A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  She got up and crossed to the window, gazing down at the street. “In 1901 my husband was sent to prison during the uprising against the Camorra, after someone betrayed him. He had many loyal picciotti, but because I was the only one who was allowed to visit him, I became his eyes and ears and voice on the outside. At first, I delivered his orders exactly as he gave them to me. But once my role was secure, I began to make changes. I ordered the members of the organization to stop their prostitution activity and return their attention to other business, dividing my husband’s share of the paranza’s proceeds between them to help make up for their losses. But of course, many resisted, and I was forced to impose a penalty for failure to obey. The first time, the price was a fine. The second time, the loss of a testicle.” She turned back to me with a thin smile. “There never was a third time.”

  “So…Velloca was one of the men who worked for your husband’s organization?” I asked, rubbing my aching head.

  “Vittorio Carulo, the man you know as Velloca, was my husband’s younger cousin, a picciotto with several years of service in the society. He was a cruel man with a bad temper, eager to reap the fruits from seeds that others had planted. I always suspected it was he who betrayed my husband, but I had no proof. When he refused to stop selling women, I sent four novices to remove his testicle with a wire garrote. He believed the order for the attack had come from my husband, and murdered him in revenge on the day he was released from prison. Fearing for my own life and that of my son, I left Italy and came to New York, determined to start a new life in which my son would have nothing to do with the Camorra. The last we heard of Carulo, he had joined a rival organization.”

  “So you didn’t know he’d come to America.”

  “Not until you told us about the girl, Rosa, who had knowledge of Teresa’s betrothal to Antonio. Until then, we thought Teresa might have been the victim of a Black Hand gang operating near the pier, and that was where Antonio was searching for her. But when you told us about Rosa, we became suspicious and sent one of Antonio’s workers to investigate. He followed the girl’s father from his home to the stable on 116th Street. Based on his description, I was nearly certain that Velloca was Carulo. And from the comings and goings Antonio’s man saw at the stable, I guessed that Carulo had taken up horse theft again, his main business in Naples after prostitution.”

  “But why would Carulo want to hurt your son? His grudge was against your husband, not Antonio.”

  “There were many who believed that Antonio was running things while his father was in prison, even though he was only eighteen at the time. I let them think it, for it gave me more freedom to do what I needed to. Carulo must have believed that Antonio relayed the order for the attack against him. Once we knew he was in New York, we suspected he had taken Teresa for revenge. Especially after my son was attacked.”

  “At the bank, you mean.”

  She shook her head. “That was the first time, which we believed was a simple robbery attempt. But a few days later, after we discovered that Carulo was in the city, two men threw a bag over Antonio’s head and tried to push him into a van. My son has been careful to keep some friends by his side ever since.” She sipped again from her glass.

  I tentatively lifted my own glass and tasted the liqueur inside. It was sweet and syrupy, tasting of hazelnuts, and left a comforting trail of warmth behind.

  “We couldn’t confront Carulo until we knew where he was hiding Teresa,” she continued, “so I sent a trusted friend to infiltrate his operation.”

  “Donato,” I said, as the pieces started coming together.

  “Yes. He approached Carulo’s man, Nucci, suggesting he had experience stealing horses, and was hired to help with the stable operation. On his first day of employment he brought in a rig that he told them was stolen, thereby earning their trust. Yesterday, after we’d made sure their regular driver was indisposed, they asked him to drive the carriage to pick up the newest girl from the pier.”

  “Why was he still playing along if he knew where Teresa was?”

  “He didn’t know. He’d learned that they were holding girls in at least one other place, and he’d never seen the girls at the stable because he had no reason to be there at night when they came down. Until tonight, when he was ordered to stay and help repaint the stolen vehicles.”

  “Yes, that’s right; Donato was in the basement when they brought us down to eat. He must have seen Teresa then.”

  “He was supposed to come back for help, once he’d confirmed Teresa’s presence. But it had become clear that they intended to move the girls out tonight, and he was afraid Teresa might be gone by the time he returned. So he stayed, hoping for a chance to escape with her when the others were occupied. And then your Mr. Shaw arrived.” A faint smile curved her lips. “Donato is not easily impressed, but he told me Mr. Shaw fought as fiercely as any Redshirt, breaking through the door, felling one of Carulo’s men and rushing up to find you before anyone could lift a hand. Donato took care of the other man, and the woman, and after convincing Mr. Shaw that they were on the same side, he drove you all back here in one of the stolen vans. Once they’d delivered the women safely, they went back to meet the police at the stable.”

  “Simon—Mr. Shaw—wasn’t badly hurt then?”

  “I saw him only briefly, but he did not appear to be. He was well enough to go back to the stable with the others.”

  A wave of relief swept through me, turning my overstrung muscles to custard. I took a long sip of the liqueur, glad for its bracing warmth.

  There was a knock on the hall door. “Permesso?” a man’s voice called.

  “Entra,” Mrs. Fabroni replied.

  The door opened, and Donato strode through to the parlor. There followed a rapid exchange in Italian with Mrs. Fabroni, which caused the creases in her forehead to deepen.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked her.

