Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel)

by Meredith Allison

  Mia frowned. “Oh.”

  “And he and the Irish gang are really going at each other,” Johnny continued, tapping an ash from his cigar. “He and Weiss are both wily bastards, so it’s no shock they’re still alive. But you’re not going back to Chicago, are you?”

  “Not any time soon, but I still have unfinished business there,” Mia said coolly. She was referring as much to Weiss as she was to bringing Nick’s remains, buried at Mount Carmel Cemetery, back to New York.

  Johnny’s keen gaze narrowed. “I see.”

  “You hear anything in New York?” Don Catalano said. He refilled Johnny’s wineglass, then poured Mia some red wine. “I hear a few things, but information takes a little while to get here.”

  “Al’s got a friend there, Frankie Yale,” Johnny said. “He manages Al’s Canadian Club, but he’s been helping run the Templeton up across the border, too.”

  “Nick’s operation?” Mia said.

  Johnny studied her closely. “I don’t think I would call it that now. I wouldn’t even call it a Scalisi operation anymore.”

  She glanced away and toyed with an orange peel. Johnny’s words didn’t surprise her, though they stung. “Was it ever?”

  “It ought to be,” Johnny said, leaning toward her. “That was your brother’s brainchild. His hard work. Now you got all these vultures buzzing around, looking for whatever they can take.”

  Don Catalano had heavily implied the same over the past year, as he shared with her the information he’d received from New York. Information about Nick’s closest friends and business partners, Charlie Lazzari and Moritz Schapiro.

  “It seems your old pals Charlie and Moritz have made the business flourish, certainly, but doing business in New York ain’t without its pressures,” Johnny went on. “It’s catching up to them. So many protection payments to avoid truck hijackings. Bad blood among gangsters means executions of good men. And while liquor’s still king, heroin’s the coming thing.” He caught sight of the stormy look on her face and shrugged. “Sorry. It’s good money, and they know it.”

  Though it displeased her to hear his words, she’d heard them before. And none of it was surprising. She’d been gone a long time, and men tended to get antsy. Like Moritz.

  They would probably be shocked to learn how much she knew about what they’d been up to since she’d sailed away last January.

  When the cat’s away…you don’t know who your friends are.

  “Well, it’s time for me to go back to New York and play my part in Hyman’s new club,” she said, plucking a piece of bread from the plate in the center of the table. “That was the price for his two-million-dollar investment in Nick’s operation.”

  “It’s also time to go home and salvage what you can of that operation,” Johnny said gently. “Because he died for it. He was murdered for it.”

  “I know,” she said bitterly.

  “I know you know,” he replied. He didn’t seem miffed. “My point is, you’ll never forget that. I’ll never forget that. But…some people in your life might have.”

  “I suppose I’ll see for myself soon enough.” She reached for another slice of blood orange.

  Don Catalano flicked his head at her. “I’ll have a crate of those shipped home with you, if you like.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Godfather. I’d like that.”

  “There’s one other thing.” Johnny hesitated. “Some detective. He came sniffing around Chicago after you had Bellomo whacked.”

  The ease and forthrightness with which he said it caught Mia off guard for a brief moment. She glanced at Don Catalano, but his face was impassive, as if Johnny had only mentioned a snowstorm.

  “And?” Mia said.

  “Thinks we had something to do with it. We got him off your scent for a while, but my cop pals tell me he’s been trying to reopen the case file. You know, no one on the department was in any hurry to try to find a killer’s killer. But this guy, all of a sudden, he’s back at it. Last I heard, he was headed east to pursue some leads. Don’t be surprised if you hear from him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t recall.” Johnny lifted a shoulder and took an olive. “Sorry. But I got eyes and ears on the streets. If it comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  Don Catalano frowned at her. “You’re already well known, but appearing at the Jew’s nightclub will elevate that publicity. Are you sure it is best for you to go now?”

  “I got to,” Mia said. “I’m under contract.”

