7: The Seven Deadly Sins

by Bach, Tia Silverthorne

  “Sorry about that,” she said, referring to her son’s antics.

  “I’m not,” Tommy said, clearly referencing the kiss.

  Flustered, she said, “I didn’t mean—”

  He covered her lips with his fingers. “I know what you meant. May I see you again, Miss Blomgren?”

  “After that kiss, I think we’re on a first name basis, don’t you?” She teased.

  “That kiss will keep me warm for days, my dear, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  She blushed at his compliment, pleased that he enjoyed their kiss as much as she did. “Would you like to come for dinner on Tuesday night? I’m off work.”

  “I’d love to.” He leaned in, tucked her hair behind her ear, and kissed her chastely on the cheek. His fingers slid down along her cheek, her jaw, and the curve of her neck, coming to rest on her collarbone. He lifted the delicate chain on the necklace she always wore and studied the thin, silver bar. “Nice necklace. Unusual. Where’d you get it?”

  She covered his hand with her own and stared up at him. “I don’t know. I’ve had it since I was little girl. I always wear it.”

  “It’s lovely,” he said. “Like you.”

  He lowered his mouth and kissed her again. His lips lingered for a moment before he said, “Until Tuesday.”

  Even the bitter cold that entered the stairwell when he left couldn’t kill the flames he’d ignited inside her.

  April 13, 1930 ~ 6:00 p.m.

  Chicago, Illinois near McKinley Park

  Dinners on her day off and lunches on Sunday became their norm. As the freezing Chicago winter melted into the sloppy, warm spring, Tommy worked his way into their hearts—both hers and Frankie’s, although the boy was already smitten with his hero long before he started dating Nichole. Tommy was good to them, bringing flowers for her and sweet treats for Frankie. She realized she was falling helplessly in love, and still, she worried.

  Tommy often asked her to come to a match and bring Frankie. “I’ll get you the best seats in the house. He’ll love it.”

  She wanted more than anything to support Tommy, but boxing matches were high profile. Anyone who was anyone went to the arena. It was one thing for her and Frankie to sit in the nose-bleeders, unseen by the masses. It was another to be known as Tommy Two Gun’s gal. The journalists would be all over it, and she couldn’t risk that kind of exposure. One picture of Frankie, and her years of hiding him were through.

  “I’ll think about it,” she always answered, and although Tommy looked forlorn, he’d let it slide.

  One particular evening, though, he pressed her. “Why won’t you come, Nichole? Are you embarrassed by my profession?”

  “What?” She turned from the sink and stared at him.

  His chin was in his hand, and he looked dejected.

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  Running his hand through his hair, he slouched in the chair. “I can’t come up with another reason why you always refuse me.”

  Something wasn’t right. Looking closer, Nichole noticed dark smudges under his eyes and dejectedness in the way he sat. “Is everything okay? Are you feeling all right?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, pursing his lips as if considering. Finally, he confessed. “I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve been having these strange dreams. Nightmares, really.”

  His words sent a chill down her spine. “What kind of nightmares?”

  “That’s just it.” He leaned forward and grasped her hands between his own. “I don’t know. I never remember them. I wake up screaming, feeling panicked and drowning in remorse, but I don’t know why.”

  “Sounds terrible.” She gently squeezed his fingers. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not about the dreams, but would you please consider coming? Just to one match?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Then, at least give me a reason. Why won’t you come? Why won’t you bring Frankie?” Sitting back, he released her hands and tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “I heard a rumor…”

  He let his words hang, and her heart jumped. No, he couldn’t possibly know. “You should know better than to trust rumors,” she said carefully.

  He raised his eyes and met hers. There was no judgement there, only mild curiosity. “That’s why I mentioned it to you. Figured I would go right to the source and set the record straight.”

  Her hand fluttered to her neck as she tried to contain her nerves. “Why don’t you tell me what you heard?”

  Another drum of fingers, and then Tommy said, “I heard you’re one of the Capone girls.”

  Her throat clenched in fear, but she managed to keep her voice sounding normal. “Where’d you hear that?”

