The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,93

how much Carmine made his hands sweat.

That didn’t sit right. None of it did.

Carmine was a gangster, Danny reminded himself like he always did on the way out of the office. An Italian gangster. A criminal underboss…who happened to be paying Danny handsomely for illegal rum running.

That ain’t all he does handsomely.

Danny shook that thought away. Something was wrong with him. Was this what happened when a man sold his soul? The Devil started making him insane?

Or has it just been too long since a man’s looked at me the way Carmine does?

Because, Lord, Danny couldn’t deny that something smoldered in Carmine’s eyes whenever he saw him, and whatever it was made some long-cooled embers inside Danny glow with an old familiar hunger. A need he’d felt a time or two before, but never like this.

The wise guy’s hand on his elbow stopped him so suddenly, Danny almost tripped. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, he’d nearly forgotten where he was or where they were going, even with the bag over his head. The other man pulled off the bag and thrust it into Danny’s hands. “Have a good day, sir.” The comment was bland and unenthusiastic.

“I will. Thank you.” Danny took the bag, blinking at the bright light coming in from outside. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he left the butcher shop and hurried out into the afternoon. He started walking. Walking fast.

But he didn’t go home.

Instead, he followed the long-memorized streets for what felt like miles, and then he strode through the familiar gates and right into Old St. Patrick’s. Inside, there were a few people in the pews, either gazing up at the altar or with their heads bowed. They ignored him, and he ignored them as he headed for one of the confessionals.

Inside, he knelt, and he rubbed the back of his neck, his mind racing in too many directions.

Beside him, the door opened and closed, and there was movement. Someone turning, then sitting down.

Danny took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

From the other side of the booth came a dry, “Again?”

Danny suppressed a snort of laughter. From the sound of it, James was fighting back some chuckling of his own. Danny’s mother would blister his hide and James’s for not being serious during confession, but sometimes they just couldn’t help it. Man of God or not, James was still his boyhood friend above all else. Practically a brother. Perhaps not the man to whom he should be confessing, but he trusted James like no other.

James sobered first, and he cleared his throat. “Go on.”

“It’s been…” Humor disappearing, Danny thought for a moment. “It’s been some time since my last confession. And I, um…” How was he even supposed to put it into words? Finally, he said, “I came to America for a new life. A better life. Same as everyone. Something better than I had in Ireland.” He wiped his hand over his face. “But the only honest work for a man like me will barely keep me fed in that tiny apartment.”

“I know,” James said. “It’s not easy in this place. Not for any man.” Danny didn’t know if that was his friend talking or the priest. Maybe both.

Letting his shoulders sag under an unseen weight, Danny said, “But now I’ve found a way to bring in money. I can keep us warm, and I even have money to send home to Mum and Dad. All I can think is that the Lord can’t possibly approve of what I do. Of what I’ve become. But I don’t know what else to do that won’t have me breaking my back and choking on ash.”

“I can’t imagine the Lord approves of all I do either,” James said dryly. Lowering his voice to a nearly inaudible whisper, he added, “The Church certainly wouldn’t if they knew.”

“Maybe, but you don’t hurt no one.”

“There are those who believe I corrupt their souls. One could argue that’s worse than stealing illegal liquor from one criminal for another.”

Danny considered it for a long moment. “I suppose. But what about the men I work for? The Sicilians have all but taken over everything. I’m… I’m taking money from men who’ve taken power from my own kin. Who’ve killed my own kin. Am I selling out?”

“You’re surviving,” James said. “These days, that’s all a man can do unless he was born rich.”

Or got rich bootlegging, Danny didn’t say aloud. He exhaled. “Maybe. I hear all the other