  “Yes, yes.” Don Catalano sniffed and sipped his wine. “I can have the contract canceled, if you wish.”

  It had been a standing offer for the last year she’d been in Sicily and remade his acquaintance. He’d never said so, but Mia knew the don felt an immeasurable amount of guilt for remaining so out of touch with her and Nick since he’d returned to Sicily. He’d only heard bits and pieces of Nick’s activities, he explained to her, and once word of his successes had reached Sicilian shores, the don had thought it best not to interfere. But when Nick had been killed, he’d told Mia he hadn’t known how to reach her. She’d bounced between New York and Chicago, and by the time word of Sal Bellomo’s murder—at her order—reached him, she was already on a ship back to Sicily.

  After they’d reunited, Mia realized his treatment of her was like that of a father to a son, or even an uncle to a nephew. He respected her for avenging her brother’s murder so thoroughly, and as such, did not treat her as the young woman she was, but as another person of respect. As though she were a man.

  It frequently made her smile a little when she thought of it in private, though she tried not to do so around her godfather in those moments.

  She shook her head. “You know what that would do to the operation. Mr. Goldberg was very clear—he’ll withdraw his support, try to reclaim the business for his own. And I won’t see my brother’s work into the hands of someone who isn’t family.”

  “Goldberg has earned more than his two-million investment by now,” the don said, fixing her with a scornful glance.

  “But he’s invested three times that now over the past year,” Mia said. “More trucks, more distilleries, more supplies. More men.”

  “So, I have him killed.” The don shrugged. “No contract, no Goldberg, no problem.”

  The chill that should have rippled her skin at the ease with which murder was discussed never came. She placed a hand over his. “Thank you, Godfather. I know you only want the best for me. The appearances, they’ll help my career. And Mr. Goldberg is…an ally. For now.”

  “Still,” her godfather muttered. “I do not like the idea.”

  “I must agree with you, Don Catalano.” Johnny puffed a perfect smoke ring. “She’s like a goddaughter to me, too. We’re both here, and she’s there.”

  Mia smiled. “I have protection. You’re sending Paolo with me.”

  The smaller man was in his mid-forties, and his black hair was only slightly shot through with gray. His eyes were nearly black, and he wore no moustache. Though he was mute after an attack in his youth had left him with half a tongue, his expressive face spoke volumes, and he lifted his brows at the don, as though in agreement with Mia.

  At a first glance, the idea of him as an enforcer of any kind—much less a bodyguard—was laughable. But on one of her first trips to Palermo to go shopping, she’d been accosted by a trio of young, lewd men. She’d hardly opened her mouth to curse them in Sicilian when Paolo had brushed her aside to snatch one of the youths by the throat and slash the cheek of another with a blade concealed in his shirt sleeve. She’d never seen anyone move so fast. Word spread quickly after that, and she was given a wide berth whenever she left the villa, always with Paolo at her side.

  The don had told her that her father had saved Paolo’s life during the attack that left him without a tongue so many years ago, and then helped him find steady employment before leaving for America. It was a favor Paolo had never forgotten, and that history, combined with
the knowledge that Mia had avenged the murder of her brother, had seemed to cement his loyalty to her.

  “And,” she added, “I have…friends.” I think.

  The word felt foreign, and echoed quietly through her mind as she considered whether it applied to the men she’d left behind in New York.

  “Friends,” the don repeated. “Friends who put money first over loyalty. And you are a woman, Mia. They will not hold you in high esteem no matter what they say. Be very careful with these friends of yours. They are not blood.”

  It was from Don Catalano that Nick had learned this oft-repeated ideal that had become his catchphrase.

  “Don’t forget that,” the don added.

  “I won’t,” Mia said quietly. “Ever.”

  After her chat with Don Catalano and Johnny, Mia returned to her room to finish packing. Her mind always spun after talks with the don, but seeing Johnny and hearing all he had to say had left her particularly pensive now.

