The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,44
make it a den of crime and hedonism.
When he’d landed here in New York with his brothers, he’d found himself in a warzone. The neighborhoods of Lower Manhattan were crowded with hard-working people trying to make their way in this new world…and Italians.
Italians who’d violently gained control of most of Lower Manhattan, and whose power and violence had exploded once the Volstead Act had gone into effect. Who’d crushed most of the Irish gangs and taken over in their place. Who’d killed two of his brothers.
Danny was never meant to look at an Italian gangster and lose his breath.
But every time he looked at the Venetian…
Every time he looked at Carmine…
He did.
What is wrong with me?
“Hey. Danny.” Paddy elbowed him. “Where’ve you gone?”
Danny shook himself and turned to his friend. “Nowhere. Nowhere.” He glanced at the cash on the table, and forced a laugh as he gestured at it with his cigarette. “Just trying to imagine what I’ll do with all that.”
Paddy laughed. “That’s the spirit.” He raised his teacup. “To finally having enough so we don’t go to bed with grumbling bellies.”
With a halfhearted chuckle, Danny clinked his cup against Paddy’s. “Cheers.”
And he was glad they wouldn’t have to worry so much about money now. He was beyond grateful that his family would have food now, and that his friends would be closer to living the way he’d naïvely thought he would be when he’d first come to America.
He just had no idea what to do with all the things Carmine Battaglia did to his head.
At Sunday Mass, Danny joined his brother and family in their usual pew at Old St. Patrick’s. He was accustomed to feeling guilty inside the church—came with the territory of thieving—but the guilt was stronger now. Not because he was in God’s house, but because of his family sitting beside him. He supposed that was something he’d have to get used to if he was going to keep working for Carmine Battaglia.
Cringing inwardly, he stared up at the altar, though he didn’t hear a word Father O’Reilly said. The roll of dollars in his trouser pocket nudged uncomfortably at him like a stone in his shoe, reminding him constantly of its presence. Walking down the street with that kind of money, he was afraid of being robbed. In here, he wondered if it would burst into flames. Maybe gangsters could sit in pews, unrepentantly carrying money they’d acquired through bribes and crime, but Danny… He wasn’t so sure.
Most of the money he’d been paid was tucked away in the apartment. Nowhere a thief could find it, but where he or James could if they needed it. What he had with him—that was going to drive him mad.
Finally, Mass was over, and he stayed with his family as people slowly made their way outside.
Rowan was occupied with a conversation with Father O’Reilly, and Eliza was tending to the children, making sure they were bundled up against the bitter cold outside. With his brother distracted for a moment, Danny approached Eliza, and he pressed the wad of bills into her hand. Speaking softly, he said, “This should help, especially with the new baby coming.”
She eyed the bills—four dollars in total—and as she thumbed through them, the creases between her eyebrows deepened. Through her lashes, she peered at him. “Danny, where’d you get all this?”
“I did a job.”
Raising her head, Eliza asked flatly, “What kind of job?”
He held her gaze. She held his.
Setting her shoulders back, she said, “Your brother won’t stand for it. You know that.”
“I do. But I won’t stand for my family freezing or starving.”
She watched him with unreadable eyes, and he was sure she was going to shove the money back at him and denounce his dishonest means of earning it. After a moment, though, she pushed out a breath through her nose and glanced at Rowan’s back, lips tight as she tucked away the money. “Thank you. But I do wish you’d find better ways to earn a living. Safer ways, so your brother wouldn’t worry so much.”
He nodded sharply. “I know.”
“Just…be careful, would you?” She glanced at Rowan again, her hard expression softening to let some sadness show through. She absently played with the ever-present crucifix at her throat—something she did when she was uneasy. Meeting his gaze again, she whispered, “He can’t bury another one. It’ll break him more than losing Hugh and Robert already did.”
Danny winced. “Aye. I know. I’m careful, I swear. Always.”