The Devil of Downtown

by Joanna Shupe

  “No. I asked you to meet with him. I am angry with myself for not foreseeing what that request meant.”

  “And what did that request mean?”

  “That you would intimidate or blackmail Keller into giving me what I wanted.”

  “I did neither, actually.” He had merely asked—because Keller was smart enough to know what happened if he refused.

  “Because you are Jack Mulligan. The intimidation and blackmail are assumed.”

  Annoyance and confusion melded in his brain, yet he struggled for calm. “Which you were perfectly aware of when you asked me to speak to him on your behalf.”

  “Perhaps, which is why I am truly disappointed in myself.”

  “So you’re disappointed I approached Keller?”

  “No, Jack. Don’t you see? I am disappointed that I asked you to intervene. That I would trip down this path of favors and bribes with you, remaining convinced it doesn’t touch me. Yet it does. Until now, I have managed to justify your help because it benefitted other people.”

  Shame washed over him but he beat it down. He would not apologize for his life, his empire. He’d been a boy born with nothing, tossed out on the street like garbage before his voice had even changed. From that he’d grown into one of the city’s most powerful and richest men. Almost two thousand under his command, nearly everything downtown under his thumb. And he’d built it all his way, the only way he knew how.

  If she wished for him to regret it, she would be disappointed.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “This path of favors and bribes as you call it has done a lot of good over the years. Including for you.”

  “I realize that and I am grateful for what you’ve done up to this point. However, you once told me not to ask how the soup was made if I liked the way it tasted. I cannot do that any longer—not even if I get what I want.”

  She’s slipping away. Say something. Do something. You are going to lose her.

  He came around the desk and drew closer. “Mon ange,” he said quietly, “I only want to make things easier for you. I wasn’t attempting to corrupt you or take away your choices. But if I went too far, then I’ll stop. I won’t interfere in your cases any longer.”

  She started shaking her head before he even ceased speaking, moving away from him as if he were diseased. “I cannot do this anymore. The temptation will always be there. I won’t be able to keep from talking about my problems and you won’t be able to keep from solving them. I cannot keep eating the soup. At some point it’ll change me—if it hasn’t already.”

  Anger built in his chest, a rising tide he had worked hard to control in recent years. He’d been so angry in those early days on the streets. Fighting had been like breathing, a way to survive but also a way to purge the emotions roiling inside him. He hadn’t felt so furious, so helpless in eons. Until now.

  “You are being ridiculous,” he snapped. “I haven’t changed or done anything different. All I’ve done is let you in. You’ve seen my home, my skin. I trusted you. And this is what you think of me, that I’ll poison you with my presence?”

  “I do not think you will poison me. It’s that I’ll come to see the poison as normal. I will accept it, drink it willingly.”

  “You’re saying I will corrupt you.”

  “Yes. I’ve already made compromises since meeting you. How far am I willing to go?” She pressed her lips together. “I cannot do it. I cannot turn my back on everything I believe, everything I am, merely because you make things easier for me.”

  He didn’t know what to say. Using words to get what he wanted was his specialty, yet his attempts to convince her were failing. It was like being tossed over the side of a cliff and trying to hang on by one’s fingernails. Desperation and panic were beginning to set in. “We are good together. Tell me, are you so eager to throw that away, too?”

  Hurt flashed across her face and he almost took the words back. Instead, he fell silent and let her think about what walking out meant.

  It meant no more bowling or afternoons on Bond Street.

  It meant no more kisses or carriage rides.

  It meant no more laughing or fucking or just breathing together.

  And if she took all that away, he’d never be the same.

  “Jack,” she said on a sigh, as if she might reconsider.

  Hopeful, he came closer, slowly, determined to press his case one last time. Before she decided, she had to understand how he felt about her. “Justine, I’ve never met anyone like you. There’s never been another woman in my life, not in this way. Not someone I cared for and trusted as I do you. Who knows what would have happened after my injury if you hadn’t looked after me? This isn’t all one-sided. I feel just as off-balance and unsure of myself around you. But, I don’t want to give you up. Please, cara, do not leave me.”

  She sucked in a ragged breath and he could see the moisture gathering in her eyes.

  “I don’t wish to make you cry,” he whispered and dragged his knuckles over the tender skin covering her jaw. “Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi.”

  Sniffing, she put a hand to her mouth. “Do not say that.”

  “It’s true. I cannot live without you.” A fat tear rolled down her cheek, the effect like a punch to his stomach. “You are killing me. Say you’ll stay.”

  Silence stretched. He couldn’t read her expression and his anxiety mounted. Noise from the club below echoed, the familiar sounds of his life usually reassuring. Now they only served to accentuate the quiet in this room, the momentous decision being made outside of his control.

  After what seemed like a decade, she shifted to cup his cheek in her palm. “I cannot. This is not my world—it’s yours. And I do not like who I am becoming by remaining in it. Thank you for everything you’ve done, for every minute we have spent together. I’ll never forget you.”

  The words knocked the air from his lungs, the pain so swift, so sharp that his knees nearly buckled. It was like a thousand tiny razor cuts to the inside of his chest. But he would not show weakness. He already begged once. He would not beg further—not today, not ever—and he was done trying to prevent the inevitable.

