. That. But…” Danny hesitated again before he quietly asked, “What do you think about a man doing work his conscience don’t like, but it might keep the people he loves fed and warm?”

James studied him. “Is this man having second thoughts about what he already does? Or is there more work he’s thinking of taking on?”

Avoiding his gaze, Danny swallowed. “More work.”

“Daniel.” James’s voice was quiet but harsh. “You’re already thieving. What else are you thinking of doing? You’re not taking up killing or—”

“No!” Danny shook his head. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s… At least, I don’t think that’s what it is.”

James’s eyebrow rose.

Danny exhaled. “A man offered me work. I turned it away because I didn’t want to work for men like him, but…” He gestured at his family and sighed. “How much longer do I let them suffer before I do something?”

The priest watched Danny’s family for a moment. Then he too sighed, and he shook his head. “Maybe it’s a sin for me to say it, but in times of desperation, sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do.”

Danny had no idea if that was James the priest talking, or if it was James the friend. “So what do I do?”

James met his eyes. “Pray on it. Think on it. Pray on it some more.” He shrugged tightly. “Then consider what other choice you have.”

“I haven’t any, if I’m honest.”

“Perhaps that’s your answer.”

Danny held his gaze. Even quieter now, he asked, “Are you telling me I should go work for—”

“I’m telling you that you’ve got a good heart and a head full of wisdom,” James broke in. “Use those, listen to God, and do what you must.” There was a hint of don’t tell me the details because I don’t want to know in his tone, and Danny supposed he understood. James may have been a man of the cloth, but he was world-weary, and he was all too well-acquainted with the cruelty of the world to blithely accept that every man who had faith would have enough. Not after the war. Not after the Spanish Influenza. Maybe it was a loophole he had with the Lord, where he could give his blessing to do something unsavory so long as he didn’t know exactly what that unsavory something was. Maybe he just didn’t want to know.

Either way, Danny took the blessing for what it was, and he had a feeling he knew the answer his prayers would lead him to.

He’d pray on it tonight.

Tomorrow, he suspected he would speak to Carmine Battaglia again.

And hopefully when Danny’s days were over, the Lord would understand.

Chapter 6

Carmine and Giulia walked in silence on the heels of Maurizio Pulvirenti, the capo of the Pulvirenti gang, down a dark, snow-dusted sidewalk a block away from the noise and bright lights of Times Square. He and his sister didn’t look at each other, and Carmine resisted the temptation to glance back at the pair of wise guys bringing up the rear. In his mind, they’d been replaced by il Sacchi men, and an ambush was imminent, but he pushed away that paranoia. If he looked back now, Tony and Charlie would be there—Tony with his angry eyes and many times broken nose, Charlie with that piercing stare and ever-present sneer. They’d be there just like Sammy and Angelo still lumbered ahead of Maurizio, their shoulders so wide