“You are a child,” Gloria repeated softly.
Mia smiled, a little bitterly, down at her small case of cosmetics, dropping the envelope on top. When she was a child, she’d lost both of her parents—her father to a heart attack when she was just a toddler. Her mother had died in a terrible fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, leaping from the top of the building in order to avoid being burned by the flames. Mia and Nick had been forced to hustle the streets, begging for handouts, learning poker to swindle the gangsters, stealing food, freezing nearly to death in their filthy tenement. She’d become a vaudeville performer, because young girls telling raunchy jokes to older men made money. When Nick had been drafted to the war, she’d worked a dozen hours a day for an abusive woman in a dress factory, just to keep a little food in her stomach. She’d known more about being an adult at twelve than most women her age knew now. Once she might have been proud of that, but now, it only made her sad.
Finally, she looked at Gloria. “I haven’t been a child for a very long time.”
Chapter Two
New York City
April, 1926
The moon was just beginning to rise in the sky on the first Wednesday after Easter when the ocean liner approached New York City. Mia stood at the railing of the ship, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the early spring chill in the air and to watch the shadow of the Statue of Liberty as it grew larger on the horizon.
It was a sight she had never seen before, not from this angle—sailing toward Lady Liberty from a land of oppression. But her parents had. She wondered what had gone through their minds twenty-five years ago, a young couple with a two-year-old boy, a small, scared family watching the symbol of their new life grow bigger as their ship drew nearer.
Had they thought they were home? And if they’d known how their lives would unfold, and that of their children’s, would they have come? Had there ever been a moment when either of them had looked at their baby boy and thought he would grow up to be a criminal and a murderer, and die at the age of twenty-five?
Had they ever looked at her when she was a baby, born inside their tiny tenement on Elizabeth Street, and thought she would grow up to be the same? Mia would be turning twenty-three in a matter of months. Would she outlive her brother? Her dead parents?
The screech of the ship’s whistle pierced the air, and with Gloria, Emilia, and Paolo in tow, Mia walked down the wide ramp of the ship to the same dock on which she’d bid Charlie Lazzari farewell over a year ago. She paused, looking down first at her shoes, then up at the sky.
She was home.
The morning she had left, Carlo, his wife Isabella, their two small children, Anthony and Sofia, and his sister Raquel had lined up outside the villa to see them off. She’d embraced each of them, then held her cousin’s hands in hers.
“Thank you, Carlo,” she’d said earnestly. “I know I was here much longer than I planned. Thank you for everything.”
“You are blood,” he’d replied firmly. “Scalisi blood. What’s mine is yours. Should you ever need our help, I am here. Should you ever need a home, this is yours.”
“And you,” Mia said. “If you ever come to America, there’s nothing you won’t have. I swear that to you.”
He’d nodded and inclined his head at Raquel. “Take care of her.”
“I’m a grown woman,” Raquel had protested. “It’s time I make the trip, start a new life.”
“I’ll look after her like she’s my sister,” Mia promised.
“Don’t forget about us,” Isabella had added tearfully.
Never, Mia thought now, following Paolo as he led the way toward a waiting taxi. I will never forget about my family. My blood.
The taximan drove them to the Murray Hill Hotel, where Mr. Goldberg had set up a two-bedroom suite for her, Gloria, and Emilia. Mia identified herself at the front counter and requested another suite for Paolo, next to her own. The flustered concierge informed her he had no rooms ready, but begged her to give him until the following morning to accommodate her. Perhaps he was aware she was on Hyman Goldberg’s payroll, because he seemed almost terrified he was unable to meet her request immediately. She reassured him that would be fine. Paolo allowed the concierge to assist him with carrying up their trunks, but only to the end of the hall. Then he dismissed the man and dragged both trunks by himself.
In the meantime, she refused to let Paolo sleep out in the hallway, as he gestured. She made up the living room sofa for him with extra bedding the now very curious concierge was happy to supply.
