The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  She would have killed Nibsy already for his treachery, but she couldn’t risk crossing her brother. Not until she discovered what he was doing with the boy. Paul was powerful enough and his Five Pointers were vicious enough that they could have crushed Nibsy and the remaining Devil’s Own before now. Which meant that Nibsy had something Paul needed. Perhaps Nibsy was simply holding Paul at bay with the secrets Dolph had collected about the Five Pointers over the years, but from what Viola had seen, their interactions were more cordial than blackmail would suggest.

  Staying under her brother’s watchful eye meant subjecting herself to Nibsy and to the Order. Both were repugnant. Unthinkable. But staying where she was meant that neither Nibsy nor the Order were likely to touch her. She would bide her time and learn their weaknesses. She would use Paul against Nibsy, and she would get her knife back.

  And when the moment was right, she would destroy the Order from the inside.

  Unfortunately, biding her time meant pretending a meekness that was contrary to everything she was. In the days after Delmonico’s, her hands had become dried and pruned from scrubbing dishes, and the only blade she’d been able to get close to was the small paring knife that she had tucked in her skirts. It was a pathetic thing—only about four inches long, made of flimsy steel that had long ago bent at the tip. In a fight, it would be of little use at all, but then, she had no opportunity to fight. She’d offered to be his weapon, but he’d made her into nothing more than a kitchen maid. Already, she could feel herself dulling, like a knife tossed into a drawer and forgotten, and she worried that the razor edge of what she had once been was starting to wear away.

  The kitchen door of the Little Naples Cafe opened behind her, and Viola turned, her hand already reaching for her insignificant knife. But it was only her mother, coming to look over the pot that Viola was tending.

  “ ’Giorno, Mamma,” Viola said, her eyes cast down at the floor as she stepped back to give her mother access.

  Her mother’s expression was serious, her eyes appraising, as she took the spoon from Viola and gave the pot of lentils a stir. She made a noncommittal sound as she brought the spoon to her mouth and tasted, but then her mouth turned down. “Not enough salt. Did you use the guanciale, like I told you?”

  “Yes, Mamma,” Viola answered, her eyes still trained on the floor so that her mother would not see the frustration in them. “Sliced thin, like you said.”

  “And you rendered it enough before you put in the beans?”

  “Yes, Mamma.” She clenched her teeth to keep from saying more.

  “Well, I guess it will have to do, then,” her mother said with a sigh. It was the same sigh Viola had heard nearly every day of her childhood. “For today . . . You’ll do better tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mamma.” Viola tried to relax her jaw and glanced up at her mother, who was already picking at the potatoes Viola had sliced for the greens.

  “Too thick,” her mother was muttering as she examined Viola’s work.

  It didn’t matter that the potatoes were perfectly cubed, uniform and even—Viola knew how to use a blade, after all—it was always the same. Too thick or too thin, too salty or not enough. Every day her mother came to inspect Viola’s work, and nothing was ever good enough for her Paolino.

  But for Viola?

  She was too brazen, too prideful. You want too much.

  Viola shook off the ghosts of the past. “Will you be eating with Paolo today, Mamma?” She asked, a feeble attempt to get her mother out of the kitchen before Viola said or did something she couldn’t take back.

  “Sì,” her mother told her, and lifted a dish to examine its cleanness. “Bring me some of the bread, too.”

  Viola made up two dishes of the lentils and paired them with slices of bread. That, at least, her mother could find no fault with, because Viola had learned to make bread from a master. She’d watched Tilly day in and day out in the Strega’s kitchen, as her friend transformed a pile of ingredients into the warm loaves that kept Dolph’s people filled and happy. Viola had memorized the movement of Tilly’s hands as she’d measured and stirred and kneaded—the way her nimble fingers had worked over the lump of flour and yeast until it turned smooth and supple as flesh. She’d been happy there, content to simply watch the girl she’d fallen in love with, the friend who had no idea what she meant to Viola.