  She hadn’t been expecting her homegoing to be a particularly happy occasion, but now a feeling of dread filled her. Vultures, Johnny had called them. Vultures in the form of all the princes of the Lower East Side and Manhattan were descending on the little bit of a dream her brother had carved out for himself.

  When Nick had first built the operation, all Mia had cared about was what it could mean for her. She’d wanted to be a star at the Chicago Theatre, and maybe one day, be in moving pictures. She had idolized Lillian Gish since she had first seen the young actress in The Birth of a Nation when she was twelve years old. The complexity of the story itself had been lost on Mia as she’d sat in the back row of the small, dark theater she’d snuck into in the Bowery, and spent three hours completely entranced by Lillian Gish’s luminous doe eyes, the perfectly cut bow-shaped mouth that rivaled Clara Bow’s, and the expressive face that could contort from a coy expression to one of sheer terror to heartbreak to joy.

  Mia had wanted to be just like her. The Italian Lillian Gish. It had been her dream since childhood.

  She’d seen Nick’s deal as a way to hasten the realization of her dream. She’d seen a life of luxury, beautiful clothes, the fanciest parties. She’d seen herself as the It Girl of Chicago—the girl every woman wanted to be like, and every man wanted to be with.

  Then the reality of the life Nick lived had caught up to her, to him, to all of them, and Mia had seen what was truly involved. Murder, blood, disloyalty, distrust, and betrayal. It was late nights and greased palms and lies. So many lies. Lies to enemies, lies to friends, lies to loved ones. Lies, and broken promises.

  When Nick died, Mia had cared about only one thing—revenge. It was the Sicilian way, the code of honor. An eye for an eye. But it hadn’t been tradition that drove her. It had been a tidal wave of rage and grief that pushed her to sniff out all those who’d been complicit in his death. Only one name remained on her list—Hymie Weiss.

  But with the things she’d been hearing from New York this past year via the don, and the realization her brother’s business was suffering at the hands of men he’d once trusted, she wondered if that list might grow.

  No, that wasn’t quite right.

  The list would grow. What she didn’t know yet was by how many.

  Mia cupped her forehead and closed her eyes. This life wasn’t her. She was supposed to just be a showgirl, and that was all. But it was impossible to pretend as though what she’d done last year hadn’t changed her in so many ways. Some, perhaps, permanently.

  “He’d get that same look,” Gloria said from the doorway.

  Startled, Mia lifted her head. “What?”

  “Nick.” Gloria walked into the room. “When something was troubling him or he had a big decision to make, he’d grip his forehead like that, too. What’s troubling you? Something the don said?”

  “Yes and no. I’m just thinking about all I need to do when we get home.”

  Gloria sighed. “This place has come to feel like home. Both our families are here. It’ll be hard to leave.”

  “You don’t have to leave, you know,” Mia said softly, rehashing their old argument. “Emilia’s happy here. Clearly, so are you. What is there to go back to?”

  “You tell me.” Gloria folded her hands.

  “You know I’ve got the new show now.” Mia flicked her head toward the most recent stack of letters she’d received; one had been from Mr. Goldberg. He hadn’t written her much, but his latest letter had arrived nearly two weeks ago and reminded her the new venue was finally complete and would be opening inside of four weeks. She was expected back in the city for rehearsals and costume fittings.

  “And there’s the shop,” she added. Another “gift” from Hyman, but like all his gifts and favors, they came with very long strings. “I can’t leave it in Trudy’s hands forever.”

  “Why not? She likes it.”

  “It’s my shop. My responsibility. Besides, Raquel is eager to come and see the city.”

  Gloria lowered her brow. “I think we both know it’s not just the shop you want to return to. It’s the business. The real business. Nick’s business.”

  Mia strolled to the small chest of drawers against the wall opposite the bed, where she’d been packing up her cosmetics. Gloria’s unsettling ability to read her mind was unsettling and made her feel entirely exposed.