When her sister-in-law and niece were sleeping peacefully, and sounds of Paolo’s snores from the living room reached her, Mia stood at her bedroom window and stared out at the city. Her city.
The New York City skyline and all of its bright lights called to her like a siren in the darkness and she, a shipwrecked sailor. It was both dark yet beautiful, dangerous yet enticing. It was full of promise.
And it’s mine for the taking.
Was that Nick’s voice echoing in her head, or her own?
Perhaps both. Perhaps she, now, wanted the same things he had once wanted. Wanted so much, he’d been willing to risk his life for them. That he’d ultimately lost it had not been in his plans, but Nick had been smart enough to know the odds of keeping his life were likely not in his favor.
For the first time since getting off the ship, Mia drew in a deep, deep breath, clearing her mind and accepting that the last year spent in paradise was over, and had only been a respite from her reality. What that reality comprised, she had yet to find out. But the feeling of bewilderment that had clouded her brain since setting sail from Sicily began to dissipate now that she was home.
And yet, she still felt completely out to sea.
Mia opened the window. Even the small crack allowed a flood of cold air to flow into her room and around her, freezing her through her thin nightgown. From outside, sounds of loud music from establishments up and down the street filled her ears. A Saturday night in the city. Soon, she would become the Saturday Night Special again.
She wrapped her arms around herself and thought of Charlie. She hadn’t telegrammed him to let him know she was returning, had never replied to his last letter. He, like everyone else in this city, had no idea she was back or even that she was on her way. He would have wanted to be the one to greet her with open arms, but after all this time, she had no idea where they stood. She had no idea if she could still trust him. If there was anyone left in this city she could trust beyond the people currently in her hotel suite.
After all, she had left the relative safety of dangerous Sicily for the lion’s den of New York. Sal hadn’t been a big-time gangster, but by now, news of what had happened to him and why it had happened and at whose order would surely have reached the East Coast. People would know what she’d done. They’d know she was following in her brother’s infamous footsteps.
Perhaps most dangerous of all were her so-called friends and allies. A year was not a long time, and yet, it could feel like a lifetime to some. People changed day by day, minute by minute. She certainly had. A little more than a year ago, she’d arrived in Sicily, frightened and unsure of herself, eager to meet her long-lost family, and ready to turn her back on everything she’d done.
A bitter smile quirked her lips. Oh, how she had changed.
Were her friends still her friends? Would they still stand by her? And if the answers to those questions were no, where would that leave her?
She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, lifting her gaze to the velvety-black sky, mists of gauzy clouds mottling it. Tonight, she would not be able to smell the salty, citrus-drenched air or listen to the calming, low roar of the ocean. She would not feel the soft powder beneath her toes on the beach, would not sit outside at night in silent reflection with a bottle of homemade wine and a ripe blood orange with only the breeze, the buzzing insects, and her thoughts to keep her company.
Catania had been paradise, a haven, and the first
place she’d ever truly felt at home. New York was familiar, but strange, also. It felt like a place in which she could never let her guard down.
But the sky was familiar and comforting. It was the only thing the two locations had in common, and it was the only thing to bring her solace tonight.
She fell asleep in the easy chair she pulled to the window, resting her head on her arms.
After breakfast the next morning, Mia called down to the front desk to check on Paolo’s room. The hotel manager assured her the room next to hers had been evacuated of its guests and was currently being cleaned. Mia encouraged Paolo to have another cup of coffee while they waited, and within the hour, a knock came at the door to alert her the room was ready.
To her surprise, Paolo seemed rather grumpy as he toted his lone suitcase to his spacious room. Mia stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching as he set the suitcase down and walked the perimeter of the room, grunting disapprovingly under his breath. He eyed the fringed silk lampshades, the gilt-framed end tables, the decorative baubles, but did not touch any of it. He looked over his shoulder at her, his brow drawn into a deep furrow.
“Paolo, what’s the matter?” Mia asked, amused. “Don’t you like your room?”
