The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,59

the contents, but he was also eyeing Carmine. Maybe waiting for him to drink first. Smart kid.

Carmine flashed him a quick smile, then sipped the brandy.

Evidently convinced he wasn’t about to drink poison, Danny did the same. He grimaced a bit as he swallowed it. “This is good.”

“The best.” And what did it mean that Carmine wondered if this finely-aged brandy would taste better on Danny’s tongue? He tamped down that thought.

After another drink, Danny stared into his glass for a long time, though his eyes didn’t seem focused. Finally, he looked at Carmine, head tilted slightly as if he were searching for something in Carmine’s expression. “Does it ever bother you? Being a gangster?”

The question startled Carmine. Though Danny had steadily become less icy toward him as time had gone on, the request for candor was unusual.

Carmine took another sip as he thought about his response. Then he put his glass on the desk as he faced Danny. “It wasn’t the life I thought I’d have when I came here, but it’s kept my mother and sister out of factories or worse.”

“But does it ever… Does it trouble you? What you do?” Danny’s eyes added, What you are?

Carmine considered it again. “It’s business. Not the way I’d do business if I was in charge of everything, but I’m not. This is the world that was here when I came to New York, and it’s the work that means my family is safe and fed.” He shrugged tightly. “Maybe someday it won’t have to be like this.”

Danny studied him, his brow pinching in a way that suggested he didn’t like Carmine’s answer. As if he thought Carmine was avoiding the question. And maybe he was. There were things a man couldn’t dwell on too much if he wanted to sleep at night.

“What about you?” Carmine asked. “This what you wanted to do? Steal to make a living?”

Danny broke eye contact and shifted. “I never stole a thing until I had to.”

“So we understand each other, don’t we?”

Danny looked at him through his lashes. As he went for another drink, he softly said, “Maybe we do.”

Carmine tilted his head. “How long have you been in America?”

“Almost ten years now.”

“So you know how tough it is. Just trying to make it and get by.”

Avoiding his gaze, Danny nodded. “I do, yes.”

“So do I.”

Danny looked at him again. “I’ve just seen your safe full of—”

“It hasn’t always been this way for me, Danny. It wasn’t this way for a long time. You didn’t have much a couple of months ago yourself.” The skepticism didn’t budge, so he went on, “Italians struggle to make it too. There are people who hate us because we’re not American enough. We’re Catholic. We’re not the right kind of European.” He cut his eyes toward Danny, whose jaw worked. Carmine went on, “Believe it or not, I’ve struggled to find my place in America. I’ve struggled to find my place among my own people. Sicilians, because I’m made even though I’m only half-Sicilian. Italians because… Well, because I’m made and half-Sicilian.”

“Oh.” Danny blinked. “You are?”

Carmine laughed bitterly. “Why do you think they call me the Venetian? I assure you, it’s not a compliment.”

“Oh,” Danny said again, and he dropped his gaze. Carmine wondered if perhaps the kid had heard about his nickname and his bloodlines; they were certainly not big secrets in the neighborhoods where they both ran.

“My father was Venetian,” Carmine went on. “After he died, my mother was desperate, and she brought us here to work for my uncle. But then my uncle died too, and…” He sighed. “In the end, I could either work my fingers to the bone at the docks while my mother worked herself to death in a factory, or I could go to work for men who make—and pay—good money.”

Danny swallowed, but said nothing.

Carmine continued, “Maurizio respected me. He trusted me. When I was of age, he broke a lot of rules to have me made when I’m not fully Sicilian; others won’t let me forget it, but they won’t touch me neither. They can’t.” He laughed humorlessly. “So I’m not American enough, and I’m not Sicilian enough, but I’m made. I have a place, and my mother isn’t killing herself to keep us fed. If God doesn’t like how I got here, well, I’ll take the up with Him when the time comes.” He looked in Danny’s eyes. “So to answer your question, this wasn’t the life I hoped for