  He gave her a look that said he was still expecting her to answer but was giving in to her request for information first. “Some boys down at the gym were talking. A couple fellas heard the rumor at a speakeasy near Hyde Park. Is it true?”

  She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t lie to him. “Clearly no longer, since I’m your girl, but yes, I dated a Capone. Frank Capone. He was Frankie’s father.”

  Tommy’s shock was evident. He paled, the horizontal scar in his eyebrow standing out in contrast to the black hairs surrounding it.

  Before he could speak, she continued, “Frank wasn’t like Al or Ralph. He was a good man and tried to get out. The week before he was gunned down, he’d gotten a legit job at the docks. We were going to marry.”

  She crossed to Tommy and knelt in front of him, taking his hands. “He didn’t know I was pregnant. No one did. Al and Ralph… they don’t know about Frankie, and I want to keep it that way. That’s why I won’t go to your match, Tommy. As much as I want to, I can’t risk my son.”

  His pant leg was damp from her tears, and she hadn’t even realized she was crying. Tommy made soothing noises, wiped her checks, and tucked the hair that had fallen in her face behind her ears. “I won’t let anything happen to either of you. I promise, Nichole, and you don’t have to come to my match if you don’t want to.”

  “Why can’t we go to a match? And who’s Al?”

  Nichole cringed at her son’s voice. She thought Frankie was in his room, playing with his cars, but at some point, he’d snuck back into the kitchen.

  “Mom? Please?” He begged, his brown eyes wide and pleading in a face so like his father’s. Anyone who knew the Capones would have no problem connecting her child to their family. Her heart ached with worry. She couldn’t keep him hidden forever.

  “I’m having a conversation with Mr. Mazza right now, Frankie. Go and play with your toys.”

  “Mom…”

  “Go on, Frankie. Do as your mom says.” Tommy’s tone was mild, but Frankie immediately obeyed, scurrying out of the room. He needed a man in his life. Tommy was good for the kid, good for them both. “I know you don’t want to risk it, but consider coming. I can get you seats anywhere in the house.” Tommy gave her a crooked grin. “Even in the dark upper corner where no one wants to sit.”

  She straightened and said haughtily, “I’ll have you know that’s exactly where we sat the last time we saw you.” She smiled to let him know she wasn’t really upset and added, “I’ll think about it, okay? I know Frankie won’t leave it alone anyway.”

  “My next fight’s on Saturday.” He stood and pulled her up, wrapping his strong arms around her. He made her feel so safe and cherished. She loved to rest her cheek against his chest, breathe in his wonderful scent, and listen to his steady heart. That’s exactly who Tommy was—steady, dependable, and hers. He lifted her chin and kissed her, sending warm shivers through her body. Tommy kissed like he fought, with focused intensity. It made her toes curl and her thoughts fly out the window. He was the perfect combination of exciting and safe. He pulled back and kissed her nose playfully. “The tickets will be waiting, middle of the house, in case you change your mind.”

  He donned his hat. The same black fedora he always wore, but his c
oat had switched to a lighter waistcoat for the warmer weather.

  “Are you off to the gym?” she asked, knowing when he wasn’t at her tiny upper, he was working out. His apartment was mainly neglected, a place to sleep only, and he insisted he didn’t mind.

  Patting his belly, he said, “I’ve got some meatloaf and potatoes to work off.”

  “You’re not a pound heavier than when I met you.” She laughed despite herself and saw him out, grateful he didn’t pressure her to make a decision about attending a fight. Frankie would pressure her enough, and five-year-olds could be persuasive.

  April 19, 1930 ~ 3:00 p.m.

  Chicago Stadium

  Holding tightly to Frankie’s hand, Nichole navigated her way to the ticket booth. “I have two tickets on hold for Blomgren, please.”

  “Oh, Tommy’s girl.” The man behind the counter looked her over with interest. He was in his late teens with greasy black hair and small, squinty eyes. “Just a moment.”

