“Better off calling it Legs,” Jake muttered. “Lookit, why don’t you hire me for your next venture? You could use a guy with my brains. I can guarantee you, most guys would go to a place called Legs before they’d go to a joint called The Divine. Sounds like church.”
Mia had been in Hyman’s company long enough to recognize the look of carefully arranged politeness on his face. At least that was something that hadn’t changed in a year.
“I believe your many talents are better suited elsewhere, Mr. Morelli,” he said. “Anyhow. Mia, since you’re back now, why not have the party this Saturday night? A homecoming celebration for New York’s biggest It Girl!”
Today was Friday. “As in, tomorrow night?”
“Oh,” he said with insincere surprise. “Is that tomorrow already? Then, yes. Tomorrow. Where’s your vivacious nature? Live a little! Let’s celebrate.”
“So soon?” she asked, startled. “Hyman, I just got back into the country. I need time to prepare.”
“You’re a consummate professional, aren’t you?” he asked smoothly, and she knew this was a test—his test to see if she was up to snuff. “What are you worried about?”
“It—it was a long journey. Besides, don’t you need time to prepare?”
“That’s why it pays to have people on my payroll who will drop everything at my request,” he said. “I just need to make some phone calls. And since you’re here now, I see no reason to lose any momentum. As for tomorrow, don’t fret, dear. Just sing a couple of easy songs. No dance numbers.” He fetched a large envelope from his desk. “I might as well give this to you now.”
“What is it?” she asked, taking the envelope from him. It was heavy with documents.
“A list of songs from the band,” he replied. “Some popular songs and some original ones. You’ll want to familiarize yourself with them.”
“All for the showcase?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as worried as she felt.
“Not all,” he said with a smile, as though he could tell. “For when we open, mostly. Can you learn them?”
“Of course.” Do I have a choice?
“Just the popular ones you already know for tomorrow,” Hyman said. “The showcase is just meant to be a little tease, to get the city excited for you again.”
“I’m already excited,” Jake said.
Hyman glanced at him briefly. “Construction on the club is complete, and we’re finalizing our food and beverage licenses. Just putting on the finishing touches. We could open in thirty days, or we could open in two. It’s quite fluid, so I’d like to have the party now.” He strolled toward her, steepling his fingers. “As for the club itself, I’d like you to begin rehearsals and gown fittings soon.”
“I’d like to be a fly on the wall in that dressing room,” Jake said, giving her a lascivious wink.
Mia ignored him, dismayed at the news. On the other hand, what else would she be doing with her time? She was back now, and per the contract she’d signed many months ago, she was Hyman Goldberg’s to command. Besides, if all she had to do was sing a couple of songs, that was no big deal. She’d kept up with her vocal exercises in Sicily for both the enjoyment of it and with the knowledge she’d have to have her voice in shape for when she got home.
She wouldn’t show Hyman she was nervous—because it was a test. He knew it, and so did she.
“Very well,” she replied.
He raised an eyebrow. “And here I expected an argument. I suspect Sicily was very good for you, indeed.”
She decided not to mention she just didn’t have much fight left. “A contract is a contract, Mr. Goldberg.”
He nodded, but she didn’t miss the flash of triumph in his eyes. “Indeed it is, Miss Scalisi.”
She turned and glanced at Paolo, who immediately crossed to her side. “As lovely as it was to visit with you all, I should be going. I promised Gloria I’d return for supper, and I don’t want to get any more on her bad side than I already am by coming here.”
“How are your sister-in-law and niece?” Hyman offered his elbow to escort her to the door. Moritz and Charlie trailed.
“They’re well.” Mia smiled. “She was sad to leave her parents, but insists I can’t take care of myself. So here she is.”
“She, and Mr. Scarpa,” Hyman replied, acknowledging the man with a glance over his shoulder.
Paolo eyed him warily.
“Yes.” At the door, Mia turned to look at the other men. “I suppose we’ll see each other soon.”
