The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,27

the two men nearly occupied the entire sidewalk when they walked abreast like this.

It should have felt safe, being bracketed by four of the toughest muscle on the Pulvirenti payroll, but it just made his stomach turn. He didn’t like needing this much protection. It felt too much like they were knowingly walking into a warzone.

Maybe they were.

Carmine shivered, and not just from the bitter January cold.

Near the end of the block, the quiet formation halted in front of a nondescript stairwell between a bakery and a boutique and leading into the basement of a tenement. Everyone exchanged looks, but still, no one spoke.

Then, one by one with the bodyguards in front and bringing up the rear, they filed down the narrow stairwell into a cramped, dark basement. Carmine’s neck prickled. As far as he was concerned, every shadow concealed someone with nefarious intentions and deadly weapons.

If would-be murderers were hiding in the darkness, though, they didn’t make any moves, and the group followed a metal staircase up to a wide steel door. Maurizio, Sammy, and Angelo crowded onto the narrow landing, and the boss banged his knuckle against the door. A second later, the peephole snapped open.

“Password?” came the flat request from the other side.

Maurizio sighed impatiently. “The owner is expecting me.”

The peephole snapped shut. Then a set of heavy locks clanged, and the door swung open. The bodyguards entered first, followed by Maurizio, Giulia, and Carmine, with Tony and Charlie following close behind.

It was barely six o’clock, and patrons wouldn’t start arriving until eight or nine, so the speakeasy was empty. For now, the sofas upholstered in rich red were vacant, positioned around the dark fireplace and the tables that were empty except for unlit candles. A couple of bartenders watched them warily from where they wiped out the porcelain teacups they’d use to serve liquor once the place opened.

A third bartender, the one who’d demanded the password, gestured for them to follow him. They climbed a set of hardwood stairs and walked across the mezzanine, and once they reached the opposite end, the man touched a hidden switch behind a tapestry, which released the lock holding a bookcase firmly in place. He gave the bookcase a firm push, and the shelves rotated to allow the group access to yet another small staircase, this one leading down into a smaller version of the room they’d just passed through.

“Please make yourselves comfortable.” The bartender was congenial but clearly not happy about it. “The boss is on his way and will join you shortly.”

“Thank you,” Maurizio said, and they settled into chairs facing the door they’d come through and with their backs to the wall.

Carmine didn’t like this, and he wished he’d kept Sal with him; it had seemed like overkill, having his own bodyguard along with four of Maurizio’s muscle, but now… Now he wasn’t so sure about that.

The bartender stood with his hands behind his back. “May I offer any of you a drink while you wait?”

“The house special, please,” Maurizio said dryly.

Giulia requested the same, prompting a startled look from the bartender, which in turn prompted a challenging stare from Giulia. Clearing his throat, the bartender nodded and moved on to Carmine, who also asked for the same. He didn’t actually want anything, but they were guests in Agosto il Sacchi’s speakeasy. To reject his liquor would be to reject his hospitality, and that would sour the meeting before it began.

The three of them sat in silence as the bartender left to get their drinks, and they still hadn’t spoken when he returned carrying a tray with three white porcelain teacups, the vessel of choice for a lot of speakeasies in town. Carmine took a polite sip, and he had to admit—it was good whiskey. Much like the Pulvirentis, the il Sacchis didn’t stand for serving hooch and rotgut. Small wonder their establishments and operations were in such fierce competition with each other.

Giulia put down her teacup, hooked a finger in a blue glass ashtray, and pulled it closer to her. She took a silver case of cigarettes from her pocketbook and lit one without offering any to Maurizio or Carmine. Maurizio shot her a disgusted look—he’d grumbled at length about all these women smoking these days.

“This city is turning women into men,” he’d muttered a while back. “Next they’ll be wearing trousers and working the docks.” That was in the same diatribe where he’d lamented all the fairies in and around Times Square making a mockery