  “Carulo’s men were gone when the police arrived at the stable,” she told me.

  She spoke a few more words to Donato. He nodded and started toward the door, but stopped, as if remembering something. Turning to face me, he removed his hat and held it sheepishly between his hands. He glanced from me to Mrs. Fabroni, muttering something I couldn’t understand.

  “Donato’s English is not so good,” she said. “He asks me to tell you he is sorry for giving you the cloroformio, but there was no time to explain. He was afraid Carulo might be on his way to the stable or might be sending more men to finish the vans.”

  “Tell him I understand,” I said, meeting Donato’s gaze.

  Donato said something else that caused Mrs. Fabroni to raise an eyebrow. “It seems he must also apologize for striking you in the face,” she said as her eyes flicked to my swollen jaw. “He says it was necessary to keep you from giving him away, and he hopes you can forgive him.”

  I thought back to when Gallo and Donato first discovered me on the sidewalk outside the poultry plant. I’d been about to reveal that I’d seen Donato with Antonio when he punched me. I also remembered that it had been Donato who urged Gallo to subdue me with chloroform when I resisted, instead of throttling me half to death. “Please tell him that I accept his apology.” I paused, then added, “And that I’m sorry for hitting him on the head with the board.”

  Mrs. Fabroni’s other eyebrow rose, but she conveyed my apology without comment. Donato grunted in response, looking even more sheepish than before, and continued out the door.

  “Where are Antonio and Simon now?” I asked Mrs. Fabroni.

  “They have gone to Carulo’s home.” Seeing me stiffen, she added, “Have no fear. The police went with them.”

  I let out my breath, relieved to know that the police were on the case, and that Velloca—or Carulo—would soon be locked away where he could no longer be a threat to anyone. “Why wouldn’t Antonio speak to the police before?” I asked. “Was he afraid they’d
discover you’d been involved with the Camorra? Or was he, perhaps, involved as well? You suggested that he wasn’t, and yet he bears the Spider tattoo.”

  “Of course, his father wished him to be initiated, and believing it would make him a man in other people’s eyes, Antonio was eager to comply,” she told me. “He had listened to his grandfather’s stories about the honorable ways of the old Camorra and had no appreciation of how things had changed. But once he came to truly understand what his father did to make his living, he wanted no part of it.”

  I didn’t know if it was because of the passage of time, or the liqueur, or the remarkable self-possession of the woman before me, but I had stopped trembling and was finally beginning to believe that I was safe. Safe enough that I dared to ask, “So Antonio isn’t the one who’s been sending threat letters in the name of the Spider, here in America?”

  She appraised me over the rim of her glass, swirling the liqueur within. “The Spider has bitten only once in this country,” she said finally. “And it was not my son who inflicted the bite. It was me.”

  I stared at her in dismay. I’d been ready to forgive her the criminal past that had apparently been thrust upon her, in light of her attempts to repair the damage done by her husband and to start a new life in America. But if she was still engaging in extortion, she was no better than any other Black Hand operator.

  “I vowed I would have nothing to do with the old ways when I came here,” she added, watching my face, “but honor required me to break that pledge.”

  “How can it ever be honorable to make anonymous threats?” I demanded, pulling the shawl more tightly around my shoulders.

  She put down her glass and sat back. “For two years after I came to this country, I led a quiet life, helping my son build his business. I wanted nothing to do with the Camorra or its ways. But then, one day last spring, Donato came to see me. Donato, whom I have known since childhood, and who is the man I would have married had my parents not chosen for me.” She waited a moment for this to sink in, then continued, “Donato came to New York on the same boat I did, and found work here as a laborer. Two months ago he sponsored his niece and nephew, who were hoping to find work in the city as well. His nephew was hired as a digger in the subway tunnels, while his niece, Felisa, found a job as a chambermaid through an employment agency. You may remember Felisa, for she was here the first time you came to the flat.”

  I nodded, remembering the young woman who’d been having supper with Antonio and Donato.

  “The head of the family who hired her was a man of some distinction, a banker with much influence among the Napolitani here. One day, while his wife and children were out of the house, he attacked and violated Felisa, telling her afterward that he was protected by important men and warning her that if she told anyone what he had done, things would go badly for her. Knowing that her brother and uncle would try to avenge her, she said nothing of what had happened, fearing that they would be killed by her employer’s protectors. But she refused to go back to work, and Donato, sensing a change in her, eventually prevailed on her to tell him what was wrong.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her face hardening, and for a moment, I glimpsed the woman who’d been capable of forcing an entire organization to come to heel. “Knowing of my past, Donato came to me seeking justice. Using the Spider insignia, I sent a letter to the banker demanding ten thousand dollars in penance, which I intended to use to set the girl up in business, as no man would want her now for his wife. When he chose not to pay, we set off a bomb in his bank after hours. Then we sent a second letter, threatening his life. This time, he complied.”

  “Who set the bomb?”

  She shrugged. “A friend from the old days. He repairs watches now in Brooklyn, but he owed me a favor.”