Jake shouldered his way forward, elbowing Moritz out of his way. “How about tonight?” He leaned an elbow against the door jamb.
She lifted a brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Tonight. Let me take you for a drink.” He grinned. “After the shipment. We can get to know each other better.”
One side of her mouth curled up. She couldn’t help it; the man was so outrageously arrogant, it was funny. “And what the goddamn hell makes you think I want to get to know you at all?”
“Everyone needs a shoulder to cry on.” His hand drifted up to toy with one of her dangling earrings. “And I got two.”
“Congratulations.” Mia tilted her head back, her earring slipping through his fingers. She could practically feel the fury radiating off Paolo.
“So, is that a yes?” His eyes gleamed at her. “Will I see you tonight?”
“Sure,” she said. “You’ll see me. At the shop for the unloading.”
“You’re breaking my heart, doll.”
“Give it a rest, Morelli,” Charlie said sharply.
“At least I had the balls to ask, didn’t I?” Jake replied.
“Gentlemen,” Hyman interjected, taking Mia’s arm again. “I’ll see Miss Scalisi and Mr. Scarpa out, and return shortly.”
He led her through the door, pulling it closed behind him, then led her a few steps out into the lobby before sighing. “I’d like to apologize to you for Mr. Morelli,” he said. “He’s rather…brash.”
“He’s certainly a character,” Mia said drily.
“He is smart, though. Very ambitious.”
“Who does he work for? Where’d he come from?”
“He’s never stated explicitly, but word on the street is that he’s aligned himself with Mr. Maranzano.”
Salvatore Maranzano had emigrated from Sicily after the war and settled in New York. He’d courted Nick to join his outfit, but Nick had deemed him too “small time” to consider. Now, he’d set up shop in Brooklyn with a legitimate real estate business that fronted his bootlegging operations. He and Mr. Masseria would never be mistaken for dear friends.
“If that’s true, then we may have him to contend with,” Mia said.
“That may be the case, but it’s too early to tell yet. Nothing for you to worry about at this time.” Hyman patted her shoulder, then hesitated. “The delivery is scheduled for midnight. Are you really planning to come?”
“Is that a problem?”
He held up his hands. “Of course not. Don’t get so bristly. Remember, after I signed over the shop to you, I told you it would give you the opportunity to be a part of your brother’s operation. I meant it then, and I still mean it now.”
Mia faced him. “I hope it is still considered my brother’s operation, Mr. Goldberg.”
“As much as it can belong to a dead man’s memory, of course.”
She was surprised at how much that stung. “I’ll see you later.”
“Enjoy your supper.”
Mia walked out of the penthouse into the elevator, Paolo at her side. As they rode down to the ground floor, she said, “Bring your pistol tonight.”
Chapter Four
“Did you have a nice visit with your friends?” Gloria asked after they were seated at a private table in one of the hotel’s two main dining rooms. Paolo, though invited to sit with them, opted for a small table not far from them where he could give them privacy and keep an eye on things.
As places to stay went, the Mu
rray Hill Hotel was by and large the nicest Mia had ever been in. The dining room was all Roman columns and crystal chandeliers, and brassy gold silk and velvet drapes hanging on the elaborately frescoed walls. The tables and chairs were made of heavy, carved oak, the latter upholstered with the finest stamped leather, and all resting on plush Wilton carpeting she could have buried her toes in.
“Nice enough,” Mia replied, not missing the brief look of annoyance that flashed across her sister-in-law’s face. Gloria had her way of trying to sneak information out of Mia through casual, nonchalant questions, but Mia had yet to fall for it.
She smiled at Emilia, who was doing her best to sit up straight in her chair. Though still a toddler, the little girl took enormous pride in the manners her mother, aunt, and grandmother had done their best to instill in her in Sicily. Not only that, but Emilia could speak Sicilian better than she could speak English. Gloria discouraged that, wanting her daughter to be a proper American girl, but Mia still spoke Sicilian to Emilia occasionally. Nick would have wanted her to.
“Are you happy to be home?” she asked.