He waved a hand in frustrated dismissal before grabbing a beautiful, small deco lamp that was more decoration than function and gestured impatiently as if to say, What can I do with this?
“You think it’s too much,” Mia said.
He spread his hands wide in exasperation. Yes.
“Well, I’m sorry, but this is yours now.” Mia smiled and walked into the room toward him. She patted his shoulder. “You’re an important man. You escorted me across the world safely, and the don says you’re to be my bodyguard. You deserve to have a comfortable place to eat and rest your head at night. Allow me to provide that for you. All right?”
He shrugged reluctantly, but bowed his head in deference. Then he mimed driving a car, lifting his eyebrows. He made the motion again and pointed at her.
“Yes. I will want you to accompany me out today. And, we should probably look into getting our own automobile.”
She’d had Nick’s yellow Cadillac Phaeton transported from Chicago to New York, but it was rather ostentatious. It seemed a better idea—safer—for her to travel in something less conspicuous.
Paolo patted his chest.
“Yes, I’ll leave it to you, whatever you think is best,” Mia said. “I don’t know anything about cars. Just get something black and simple.”
“Auntee! Auntee!”
Emilia’s excited voice filled the hallway, and Gloria and the little girl appeared in the doorway.
Mia smiled at them as Emilia bounded over to her. She swept her niece up in her arms. “Well, you certainly look beautiful, Emilia. Are you trying to impress Aunt Connie and Uncle Joe?”
The little girl, in a pretty sky-blue frock, nodded shyly. She was now a girl of nearly four, with pink cheeks, glowing olive skin, and huge, dark eyes that took in everything. Her black curls were combed neatly and crowned with a large, matching blue bow.
Mia smiled. “I’m certain they’ll be very happy to see you.” She glanced over Emilia’s head at Gloria. “Are you ready?”
Gloria nodded, an eager smile lighting up her face. Though Gloria had loved spending as much time with her parents as she could in Sicily, Mia knew how much she’d missed her aunt and uncle, who had effectively raised her.
They drove south from the hotel toward Lower Manhattan. Mia’s spirits lifted as the areas grew more familiar. When she’d been in New York at the end of 1924, she hadn’t strayed to the old neighborhood as frequently as she would have liked, but when she had she always felt a sense of nostalgia. Though they’d been poor, she still had fond childhood memories after their parents had died and before Nick had been drafted. The tenement community had truly been like family—for many years, the only family she’d thought they had.
As they passed an alley where street vendors lined either side, she spotted a group of three young men in rather handsome, tailored suits harassing an older fruit vendor. Two of them pressed him to the side of the brick building his stall sat in front of while a third flicked a pocketknife in front of the man’s face. He looked terrified. Finally, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of money, and handed it to the young man with the knife. The young man flicked the knife closed and waved to his compatriots. They shoved the vendor to the ground, stole a couple of oranges, and walked away, laughing.
The taxi moved slowly enough to allow her to grab the door handle. “Stop the cab. Those men are—”
“No, miss, please,” the driver begged, speeding up a little more.
Paolo leaned across her and pulled the door shut, giving her a reproving stare.
“But that vendor—”
“Nothing we can do.” The driver accelerated until he’d caught up to the normal flow of traffic. “You should know that.”
“I’ve been away,” Mia said. “For a year. What the hell’s going on?”
“Then I’m sorry to tell you, this neighborhood’s changed a lot since the new gang’s started operating here.”
“New gang?” Mia leaned forward. “What new gang?”
“I’m not sure who the leader is, but the street calls him Gems. He’s been promising the young men of the neighborhood they’ll be rich soon if they’ll work for him.”
“Work for him doing what?”
“I’m not sure. People say the boys are peddling heroin, collecting money.” The driver sighed. “This used to be such a nice place to live. Me and my wife, we liked it here. Sure, it’s never been totally safe, but if you mind your potatoes, people leave you be. Now, though…” He shook his head.
