Seduced in the City

by Jo Leigh

  “My wife would like you to leave.”

  Sara jumped at the deep voice. Mr. Di Stefano had come from the hallway.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. This isn’t a reflection on you. Anyone researching the Black Hand would see these records.”

  The man’s hands, Sara noticed, had fisted. There was clearly no use arguing with either of them. She quickly gathered her things, glad she’d gotten their reactions on tape, and was shown the door.

  “You have no right stirring up trouble,” Mr. Di Stefano said tightly and slammed the door. But his voice carried through, loud and angry. “I told you not to talk about the past. Now look what you’ve—”

  Sara turned around to stare at the door, which had nearly smacked her in the ass. What the hell had just happened? She’d been so excited about this interview. Did Mrs. Di Stefano honestly not realize her husband’s relative had become part of a Black Hand gang? Or had she hoped that Sara would print her revisionist history and change the past?

  Walking slowly toward the subway, Sara felt more dejected with each step. By the time her train came, she wasn’t even surprised when she got a call canceling her three-thirty interview. No reason was given. Just a flat refusal. Only fifteen minutes since Mr. Di Stefano had kicked her out.

  If it was this bad with strangers, how on earth were the Paladinos going to react when she brought up Valente? She’d discovered much more than that one allegation. Ultimately, he’d been convicted of extortion. She hadn’t even mentioned it to Dom. But tomorrow she was supposed to go with him to the Paladinos’ for dinner.

  By the time Sara got home it was almost one, and she was still shaken. A fresh change of clothes and putting her hair up into a boho updo lifted her spirits. In fact, she’d decided that just because a couple of people had overreacted to the truth, that didn’t mean anyone else was going to.

  Her next interview would be better. Thankfully, it was much closer. Five blocks from her folks’ house, although she didn’t know the family well. Lily Finoccio and her husband weren’t big churchgoers, just showing up on the holidays. Their children were several years older than Sara and no longer lived in the area.

  When Sara knocked on the door, Lily opened it quickly, although not by much. “I’m sorry, Sara. My husband isn’t feeling well. We’ll have to cancel today.”

  It was hard to keep her smile in place, especially because she’d seen Al Finoccio at the corner bodega on her way out to Queens earlier. He’d certainly looked fine chowing down on an apple fritter and coffee. “I hope he feels better soon.”

  Lily gave her a half smile and closed the door.

  Strike three. Or was that four?

  She had only one more appointment today, an older widow who might not have heard that Sara was a pariah yet. How was this horror spreading so fast? It was insane.

  Since she had some time, she decided it would be harder to turn her away if she came bearing pastries. So she hopped on a bus to the bakery and used the ride to try and wrap her head around what was going on.

  What shocked her most was even though Little Italy was a shadow of its former self, there was still this unnerving rumor mill. Back in high school she’d actually written a short paper about it, comparing the outbreaks to wildfires. Easy to start with a casually tossed word, quick to spread, but also, fast to douse—as long as there was another fire in the wind.

  She entered the bakery, one of the most popular in the area, so no surprise there was a line. While she waited, Sara let her mind go to the one place that had kept her sane today—thoughts of Dom. He was working on Broome Street, where Paladino & Sons were going to transform a condemned building into a boutique hotel.

  At least she’d see him tomorrow night—

  She thought she heard her name.

  Itching to silence the chatting women behind her, she could do nothing but wait and listen, even as she told herself she was being paranoid.

  “She comes back to town, telling lies, that Sara Moretti. Jane Landi told me that Sara made up a story about her great-grandfather, right to Jane’s face.”

  Sara’s mouth opened in disbelief. She’d never even met Jane Landi. Someone else was already trying to top that lie with another, but Sara only caught part of it. She was too pissed off.

  She moved out of the line to see if she recognized the gossipers.

  An old friend of her nonna’s, Mrs. Turati, saw her. For a moment, they stared at each other, then the woman, who had to be in her seventies, said, “How can you do this to your own neighbors, eh?”

  Everyone froze, including Sara.

  “Your parents are good people. Didn’t they raise you better than to make up stories?”

  Anger lit a bonfire in her gut. They could say whatever they wanted about her, but to malign her parents? “At least they taught me not to spread malicious rumors. But I guess your parents didn’t teach you that lesson.”

  The whole bakery became so quiet all she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat. Surrounded by horrified people—some she didn’t know—she inhaled her first breath since her outburst. The realization of what she’d done hit home.

  Of course everyone was horrified. Once again, her quick temper was going to cost her dearly. “My parents did raise me well, and I’m sorry I said what I did. I have a great deal of love and respect for this community, which is why I decided to write about it in the first place.”

  Everyone stared back with sour faces.

  “But I don’t like to hear ugly things that aren’t true being spread. This is our collective history, and I would never make up a single word about it. Regardless, I apologize. I should never have spoken to you like that. I hope, though, that the next time someone says something horrible about me or my work, you’ll take a moment to ask me if it’s true.”

  Even knowing her face was red, that leaving this way might make her a coward, she couldn’t stay another minute. She didn’t run, though she wanted to.