  Yes, she did want to return to New York to see to the perfume and cosmetics shop that was a classy front for Hyman’s illegal business dealings—liquor sales. That had been part of the bargain, and Trudy, the Irish girl who had been her maid in Chicago, did not handle that part of it, because Mia refused to put her in that position. It was too dangerous. Charlie and Moritz had been handling the distribution and the warehouse beneath the shop, but now, perhaps, it was time she took that over, too.

  My shop. My responsibility.

  “Or maybe it’s not all business,” Gloria said, glancing toward Mia’s nightstand, where the envelope of Charlie’s most recent letter rested. The letter itself had been stashed in a safe place to be kept from prying eyes—those of her suspicious sister-in-law, and those of her newly found and very curious family members, who seemed to understand that Mia was not the average young woman, that she carried some notoriety in America in the vein of the activities of the local Mafioso—but the envelope remained unguarded. Mia cursed herself.

  Gloria picked it up. “From Charlie. He’s written you every week since you’ve been here, hasn’t he?”

  “Not every week,” she muttered. But no more than two weeks ever went by without a letter from him. And the contents of the letters were rarely business. Mia’s lips burned with a low, pleasant heat, as though calling her to remember their passionate goodbye on the dock before she’d left the country. He’d been Nick’s best friend, and in the wake of tragedy and Mia’s determination to continue Nick’s business arrangement, had been a steadfast pillar of support. He’d believed in her when no one else had. He respected her, and he’d killed for her.

  He loved her.

  He’d never uttered the words exactly, nor had he written them in any of his letters, but Mia knew it, as surely as she knew the sky was blue and the sand on the beach was powder soft. He loved her deeply.

  In his letters, he spoke of looking forward to seeing her again, of welcoming her back to the city, and that he hoped she was safe and happy and enjoying Sicily. Not business, personal, but distantly friendly. There was an undercurrent of tenderness in the way he wrote, almost as if she could see his love for her in the ink and the marks of his letters, in his signature.

  As Mia had never been in love before, she had no idea what she felt for him, beyond deeply felt gratitude for his support and his role in her life. And always, her belly dipped and fluttered when she pictured him, when she recalled their last moment on the dock before she’d walked away, never looking back. He was another reason she wanted to return home, yes.

  He’d promised to wait for her, whatever that meant. Perhaps he had waited. More likely, he had not.
He was a man, and men were the most disappointing, dishonest, unreliable creatures on the planet. Even Nick had let her down several times, most recently by dying and abandoning her. But perhaps Charlie was that one, rare exception.

  When she glanced at Gloria again, her sister-in-law was smiling slightly. “I knew it,” she said. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?”

  Mia plucked the envelope from her fingers. “Go pack your things. We must be at the dock early in the morning, if you’re still determined to come with me. And I hope you know, I don’t think you should.”

  “Yes, I know, and I’m going,” Gloria said, hands on her hips. “You promised my husband to watch out for me and Em, but he would want me to watch over you, too. You need someone to look after you, Mia. To care for you. Even if you don’t think you need anyone.”

  “I have Paolo.” Mia had asked him once if he’d known what she’d done in America. He understood English, so she spoke both Sicilian and English to him. Paolo had responded with a single, firm nod. And that had been the only time they had discussed it—as much of a discussion as could be had with a mute man.

  When she’d announced to her family two weeks ago that she was returning to New York, there seemed an unspoken understanding Paolo would also make that trip. Nevertheless, Don Catalano, who had made the arrangements for her, had told her in no uncertain terms the fierce Sicilian man would be accompanying her as her bodyguard and remaining by her side in New York.

  She had come to appreciate his silent presence, his protective hovering. It was hard to understand why he had chosen her to devote himself to, but it wasn’t a gift she was interested in questioning.

  “I don’t trust Paolo,” Gloria said. “How do you trust a man who can’t talk?”

  “I find him the most trustworthy of men for that reason alone.”

  “You can’t travel and live on your own with a man you’re not married to,” she insisted. “You’re still just a young girl, after all.”

  “I’ll be twenty-three in September.”