  Tilly had been brave. She’d died because she’d rushed in to help without thought of herself or of the danger she might have been in. Even after her magic had been stripped from her, Tilly had fought until the end. And so would Viola.

  Viola wiped the dampness from her cheeks and picked up the two plates. She pasted on the smile that her brother liked to see her wear. As she pushed through the doorway, into the main room, she felt the eyes of Paul’s boys on her, but she ignored their heated looks. She wasn’t interested, and she knew that none would touch her so long as Paul acted as though she were his property. Her mother and her brother were sitting at a table in a corner, and she served them their lunch with a bowed head and a hardened heart, knowing that sometimes bravery must be soft and secret, just as Tilly’s was.

  She left the two of them to eat, and needing some air, she carried a bowl of scraps out to the rubbish pile in the back. The string of curses she muttered as she walked would have made even the most hardened Bowery Boy blush if any of them could’ve made out the Italian she used. Though she didn’t use her mother tongue to save anyone’s delicate sensibilities. She didn’t care if a lady would know the words she was using—she’d stopped being a lady the first day her brother forced her to kill a man.

  She’d just placed her scrap bowl on a bench outside the building when she realized she wasn’t alone. Pretending to wipe her hands on her raggedy apron, she pulled the small knife from her skirts and continued to move toward the outhouses. When she sensed movement out of the corner of her eye, she didn’t hesitate. With a single fluid motion, she whipped around and sent the knife flying at her target.

  It hit true, as it always did, pinning the intruder by the edge of her sleeve to the wooden fence.

  Her sleeve?

  The girl’s eyes had gone wide with fear—or was it simply surprise? But then fear gave way to pleasure, and her entire countenance lit. “Oh, bravo!”

  It took a moment for the truth of what Viola was seeing to register. It was the girl from Delmonico’s, but instead of the flouncy pink confection she’d been wearing before, she had on a dark skirt and what appeared to be a man’s waistcoat. A cravat was tied neatly at the neck of her crisp white shirt, and she was wearing a gentleman’s cap on her head. She looked ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up with her papà’s clothes.

  She looks perfect.

  “What are you doing here?” Viola hissed, ignoring the warmth that had washed over her as she tossed a glance back toward the kitchen door. After all Viola had done to keep her alive, the girl had just walked straight into the den of the lion.

  “Right now I’m trying to get myself free,” the girl said as she tried to wiggle the knife out of the wood.

  Viola stalked toward her, and with a jerk that made the girl flinch, she withdrew the knife and held it at the girl’s throat. “You should not be here.”

  She heard the click of the pistol’s hammer before she realized they were not alone. “And you shouldn’t be threatening her again, Miss Vaccarelli.”

  He knows who I am. Viola glared at him to show that she didn’t care, and she did not drop the knife.

  “Yes, well, if you’ll be so kind as to come along?” He motioned with the gun, which looked about as comfortable in his hand as a live fish would have.

  Americani and their guns. They all thought they were cowboys. Too bad cows had more brains than half of them. “I’m not going with you,” Viola said.

  The girl frowned at her accomplice. “Theo, stop being an idiot and put that thing down.” Then her midnight-blue eyes met Viola’s and her cheeks went pink. “We’ve no intention of hurting
you, whatever Theo might want you to believe. We simply want to talk.”

  Viola glanced back at the man—the same one from the restaurant. “I don’t have nothing to say to you.”

  The girl sighed. “As you can see, we know who you are—Viola Vaccarelli, sister of Paul Vaccarelli, the owner of this fine establishment and also the leader of the gang of ruffians known as the Five Pointers, who have been terrorizing the Bowery ever since the elections last summer. Of course, with his alleged connections to Tammany—”

  “Shhh,” Viola hissed, looking back over her shoulder again.

  “She could go on for days like this,” the man said jauntily. “I’ve found the best way to shut her up is to let her have her say.”

  “He’s probably right about that,” the girl said with a smile that wrinkled her nose.