  You should have seen this coming. You should have prepared for this.

  Yes, he should have. He was Jack fucking Mulligan. He was never vulnerable. Anger rose within him like a beast, feral and fierce, clawing, ready to lash out.

  But he would not let it break free. Not yet.

  He took a step back and her arm dropped to her side. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he said, “That’s a shame because I’ll do everything in my power to forget about you.”

  Her bottom lip quivered as more tears gathered in her eyes, and she spun toward the door. Flinging it open, she lunged into the corridor and he could hear her skirts rustling as she ran away from him.

  You made her cry. You hurt her, you monster.

  Fuck his conscience. This was his world, as she’d said, and he’d say and do whatever the hell he wished. There were no consequences, none that he cared about any longer. Let her go back uptown to her boring parties and banal suitors.

  If she didn’t like it here, then he didn’t want her.

  She was gone. Gone. She thought him poison and she’d left for good—even after he’d fucking begged her to stay. Begged her, like a lovesick fool.

  And now he was alone.

  Rage poured through his veins, scalding him from the inside out. His ears buzzed with it, every part of him aflame, his limbs trembling. He couldn’t control it. The feelings built and expanded, doubled and tripled, pain exploding in his skull . . . until he grabbed the edge of his desk, lifted the heavy oak piece off the ground and, with a roar, he tipped it over onto the floor. Papers and glass flew everywhere, the thump shaking the entire building.

  Seconds later, Rye appeared. “What in the ever lovin’ hell?”

  Jack stabbed a finger toward his second-in-command. “She is banned from both Bond Street and the club. No one lets her in—not the boys
at the front or the kitchen staff. If she crawls in through a goddamn mousehole, heads are going to roll. Do you understand me?”

  “Aye, I’d say that I do. What happened between you two?”

  “Never mind that. Just know that as far as I am concerned, Justine Greene never existed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The door opened but Justine didn’t bother looking up from her spot by the window.

  “Justine, have you seen that necklace that . . .” Florence’s voice trailed off. “Are you still knitting? Do you plan on making sweaters for the entire city?”

  Yes, she was still knitting. So far, she had three blankets finished. Sleep had eluded her, and she hadn’t done much of anything except knit since leaving Jack’s club. It was pathetic, really. But she refused to cry. After all, she was the one who’d left. There was no reason for melancholy. It had been her decision to end things. And, in her heart, she knew it was the right decision. Everything she’d said to him was true.

  I’ll do everything in my power to forget about you.

  Goodness, that hurt—far worse than the time she’d been thrown from a horse. This pain was like she’d been stabbed in the heart. With something dull and thick. Like a knitting needle.

  “Justine? Did you hear me?” Florence appeared in Justine’s eyeline. Her sister’s gaze went wide. “Sweet Mary. What on earth has happened to you?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice cracked from disuse. She cleared her throat. “Go away, Florence.”

  “You’re not fine.” Florence set her palm on Justine’s forehead. “No fever. Are you suffering from chills or dyspepsia?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She knocked Florence’s hand away. “I am not a child. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  Why wouldn’t her sister leave? All Justine wanted was to be left alone to knit until the awful ache receded. Then she could resume her life as it had been before Jack Mulligan turned everything upside down.

  You are killing me. Say you’ll stay.

  “Come on.” Florence bent and got a shoulder under Justine’s arm, dragging her to her feet. “I’m putting you in the bath.”

  “I do not need a bath. I need to knit.” For a hundred years. Then she would have forgotten all about Jack and his bright blue eyes and handsome face. And the way his breath hitched when she trailed kisses over his throat. How he’d stared at her as if she were the only person on earth.

  She burst into tears.

  Florence nearly stumbled as they moved toward the washroom. “You’re scaring me. Please, tell me what is wrong.”

  “I can’t.” Her sisters had warned her about Jack, and the last thing Justine could tolerate at the moment was any smug righteousness over her misery.

  Florence said nothing else, thankfully, and Justine sat, numb, while her sister drew a bath. When Justine sank in the warm water, she was grateful for Florence’s bossiness. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed to get clean.

  The problem with the bath, however, was it allowed her to think. Which led to more sadness. She hated this feeling. If there had been any other way, she would have stayed with him. But she was a perpetual do-gooder, as he liked to call her, and he was the criminal kingpin of Manhattan. There was no path forward where one of them didn’t compromise their beliefs. Where one of them didn’t bend. He certainly wouldn’t, and it would destroy her to wake up one day and realize she’d turned against the very principles she’d spent a lifetime affirming. She would hate herself—and eventually hate him.

  She missed him, though. More than she’d ever thought possible.

  Would he really do his best to forget her?

  A knock sounded. “You’ve been in there over an hour,” Florence said from the other side of the door. “If you don’t come out in the next five minutes, I’m barging in.”

  Florence would absolutely do it, too. “I’ll get out soon.”

  “Now, Tina. The water must be ice-cold.”

  She peeked at her toes and noted a bluish cast to her skin. Sighing, she rose and reached for a towel. “You may stop hovering,” she called.