  He turned and spoke quietly to another fellow in the booth, who glanced back over his shoulder at her. She wasn’t sure why, but they made her uneasy. The first man, whose name tag read “Michael,” turned back with tickets in hand and gave her an easy smile. She didn’t care for the way his gaze bounced between her and Frankie. She could only describe it as calculating. The gnawing worry in her stomach increased, a wave of queasiness washing over her. They shouldn’t have gone.

  “Here ya go. Two tickets for Miss Nichole Blomgren and guest.” The guy crossed his arms on the counter and leaned out to look closer at Frankie. “Why! That must be you.”

  Frankie giggled. “She’s my mom.”

  “Oh!” The man faked surprise. “I thought she was your date. Are you a big fan of Tommy Two Guns?”

  “Oh, yes!” her son grinned, unaware of his mother’s unease. “He’s the best.”

  “He sure is!” The man, Michael, was completely focused on Frankie, and alarms sounded in Nichole’s psyche. She had to get her son out of there. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Fr—”

  “I taught him not to speak to strangers,” Nichole interrupted in a not quite polite voice, drowning out the boy’s response. She tugged his hand gently. “Come along. Let’s find our seats. The fight is about to start, and we’re holding up the line.”

  “Bye, mister!” Frankie called back.

  “See ya, kid.”

  Nichole didn’t turn to see if Michael’s eyes followed them, but she made a mental note to ask Tommy about the two men later. She didn’t catch the name of the short, stout one in the back, but she clearly saw Michael’s name tag.

  Just as Tommy promised, their seats were in the middle of the arena, centered to the ring. The view was excellent and inconspicuous. When the match started, Nichole forgot about the ticket dealer. She was fully absorbed in the fight. Tommy was magnificent—lightning fast and graceful on his feet. He easily won the match, and the crowd went wild. Fans and journalists alike flooded the floor to get a glimpse of the champion and maybe a word or two for their bylines the next day. The pop of cameras flashed around the ring, except for one that went off near her, startling and momentarily blinding her.

  “Mom.” Frankie tugged on her hand and pointed to a figure dressed in brown tweed hurrying away. “That man took our picture. Do ya think we’ll be in the newspaper? Huh? Do ya?”

  He was full of little boy excitement, but Nichole felt the blood drain from her face. Her body broke out in a cold sweat and tremors. They shouldn’t have gone. She tried to clear her head and think rationally, but her mind screamed, “Run! Hide! Escape!”

  She swallowed her panic and forced herself to speak calmly to Frankie. “It’s time to go.”

  “Now?” Frankie frowned. “But Tommy’s meeting us after. He promised me ice cream.”

  She didn’t like Frankie calling Tommy by his given name, but he insisted, and her boy listened to anything Tommy said.

  “He’s going to meet us at home,” she said, silently pleading for Frankie to cooperate. Did she have enough money to pay a taxi driver? She hoped so.

  Satisfied Tommy would catch up with them later, Frankie let her lead him outside. If he was surprised when she hailed a cab instead of walking, he didn’t show it. She gave the driver vague directions to an intersection five blocks away from the house. She wasn’t taking any chances.

  She hoped Tommy would understand when he didn’t find them waiting in the lobby like they originally planned. She’d explain everything later if she had the chance. Right then, she had to get their things and go. Protecting Frankie was top priority. It was only a matter of time until they were discovered by the very people she was avoiding.

  The house was dark when they arrived. At first, Nichole worried, but then she remembered Mabel complaining of a headache that afternoon. She must’ve gone to bed early. Flipping the switch for the stairwell, Nichole wrinkled her nose. There was an odd odor in the house, almost like rotten eggs. What had Mabel cooked for dinner?

  Nichole covered her nose, knelt before Frankie, and spoke in a low voice. “You wait right here, just inside the door. I’ll be right back.”

  He nodded and sat on the floor, eyes wide. It wasn’t like him to not question her motives. Either he sensed her fear or realized on his own something was wrong.

  Taking the stairs quickly, she unlocked their door. The light from the stairwell spilled into the apartment, revealing the sparkle of broken glass. The room was entirely gutted.

  “Frankie, run!” she screamed before someone held a wet rag to her face and the world went dark.