Mia sat back in her seat. “Does this Gems fellow have a last name? Or a real first name?”
“I’m sure he does, but I don’t know it. I try to mind my own, you understand.”
She did.
The taxi delivered them to Mulberry Street. Mia stepped out of the car and waited for Gloria and Emilia to exit, glancing around and frowning. She couldn’t help but notice with dismay the change in the neighborhood, as the driver had said. There seemed to be more trash and refuse in the street, damage to buildings she couldn’t remember having any before, and more young hoodlums prowling about. Like the young men earlier, they also wore bespoke suits rather than the drab, worn clothes of the people who lived in the neighborhood, as though they’d just gotten a taste of money and were eager to flaunt it. They swaggered and gambled brazenly in the street, laughed loudly, and made rude remarks to the women who passed. Men passing by with cartloads of supplies seemed to cross the street to avoid them.
Mia followed Gloria and Emilia through the door of d’Abbruzzo Grocery, Paolo trailing behind at a respectful distance. There were three other customers in the store, and Uncle Joe assisted one of them, a short man with a round belly.
When the customer seemed satisfied with his information about the imported olive oil the store carried, Mia called, “Sir, we have some questions as well.”
Uncle Joe turned quickly to assist her—and stopped when he saw them. A wide smile split his face, and he rushed toward them, calling for Connie.
Gloria’s aunt emerged, covered in flour, from the back where she made her famous, fresh pasta and gnocchi in the kitchen. She cried out joyously and scuttled across the floor toward them.
As Mia embraced them, her gaze fell on the customer Uncle Joe had been assisting, and she stilled. The short, rotund man with the round face and thick lips was familiar to her.
It was none other than Joe “The Boss” Masseria.
He smiled at her indulgently, hands folded in front of him, as he waited for the reunited family to finish embracing.
“Ah,” Uncle Joe said, clasping his hands. “It’s so good to see you both.”
“We missed you so much!” Gloria said, eyes shining with tears.
“How touching,” Mr. Masseria said. “To see a f
amily back together.”
Gloria looked at him, then glanced quickly at Mia, confusion written in her round brown eyes.
“Don Masseria,” Uncle Joe said quickly. “My family. My niece, Gloria, and her daughter, Emilia. And this—”
“Mia Scalisi.” Mr. Masseria drew her name out like Sicilians said it in the Old Country. “Of course. We met in Atlantic City a few times.” He shook her hand, then lightly kissed each of her cheeks. “Your brother, he was a good man.”
“Thank you,” Mia said. “And thank you for the wreath you sent to his funeral. And the generous gift you sent to his wife and me.”
“It was the least I could do.” He reached for Gloria, kissed her cheeks, then gently pinched Emilia’s. “Nick always showed me respect. Always paid me a tribute, always paid protection money for the good Signor d’Abbruzzo.”
His implication—that he expected these things to continue—was not lost on Mia and told her two things: he knew the deal Nick had cultivated, and he knew she was involved now.
She smiled politely. Was today a collection day?
As if reading her mind, Aunt Connie said, “Don Masseria is here to help us end the degradation of our neighborhood.”
Mia frowned. “What’s that?”
“Did you not see when you came here?” Aunt Connie insisted, sounding upset. “The damage, the filth, the violence? The white powder has come here. This used to be a good family neighborhood. Now it is as bad as anywhere else. Young people, even children, hooked on the powder. There’s a murder every other night. A beating. Theft. Vandals.”
Mia looked at her uncle. “Powder?” But she already knew.
“Heroin,” Mr. Masseria said with a bland smile. “It is affecting this neighborhood.”
“Don Masseria has promised to help stamp it out here,” Aunt Connie went on. “He hears the cries of the women—the mothers, the grandmothers, the wives. It is ruining our young people, our men. Worse than liquor.”
Gloria pressed her hands to Emilia’s ears. “I’m not sure this is proper conversation for a child.”
Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel) Page 3