  No one answered. Hopefully, Florence had gone away and would remain so. Justine hated lying to either of her sisters. Sooner or later they’d find out what happened, but the conversation would prove easier the more distance Justine had from Jack.

  Wrapped in her dressing gown, she emerged from the washroom.

  She froze. Mamie and Florence were both sitting on her bed, frowning in her direction. Florence must have summoned Mamie while Justine was in the bath. This meant Justine’s night was about to get even worse.

  She sat at her dressing table and began brushing her wet hair. It was easy to ignore her sisters because Mamie and Florence hated silence of any kind. As predicted, they started talking to each other when Justine didn’t speak.

  “I told you she looked terrible,” Florence murmured.

  “I thought you were exaggerating,” Mamie said. “But I can see you were not.”

  “Weren’t you concerned when she didn’t show up to the legal aid society?”

  “No. She’s been coming and going at strange hours of late. I assumed she was working on another one of her projects.”

  “Well, you should have been paying better attention. She’s been knitting for God only knows how long.”

  “What about you?” Mamie’s voice hardened. “You are the one living in the same house with her. Or, are you too busy with Clay and the casino to keep watch over our little sister?”

  “Yes, I am very busy, Mamie. The casino is taking up all my time. I cannot do everything here while Daddy and Mama are away, too.”

  “Stop it.” Justine slapped the brush on the table. “I am not a child. You needn’t keep watch over me. Furthermore, do not discuss me as if I am not in the room.”

  Her sisters closed their mouths, properly chastised, for about ten seconds. Mamie recovered first. “Justine, your well-being is our responsibility while our parents are gone. We know you are not a child, but you are an unmarried girl visiting dangerous neighborhoods and dangerous men. We have a right to be concerned.”

  “As you can see, I am perfectly well. I would like to get some sleep, so if you’d get off my bed now . . .” She shooed them with her hands, but her sisters didn’t move.

  Mamie lifted her chin. “I am not budging from this spot until you tell me what has upset you. Were you hurt?”

  Not physically. “No. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Too bad,” Florence said. “I am quite content to sit here all night, if necessary. What about you, Mamie?”

  “Frank sometimes snores, so I am perfectly happy right here in Justine’s bed. I could stay the week, actually.”

  After living with them for twenty years, Justine knew her sisters were not bluffing. “You two are absolutely awful.”

  Mamie patted the mattress. “Come lie down and tell us all about it. God knows we’ve talked to you enough about our troubles over the years.”

  Florence reclined on a stack of pillows. “Definitely. You’ve always been our sounding board, Tina. So, let us return the favor and help you—even if it’s just listening.”

  Exhaustion swept over Justine and she crawled onto the bed. All she wanted at the moment was to sleep. “That’s the problem. You don’t merely listen. You both run roughshod over my life. You always have. Remember when you convinced me I could get to Paris if I kept running toward the horizon? Or when you made me sled down the dangerous hills first? How about when you told me to touch the electric socket because it wouldn’t hurt?”

  Florence cleared her throat and exchanged a glance with Mamie. “You make us out to sound like some kind of bullies. But we’d never do anything to seriously injure you.”

  “That’s true. We love you. Good God, you’re the best of all of us. How could you ever doubt that?”

  “Because you discuss me like I’m a child. Both of you have cal
led me naive more than once. You think just because you’ve visited dance halls and casinos that you are worldly and experienced. Impervious to danger. Well, I’ve been to dance halls and casinos and saloons and tenements and brothels and every other place you could imagine in this city. Yet, because I am not sassy like Florence or willfully disrespectful like Mamie, then I must not be capable of looking after myself.”

  Florence moved closer and clasped Justine’s arm. Mamie stretched out on the other side, sandwiching Justine between them. “You’re right,” Mamie said. “I have often thought you’re too nice, too decent for this city. But you’re tough, Justine. So much tougher than people give you credit for.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Florence said. “In fact, I’m envious of all you have accomplished in such a short time. Clay said they call you an angel downtown—”

  Mon ange. She could almost hear him whisper it. Tears flooded her eyes.

  “Oh, no. What have I said?” Florence sounded horrified. “I meant it as a compliment, I swear.”

  Justine brushed the moisture from her cheeks. “That’s not why I am crying.” Neither of her sisters asked, but she could feel how much they longed to. They were both biting their lips, hard, and showing admirable restraint. She sighed. “I broke things off with Jack Mulligan.”

  “Wait, I thought . . .” Florence flicked her eyes toward Mamie. “I thought that ended some time ago.”

  “No. I just started coming home at a reasonable hour so you wouldn’t suspect I was still seeing him.”

  Florence’s mouth fell open. “That’s dashed clever of you. I’m impressed. Mamie, why don’t you seem surprised by any of this?”

  “Because she knew,” Justine said. “Or rather assumed, based on certain cases at the legal aid society.”

  “You knew?” Florence rose up on an elbow and glared at Mamie. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Frank was supposed to handle it. He promised to see Mulligan and demand he stop seeing Justine.”

  “Damn. So that’s where Clay went with Frank that afternoon. He was deliberately cagey about the nature of that errand.”