Emilia shrugged. “I miss Nonna. And Auntie Raquel. And the beach. And the seashells. Can we go back?”
“One day,” Mia said, reaching for her hand.
“This is our home,” Gloria said with a smile. “We were just…on a holiday for a long time.”
“But why can’t we go on another holiday?”
“Because I had to come back for work,” Mia said. “And I need you and Mama to look after me.”
Emilia frowned. “But why? You’re a big girl.”
“Your auntie gets herself into trouble sometimes,” Gloria explained. “She needs us to straighten her out.”
Mia grinned. “Don’t you want to help straighten me out, Em?”
“Daddy can,” Emilia said brightly. “When he comes home. When’s he coming home?”
With that, the glow of the evening went out of the room. Gloria and Mia exchanged a glance over Emilia’s head.
A look of anguish flashed across Gloria’s face. It reflected the same pain that tore at Mia’s heart. Before she could say anything, Gloria interjected.
“Soon, darling,” she said softly.
Mia looked at her reproachfully, but Gloria averted her gaze.
At that moment, the waiter came to take their orders. Mia sat back in her chair as Gloria ordered for them all, grateful for the interruption. From then on, the meal went smoothly—at least as far as the little girl could tell. The strain between her mother and aunt was palpable only to them.
Afterward, they retired to their large suite, where Mia helped Emilia with her letters. When it was Emilia’s bedtime, Gloria helped her wash for bed while Mia rang the concierge for a pot of tea, her eyes traveling to the clock constantly. The unloading was at midnight, Hyman had said, so she and Paolo would need to leave at half past eleven.
From the bedroom Gloria shared with Emilia, Mia heard a loud, fussy shriek. “No! I don’t wanna go to bed!”
“Oh brother,” Mia said under her breath, and hurried down the short hall, Paolo on her heels.
In the room, Emilia was sitting straight up in the small bed the hotel had provided for her, arms folded tightly over her chest, and her dark curls flying madly around her head as she shook it.
“Emilia,” Gloria snapped. “I’m not asking you. It’s time for bed.”
“No!”
“Em,” Mia said, stepping into the room. “Be a good girl. Do as your mother says.”
“No,” Emilia repeated. “I’m not tired. I wanna hear a story.”
“Only good girls get bedtime stories,” Gloria said, “and you’ve been a very naughty girl. You will lie down, shut your eyes, and go to sleep. I am turning out this light and shutting the door, and I won’t hear another word of it from you.”
“No,” Emilia said again, but this time she sounded so terrified that both women stared at her. “I don’t like the dark. I don’t wanna be in the dark!”
Gloria sighed, then went to her daughter’s side. “Are you afraid of the dark, Emmy? Is that what all this fuss is about?”
The little girl nodded, dark eyes locked on Mia. “I ’member the time at the parade. The loud noises. Auntie pushing us to the ground so I couldn’t breathe. The man with the bloody head.”
That brought Mia up sharply. The Thanksgiving before she’d left for Sicily a year ago, a man had pulled a gun on her at the Macy’s parade. Out of sheer instinct, she’d tackled Gloria and Emilia to the ground. Emilia had never spoken of it, not during all their time in Sicily. Perhaps she’d been too exhausted from long days full of frolicking in the hot sun to have nightmares before. Perhaps being in New York triggered her terror, even though she’d been too young to know exactly what had happened or remember it in detail.
But maybe she does. Another part of Mia’s ugly life that had touched the parts she wanted to keep clean and pure and beautiful.
She stepped toward the bed. “Emilia. I will never let anything happen to you. Do you understand me? I would die to keep you safe. I would kill to keep you safe. Anyone who ever threatened you—I’d make sure they would never, ever hurt you.” Her voice had become low and almost menacing, and her niece’s eyes widened in fright.
“You’re scaring her, dammit,” Gloria snapped. Her gaze shifted over Mia’s shoulder. “He’s not helping, either.”
Mia followed the path of her stare toward Paolo, who stood in the doorway. “He’s just standing there. He’s not doing anything.”