  It was the sort of simpering smile Viola should have wanted to smack off the girl’s face, but for some reason it shot a bolt of heat straight to Viola’s middle.

  “Viola?” Torrio called from the kitchen. “You still out there?”

  Viola froze. She had thought she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with Torrio, but since his courtship was being encouraged by Paul and since Torrio saw in Viola a way to solidify his influence in the Five Pointers, he kept coming back. Day after day. Like a rash.

  She pushed the girl around the side of the building. “You have to go. Now.”

  “Well, we’re certainly not leaving after we’ve come all this way to talk with you,” the girl said primly.

  “Hey, V,” Torrio called again. “You need some help or something?” His voice had an edge to it. Like he thought he had some claim over her.

  “I’m fine,” she called back, trying to make her voice nice. She sent the two a silent warning to keep quiet.

  “What’re you doing out there?” His voice was closer now.

  Panic crept up Viola’s spine. If Torrio saw the two here—alive and well—he would know that she hadn’t killed them. Worse, he’d know that when she stopped him from shooting their bodies, she’d stood in the way of direct orders. She had to get rid of him. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she called. “I have to take a piss, all right? You can’t help with that.”

  There was a moment of horrified silence. Men. So delicate about simple things.

  Torrio’s voice came a second later, gruffer and more demanding: “Your mother’s leaving, so hurry up about it, eh?”

  Viola let out another string of muttered curses as she waited to make sure that Torrio went back inside. When she turned back to her intruders, the girl was smirking at her.

  “What’s so funny?” Viola demanded, her hands on her hips.

  The girl didn’t look embarrassed. Instead she gave Viola a long, amused look, taking her in from head to toe and landing finally on Viola’s face. Something in the girl’s expression shifted, but Viola couldn’t tell what it was. “Nothing,” the girl told her, more serious now. “Nothing at all.”

  “If the two of you are ready, perhaps we should take our discussion elsewhere?” Theo suggested.

  “Yes,” the girl said. “Let’s. We have so much to talk about.”

  Viola tossed another glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking for her. “Fine,” she said, knowing it would be easier to get rid of the girl once and for all if she simply gave in now.

  “Perhaps you’d fancy going on a short drive with us?” the man offered. “We’ve a carriage waiting just down the road.”

  “Fine, fine,” Viola said. Anything to get them away from Torrio and her brother.

  But as she walked next to the girl, away from Paul’s building and toward a gleaming carriage at the end of the block, she realized the girl smelled not like the sweetness of lilies or the simpering softness of roses, as Viola had expected. Instead, she smelled of something far more earthy, like poppies. The moment that scent hit her nose and wrapped around her senses, Viola knew she was in bigger trouble than she’d bargained for.

  CLOSE QUARTERS

  1902—New York

  Ruby Aurelea Reynolds knew she was in trouble the moment the carriage door shut, closing her and Theo in with the small Italian girl who took up all the air in the space. Ruby was rarely the type to feel out of her depth. She was the youngest of five girls and had survived a childhood of teacups and pinafores to become what she wanted to become—a published journalist who had carved out a career for herself despite her mother’s protests and society’s dismay. And if she’d caused a few scandals here or there? Well, scandal was an excellent way of dispensing with the nuisance of unwanted suitors, who were really only after the fortune her father had left behind.

  She’d braved the slums of the city and the matrons of society, but sitting across from Viola Vaccarelli, their knees almost touching as the carriage jostled along, Ruby suddenly felt nervous. It wasn’t because Ruby had been naive enough to believe that Viola wasn’t dangerous. Of course she was. After all, the girl was the sister of a nefarious gang leader and had been holding poor Theo at knifepoint the first time they’d met. That, coupled with the deadly little trick Viola had just accomplished with an ordinary kitchen knife . . . No, Ruby had expected danger.

  She just hadn’t realized . . . not really.

  It had all seemed so simple when she and Theo had set out that morning—they would find Viola, and then Ruby would charm her into giving up whatever information she might have that would bring the Order to its knees.

