The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,51

Carmine. Gesturing sharply at Giulia, he snarled, “This doesn’t concern you, Venetian.”

“Seeing as my name is on the deed and you’re threatening my sister…” Carmine narrowed his eyes. “I’d say it does concern me.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Giulia scowling, but hopefully she understood his posturing. The bar was as good as Giulia’s—as much as it could be for an unmarried woman in this city—but a man like Salvatore il Sacchi wasn’t going to bend to reason or propriety, especially not when he was in the mood to avenge his brother’s death.

With an annoyed huff, Salvatore came closer to Carmine. Too close, but Carmine didn’t back down, and instead raised his chin and glared down at the slightly shorter man.

Salvatore’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed as he thumped Carmine’s chest with his index finger. “I know you talked to those boys on New Year’s. And I know it was you that paid the cops to let them go.”

“Because I paid them to tell me what they knew,” Carmine snarled back, “and they knew nothing. They were hired for that job by—”

“The hell they were,” Salvatore spat. “The cops knew some of those boys, and they know they work together.”

“They’re thieves, not murderers. There was no—”

“Not murderers?” Salvatore laughed, a hint of mania in his voice. “Is that right? Well then tell me, Venetian: how did my brother end up dead on the floor in that room? Because some Mick wanted to pick his pockets?” He narrowed his eyes and gestured sharply at Giulia. “She’s the only one who saw his face, and I want to know who he is.”

A chill went through Carmine. “Yeah? So what? You want to take her and search every tenement and flophouse in Manhattan until you find someone she recognizes? She only saw him for a second.”

“So she says,” il Sacchi growled. “And you don’t find it even a little bit suspicious that this Irish kid was just lurking in the shadows of my brother’s suite when your sister asked Ricky to come up and—”

“I asked to talk to him alone,” Giulia interjected. “The suite was his idea. Not mine.”

“Sure it was.” Salvatore turned his narrow-eyed glare on her. “And I bet you loved the idea, didn’t you, chippy?”

Carmine’s fist connected with Salvatore’s face before he was fully aware he’d thrown the punch. Salvatore staggered back, holding his jaw. Glare locked on Salvatore, flexing his throbbing fingers as he followed the man, Carmine growled, “You think you can come in here and disrespect a member of my family like that?”

Salvatore glared right back at Carmine and spat blood on the porcelain-littered floor. “After she was involved in the murder of my brother?”

“She wasn’t involved,” Carmine gritted out. “Your brother attacked her, and someone else stepped in. Maybe if he knew how to keep his hands off a lady, he wouldn’t have ruined the suite’s carpet.” He stepped closer, and Salvatore retreated right into an overturned table. With a string of curses, he stumbled, then toppled backward, landing in a heap amidst splintered chair legs and broken glass. Carmine loomed over him. “And the whole reason Giulia wanted to talk to him was your boys coming in here”—he gestured around the ransacked speakeasy—“and causing trouble.”

Salvatore struggled to get partway upright, swearing when he sliced his hand on a shard of porcelain. Shaking his hand and sprinkling blood on his pant leg and the floor, he fixed a murderous look on Carmine. “She says that. Ain’t nobody who can confirm it because the only ones who saw a thing are your sister and that Mick.” He shifted again and managed to stumble onto his feet. Cradling his wounded hand, he met Carmine’s gaze again. “Someone knows who that kid is. And when I find out, he’s a dead man.”

Carmine stepped closer, nearly sending Salvatore sprawling again. “Lay a hand on the man who saved my sister from Ricky, and I’ll make sure your mother buries another son.”

Salvatore studied him, then narrowed his eyes. “There a reason you’re so protective of this guy?” He stepped toward him, but Carmine held his ground. “He one of your boys? Someone you hired to protect your sister’s virtue?” He sneered on the last word.

“No,” Carmine said. “But your brother’s damn lucky that Irish kid was there and not me. Because he made it a lot quicker than I ever would’ve.”

Salvatore blinked. He opened his mouth to speak, but a back door opened. Footsteps came closer,