“Just let me handle my own daughter,” Gloria insisted as Emilia burst into fresh tears. “Go, Mia. You’re only making this worse.”
Mia blinked at her. Gloria had never spoken to her this way before, and had always encouraged the bond between her and Emilia, even when it took the form of an extra bedtime story or a cookie and milk in bed.
“Very well,” she said, trying to mask the sting. “Emilia, goodnight, dear. Be a good girl for your mother.” She turned on her heel and strode out of the room. Paolo followed, lingering by the sofa as if to study her from a distance.
She paced for a moment, frowning at the floor. She and Gloria never fought. They’d had a few tense conversations in the past, but Gloria had never snapped at her the way she’d done a moment ago. In the past, Mia might have rushed to mend things, regardless of who was right or wrong.
She looked up at Paolo, who watched her with alert eyes. “We’re going to the meeting early.”
He nodded.
Mia took her coat from the coatrack and slipped it over her shoulders, made sure Nick’s blackjack was in the pocket—just in case—then headed for the door and opened it. At a light touch on her arm, she turned.
Paolo gestured behind him toward Emilia’s bedroom, brow creased, his silent question plain.
Aren’t you going to say goodbye?
She never left her family without saying goodbye. She never wanted Gloria to worry about her the way she’d worried about Nick. Mia had to leave Gloria out to a certain extent, but she always wanted her to know she’d come back. Nick would have wanted her to do that.
She hesitated, looking at Emilia’s closed bedroom door, the clear boundary between her and them.
Then a chilly wind swept through her heart.
“They’ll be fine,” Mia said shortly, and walked out the door.
It was only a quarter after ten when they arrived at the empty shop. Paolo went to a corner diner to fetch two small paper cups of coffee. After finishing his, he folded his arms and leaned back in a chair behind the counter, tilting his head against the wall and closing his eyes.
Mia paced in front of the counter, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other hand clutching the cup near her lips. Her stomach tensed with nerves, which irritated her. She did not like being nervous. She did not want, even for an instant, to give off the impression to anyone watching her that she was nervous. It was the kind of thing Don Catalano told her an enemy would study her for—any sign of
weakness in any form was an open invitation to come for her.
She reached the front door, pivoted, and paced toward the back of the room. It was her fourth pass at this point. The weight of the blackjack banging gently against her hip measured every step. She tugged back the sleeve of her coat to check the delicate diamond watch on a silk ribbon around her wrist. A quarter of eleven.
He said midnight.
In a little over an hour, this small, fragile building teeming with various feminine delights would be full of gruff, violent, loud, rude men, there to unload dozens of crates of illegal booze. Probably all of them would be carrying guns. There would be coarse language, perhaps threats, and maybe, if someone became insulted enough, actual violence.
Mia’s gaze traveled the length of the room. She’d gone to great pains to have the walls repainted in a charming shade of pale yellow with white trim, to have all the glass polished, and to replace the light fixtures with elegant crystal chandeliers. Before leaving for Sicily, she’d spent long days arranging her merchandise to be aesthetically pleasing and inviting, and adding soft, comfortable touches like cushy, pale-green English upholstered armchairs, low coffee tables, and beautiful Tiffany lamps. She even had a coffee and tea service along with sweet pastries from a bakery nearby so that shoppers would feel like treasured guests, and her important repeat customers felt valued and interested in returning again and again.
She didn’t particularly care how many deliveries had happened here while she’d been gone, how many times men had trampled through here, perhaps broken things. She had every confidence Trudy would have put to right anything that had been destroyed. But Mia was back, and she’d be damned if anything inside her property got damaged by one of these bastards.
A series of three sharp taps on the glass made her jump and whirl around. Paolo was on his feet instantly, his hand on the pistol under his jacket. For a moment, she froze at the sight of the uniformed beat cop standing outside the window. There was something familiar about the tall, paunchy man with graying hair and bushy gray eyebrows.
Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel) Page 6