  As soon as she was far enough away, she ducked into a dark entryway and called Dom.

  “Sara. What’s up? You okay?” The sound of hammers made it difficult to hear him.

  “Oh, God.” How had she forgotten? “You’re working. It’s not important. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Wait, just give me a sec.”

  She waited, calmer now, after hearing his voice.

  “What happened?” he asked more clearly.

  “It’s just, everything went sideways. At my first interview, when I mentioned that their great-uncle wasn’t a victim of the Black Hand, but that he’d been arrested for extortion—which I got from police records—the people freaked out as if I was accusing them of being in the Mafia or something. After that I had three cancellations in a row.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”

  She sniffed, trying not to let the burn behind her eyes turn into tears. “I went to Ferrara’s and overheard a blatant lie about me making things up. Then one of the old goats had the nerve to say my parents raised me wrong.”

  “Damn. I can understand why you’re so upset. Listen, I can—”

  “No, no. Some of it’s my fault. I shot my mouth off at Mrs. Turati, and she’s old, you know, late seventies, and that scandalized everyone in the bakery.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “About a block away from Ferrara’s, on Grand.”

  “You know where the Mulberry Street Bar is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go have a drink. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “But you’re in the middle of—”

  “Tony can handle it. Please, just go. It won’t take me long to get there.”

  One tear broke through and she whisked it away. “Thank you,” she said, trying not to choke from the lump in her throat.

  * * * />
  SHE’D ONLY HAD one sip of Bushmills when Dom walked inside the crowded café bar. Dressed in faded jeans, a tight white T-shirt and work boots, his hair disheveled, he looked ridiculously hot. Sara wasn’t the only woman eyeing him either. Only Dom could look that sexy in dusty work clothes.

  He stretched over the small table to kiss her, then sat across from her. “Talk to me.”

  “I’m going to ruin everything. Again. It’s my temper. I know better than to shoot off my mouth without thinking.”

  “Hey, someone talks crap about my parents, I’m going to give them a wake-up call, too. Did you slap her? Challenge her to a duel?”

  Sara was in no mood, but that made her smile. “No. I apologized.”

  “That’s it?”

  Shaking her head, she wrapped both hands around her glass. “I told her the rumor was a lie, that if she heard anything like that again, she should check with me before she started spreading it around.”

  “I bet she loved that.”

  “I didn’t stick around to see.”

  “Good. Don’t listen to those crazy old women. All they know how to do is gossip. You can’t let that crap stop you. Blasting the faculty with the truth didn’t get you in trouble in school, right?”

  She thought about that for a second. “I got a few slaps on the wrist, but I also got encouragement. My English teacher told me I had a bright future in journalism.”

  “See? And that’s exactly why you’re going to kick ass with this thesis. You know it’s going to be great when people get pissed. That’s the thing to remember. God, when you talk about the Black Hand, your eyes light up. You’re still the firebrand who got us better vending machines. That dispensed condoms.”

  She nearly choked. “I did not ask—”

  Shaking her head at his teasing grin, she laughed.

  It faded when she realized just how Dom was looking at her. His gaze had darkened with admiration and respect and—dare she say, well, fondness for sure. Her chest tightened. He was her own personal champion. She’d never had that before. Not with someone she cared for so much. “You’re right. I’m not going to let this go.”

  “That’s my girl. You’ve been away for a while but nothing’s changed. These women, this whole crazy neighborhood loves nothing better than to stir up trouble. There are going to be lots of people who realize the past is just the past, and it doesn’t reflect on them personally. Like my parents, for example. Who are very excited to talk to you. And so is Nonna. She may be old, but she can remember her childhood down to what she wore to church.”

  The bravado that had just straightened her spine left with a whimper. If Dom knew what she did about Valente Paladino, would he be this supportive? Or would he and his family kick her to the curb?

  Well, she could always leave out that part, right?

  Right?

  19

  SARA SAT AT the Paladinos’ dining room table, confident with the decision she’d made sometime in the middle of the night as she’d tossed and turned. For her own peace of mind, she’d decided to leave out Valente’s name. Not even bring him up. After all, there was no way she would uncover every man who’d been associated with the Black Hand. It wasn’t as if she was planning to include the whole list of them in her thesis. So choosing to leave out one name didn’t make her a shitty reporter.

  With that in mind, she hadn’t even mentioned Valente to Dom. No reason to tell him. Although she had to wonder if that was why her stomach couldn’t quite settle.

  “So, time for dessert, huh?” Joe said as he returned from changing a record. More old-fashioned music drifted in from the spacious living room. “I’m not talking about fruit either.”

  Theresa snorted. “You keep praying to St. Jude,” she said.

  Sara and Dom exchanged smiles.

  The single-family home was much bigger than where she’d grown up, but it had the same comfortable feel. Everything around her said family, from the pictures on the wall, the songs of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin to the three-course meal complete with two nice Italian wines. It was almost a little too cozy, making her imagination turn to things that couldn’t be. Like a home with Dom.