  §

  “Nichole, baby, Nichole, wake up!”

  Tommy’s face swam into focus. She gripped his arm. “Where’s Frankie? Where’s my son?”

  His eyes were wide and wild. “I don’t know. I didn’t pass anyone on my way up, and Mabel’s apartment…” He stopped and swallowed. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. They knocked me out. I told Frankie to run.” Where is he? Did he get away? It was hard to think through the panic. Her mind screamed the worst, “Frankie’s gone, Frankie’s gone, Frankie’s gone.” She’d heard of people being paralyzed with fear, but she hadn’t realized it was a real thing until then. She literally could not move.

  Tommy wrapped his arms around her and lifted. He held her close until her legs steadied beneath her.

  When she knew she could stand on her own, she turned and fled down the stairs. “Maybe he’s with Mabel.”

  “Don’t go in there!” Tommy shouted and thundered down the steps behind her, but it was too late. The scene dropped her to her knees. Destroyed, she struggled to process what she was seeing.

  The kind, elderly landlady was unrecognizable. It was obvious they tortured her before killing her. Nichole had considered Mabel a friend, family even. It was hard to imagine she was gone, viciously murdered simply for being home.

  Nichole turned and emptied the contents of her stomach, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, she stood on shaking legs. While the heavy nausea in her stomach was gone, the sight of Mabel’s mangled body would haunt Nichole forever. “I’m checking outside.”

  “Nichole—”

  “There’s a chance he got away.” She ran, hating the way hysteria made her voice shrill and fragile like broken china.

  She searched the yard, behind every bush and in every shadow. There was no trace of him. Her last hope shredded, she collapsed into a boneless pile on the grass and wept.

  “Who did this?” Tommy asked. “Who took Frankie?”

  “Who do you think?” Nichole managed to form the words between sobs. “Capone. He’s got my son. The mob has my son.”

  “How?” Tommy asked. “How’d they find him? You said they never knew you were pregnant with Frank’s child.”

  “They didn’t, but one look at him and anyone would know. You saw it, Tommy. He looks just like a Capone.”

  “He looks just like a young Italian boy.” Tommy crouched down a
nd rubbed her back, offering her the white handkerchief from his pocket. “He could be mine.”

  Shaking her head, she dabbed at her eyes and tried to calm down. Otherwise, she’d never manage to think straight, and she needed a cool head to get her son back. “You heard the rumor before I told you. You heard I was an item with Frank. Now, you see Frankie, five years later.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Al Capone’s a monster, but he isn’t an idiot.”

  “That’s true,” Tommy said. “But that means someone pointed Frankie out to him.”

  Choking on anger, she spat. “That man at the ticket counter. Michael.”

  “Mikey sold you out?”

  Nichole explained how the two men acted when she got the tickets, how Michael paid extra attention to Frankie, and then the photographer who snapped their picture at the end of the night. “I should’ve trusted my instincts and left right away.”

  Tommy stood and kicked the fence, breaking one of the boards. “I’ll kill the rat!”

  When he punched another board, scraping his already bruised knuckles, Nichole flinched.

  His face fell when he noticed. “I’m sorry.” Pulling her up to her feet and drawing her close, he buried his face in her hair. “Sometimes I can’t control my anger, but I’d never hurt you or Frankie. Ever. I promise.”

  “I know.” She stepped back slightly to cup his face in her hands, dismayed to see them shaking. “I know that, Tommy.”

  She broke down again, sobbing. Normally, she wasn’t the desperate sort, but those were not normal circumstances. Al Capone had her son. She knew the gangster would never hurt Frankie. Al had a reputation of being very protective of his family. She wasn’t family, though, and what would he care about the mother of his nephew. She worried that she’d lost her son forever. “What am I going to do? I have to get him back.”

  “We’ll get him.” Tommy wiped her cheeks and bent to look in her eyes. His big hands framed her face with a gentle touch, an echo of the way she’d held him earlier. His hands were much steadier than hers. “First, we need to get you out of here. Who knows if they have plans to come back.”