  I had to admit, there was a rough justice in what she had done. “But what about the other bombings? The police told me there have been several connected to Spider threat letters.”

  “That is the only time the real Spider has spun a web in America,” she said firmly. “On this, I give you my word.”

  The door flew open, and Antonio barged into the room, red faced and panting, with Simon at his heels. “Carulo denied everything!” he shouted. “The police left without arresting him.”

  Simon hurried toward me, looking ten years older than the last time I’d seen him. “Genna!” He crouched in front of me, clasping my shoulders and scouring my face with his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  I could only nod, suddenly incapable of speech.

  He gingerly touched my swollen jaw.

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” I assured him.

  He looked so miserable that I felt compelled to assume a lightheartedness I was far from feeling. “What about your head?” I asked, lifting my hand to his scalp, where I encountered an egg-sized lump. “Does it hurt?”

  “No more than I deserve,” he said with disgust, “letting him sneak up on me like that.”

  I didn’t recall any sneaking being involved, but I wasn’t about to chide him for finally being mesmerized by me, even if the timing had been less than ideal. “Have you seen Patrick? Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. He was just tied up for a while.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief, hardly able to believe we’d all emerged relatively unscathed. Glancing at Antonio, I asked, “So why hasn’t Velloca been arrested?”

  “Cassidi said he needs to get affidavits from the girls first, as a basis for the arrest warrant. He should be here soon.”

  “But he did question him?”

  “He did, hoping Velloca might give something away, but the man is too slick. He came to the door in his nightclothes, as if we’d just awakened him from a deep sleep. Said he knew nothing about the stable and swore he hadn’t been visited by anyone at his home tonight. His mother backed him up.”

  “What if he runs before Cassidi can get the warrant?”

  “He could.” He frowned. “But I don’t think he will. He’s too cocky. I could see it in his eyes. He thinks he’s going to get away with it.”

  “And the other men? Gallo and Nucci?”

  “I gave the detective a good description. Every cop in the city will be on the lookout for them. They’ll probably be in custody by tomorrow.”

  Antonio and his mother were arguing on the other side of the room. “I did not come all the way to America to see you go to prison!” I heard Mrs. Fabroni say.

  “But he has to pay!”

  “Leave this to the police, Antonio,” his mother urged.

  All Teresa needed, I thought, was to see her fiancé go to jail for murder, after everything she’d already been through. “Mr. Fabroni,” I broke in, in hopes of diverting him. “Have you been to see Teresa yet?”

  At the sound of her name, he seemed to freeze. He slowly turned to me, the anger leaching from his face, replaced by something I couldn’t quite read. “No.”

  “You should go to her,” his mother said.

  He glanced toward the door, raking a hand through his hair. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or disgust I saw moving through his features.

  “You have seen her?” he asked his mother.

  “Only for a moment, when she arrived.”

  “How is she?”

  “I cannot tell you how she is, Antonio. I can only tell you where she is. Down the hall, with Felisa and the others.”

  He nodded, but made no move for the door.

  “Antonio…” his mother began.

  “I can’t face her!” He threw himself onto the chair beside her, dropping his head into his hands.

  It was fear then, I decided, hoping that I was right. I stood. “Do you think I could see her?” I asked Mrs. Fabroni.

  “Of course,” she said, getting up from her chair. “I will take you.”

  Simon’s hand landed lightly on my shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t just want me to bring you home?”

  “I won’t be long,” I told him. “Wait for me here, all right?”

  I followed Mrs. Fabroni out of the flat. As soon as the door had closed behind us, I asked, “Do you think Antonio still intends to marry her?”

  She shot me a penetrating look. “That, only Antonio can tell you.”

  “I suppose it’s a lot for him to come to terms with.”

  “It will be a test of his heart,” she agreed. “A test I hope he will not fail.”

  At the door of the rear flat, she stopped and turned to me. “I have seen that you have courage, Miss Summerford. I trust that you are also capable of discretion. Tonight, I have spoken to you woman to woman so that you might understand the circumstances in which you find yourself. But I must ask that you not repeat what I have told you to anyone. Not even your Mr. Shaw.”

  It was strange, but I did feel an odd sort of sisterhood with this woman, born, I supposed, of the peculiarly female terror that I had endured over the last several hours, and of my knowledge of her anonymous crusade to help the victims of rape and prostitution. I felt no compulsion to tell the police about actions in her past that I couldn’t bring myself to condemn. “All right,” I agreed. “But you can trust Mr. Shaw.”

  “Trust is not something we give easily,” she replied. “The less he knows, the better. For him as well.” Her dark eyes probed mine for a moment longer until, apparently satisfied with what she’d seen, she lifted her hand and rapped on the door.

  The reticent young woman I’d seen in Antonio’s kitchen on my first visit answered her knock. Her gaze swung from Mrs. Fabroni to me, taking in my state of dishabille.

  “Felisa,” Mrs. Fabroni told her, “Miss Summerford is here to see Teresa.”

  “You were with them?” she asked me.

  “As you see,” Mrs. Fabroni answered, gesturing toward my torn chemise. “Perhaps you can lend her some clothes to wear home.”