  The foolish thought startled her. Well, no more mystery about why her stomach was wonky. She shook off the crazy idea as ruthlessly as she’d made her decision last night. The second Sara put her fork down, Theresa stood.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, picking up the dish of leftover ravioli and the antipasto tray.

  Sara quickly pushed back, ready to help clear.

  “Sit.” Theresa waved her back down. “Who wants coffee?”

  “We’ll help later,” Dom whispered. “She doesn’t want us to see the dessert yet.”

  Sara put a hand on her tummy and smiled. “Can I help with the coffee?”

  “I’ll get it in a minute,” Dom said, then glanced at his father, who was humming along with Sinatra. “Pop, finish telling us about Aunt Olympia.”

  His dad shrugged. “Not much more to tell. Until the day she passed she made most of her money as a fortune-teller. No cards, no tea leaves. She would just look at a person, close her eyes and tell them they should do this or not do that. Don’t marry the skinny one. Look out for a woman with light hair—she means you harm.”

  Sara, who’d been delighted by Joe’s memories, ached to change the subject to the Black Hand, but she’d wait till she could use the recorder. “Didn’t people think she was evil? Touched by Satan?”

  “Some, sure.” Joe glanced briefly toward the hallway. “They wanted to have her excommunicated. But mostly the ones who didn’t believe just ignored her.”

  “I take it Nonna didn’t believe in fortune-telling,” Dom said, grinning.

  Sara was disappointed the woman wasn’t feeling well and hadn’t joined them. But Dom was certain she’d be willing to talk when she felt better.

  Mrs. Paladino returned with a cake that lit Dom’s face. He got up and poured the coffee before she’d finished serving everyone a piece. Even Joe had a sliver, along with a slice of melon. He seemed pleased.

  Sara was last to finish, and clearing her throat, she looked across the table. “This is by far the best walnut ricotta cake I’ve ever had, Mrs. Paladino. Everything was delicious.”

  Theresa smiled and patted the back of Sara’s hand. “I’ll wrap some up for you to take home.”

  “Thank you,” Sara said, wondering if it would be rude to get her recorder. Before dinner began, Sara had asked if they’d mind if she taped their recollections, and they’d graciously agreed. But she wasn’t sure if this was the right time.

  “Do you like to cook, Sara? I don’t mean pizza or ziti,” Theresa said, shaking her head. “I like the recipe your family uses at the restaurant. The sauce is very good. Almost perfect. But Dom, he likes a little more olive oil and basil. I could teach you if you want.”

  Dom choked out a laugh.

  “Oh, here she goes,” Joe said, muttering something in Italian under his breath. “Enough, Theresa. Don’t scare the girl away.”

  Sara didn’t know quite what to say. Of course she and Dom had anticipated the whole matchmaking thing to surface. After their moms’ behavior at the feast, how could they not? “Thank you, Mrs. Paladino.”

  “Let’s talk about that later, huh, Ma?” Dom squeezed Sara’s leg. “Have either of you heard stories of the Black Hand?”

  Sara could have kissed him. But she hadn’t missed Joe’s surprised look.

  “Yes, yes, I heard about those bastards.” Joe glanced at her. “Excuse the language.”

  “That’s okay,” Sara said, scrambling to get her recorder on. “That’s exactly how my dad described them.”

  Theresa looked confused. “I heard a few things, but they were more like scary monsters, not real people. My nonna woul
d tell my brothers stories to make them behave.”

  Sara perked up. Interesting. Exactly the kind of tidbit she was looking for. The dilution of the facts over the years, turning it into a fairy tale. Her run of cancellations and unreturned phone calls had continued since the mess at the Di Stefanos’ yesterday, and without concrete stories, her thesis would end up as bland as lukewarm tea.

  “No, they were real,” Joe said. “A bunch of cowards preying on their own kind. Good people who could barely feed their families.”

  “Why?” Theresa asked, frowning at her husband, then Dom and Sara. “What did they do to them?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Joe said. “They were very bad men.”

  Sara glanced helplessly at Dom. Joe wanted to spare his wife, which Sara understood, but if he clammed up, then this was going to be a very short, useless conversation.

  “I was wondering,” she said. “Are you related to all the Paladinos who immigrated here in the 1890s?”

  Joe nodded. “All of the Paladinos, even some who spell their names differently, are somehow related. At least the ones from Southern Italy. The three boys and I are the only ones left since my brother passed away. Francis was young, only nineteen when he died.”

  “Why?” Theresa asked, looking worried or suspicious. Sara wasn’t sure which.

  “I saw a name,” Sara said, shrugging. “At the library.”

  “Who? What name?” Joe’s expression suggested he knew who she meant.

  Still, she hesitated. She could just claim to have forgotten. But Joe would know better. And probably Dom, too. “Valente Paladino,” she said softly.

  Joe sat back in his chair with a sigh. “What kind of document was it?”

  “A police report. He was arrested for extortion.”

  Theresa gasped.

  “Although he could very well have been a victim,” Sara added quickly. “I’ve seen a lot of misinformation in the papers. So many people were targeted, and I’ve read a few accounts where innocent men ended up in prison due to false eyewitness statements.”