  People in the city thought so highly of the Order of Ortus Aurea because they didn’t know the truth. The Order pretended to be above the fray, blameless protectors of the city against an unenlightened horde. Maybe once they had been, but they certainly weren’t any longer. Her sources revealed them to be in league now with the corrupt politicians at Tammany, and her recent experiences proved that they weren’t above using common criminals like Paul Kelly to do their dirty work. All to shore up their power and protect their reputation. And for what? The city was no safer. And whatever story her family might have spread about her father’s death, Ruby knew it was the Order’s fault that he’d left his wife to raise five girls on her own.

  But now that Viola was scowling at her in silence, Ruby was beginning to doubt her plan. Viola did not look as though she would be easily charmed. Still, there was so much at stake, so much good that Ruby could do if she were just brave enough to take the first step.

  After a long silence accompanied only by the rumble of the wheels against the uneven streets, Ruby decided that she was hesitating, and she never hesitated.

  “Perhaps we should begin with introductions,” she said, mimicking her mother’s brightest hostess voice. Her words came out too high, too false sounding. “I’m R. A. Reynolds, as you know. The R stands for Ruby. And this is my fiancé, Theodore Barclay.”

  “Please, call me Theo,” he volunteered, the dear.

  Viola didn’t speak. She just continued to glower at them, and Ruby realized that her narrowed eyes were the most startling shade of violet, like the irises Ruby’s mother grew in the greenhouse on their roof.

  “Well, we already know who you are,” Ruby said, chewing nervously on her lips. This wasn’t going well at all. “Theo, darling, you need to put that thing away. How can anyone relax with you pointing a gun at them?”

  Viola glanced at the weapon, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. Nor did she seem any more relaxed when Theo finally tucked the pistol back under his coat.

  “Truly . . .” Ruby’s voice was low as a whisper. “Despite the little . . . um . . . event at Delmonico’s, we don’t mean you any harm. I know you didn’t want to hurt us.”

  “You do?” Viola asked, her dark brows winging up in surprise.

  The girl nodded. “Of course. It was the other one—John Torrio—who made you do it. I’ve been doing some investigating, and I’ve learned all about him and his more . . . inventive tactics. But I hadn’t realized until the night at Delmonico’s what he is.”

  Viola continued
to frown, but otherwise she didn’t react. She certainly didn’t volunteer any information.

  “You know,” Ruby said expectantly, hoping that Viola would pick up her meaning. “One. Of. Them.”

  “Torrio, he’s bad news, and that’s all I know about him,” Viola said, eyeing Ruby as though she were the worst sort of fool. Ruby understood that look—it was the same look everyone gave her when she tried to speak up about anything important. It was the look that meant she should go back to the sitting room and pick up some needlepoint and have babies and forget about any sort of real life.

  “He’s a Five Pointer, same as your brother, but that’s not all that John Torrio is, is it?”

  Viola gave her a look of disgust. “Look, Miss Reynolds—”

  “Ruby—”

  “Miss Reynolds,” Viola insisted, keeping a clear boundary between them even as their knees bumped. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you don’t want to mess with John Torrio or my brother. They’re not nice people. They don’t play by any rules you would understand, and they won’t think twice about getting rid of anyone who causes them a problem.”

  “I’m not afraid of them,” Ruby said, lifting her chin. They couldn’t possibly be worse than half of her sisters’ friends, the jealous harpies who wouldn’t hesitate to cut your reputation to shreds with a whisper just for looking at them the wrong way.

  “Then you’re an idiot. This isn’t a game. My brother, Torrio, they kill people,” Viola said, and there was something in the way her voice broke that made Ruby’s heart clench. “They make people disappear.”

  “And Tammany Hall protects them,” Ruby said, knowing even more surely that the path she was on was the right one. “The very people elected to serve everyone are protecting the . . . the . . . criminals that they’re supposed to be stopping.”