Aunt Connie and Uncle Joe flanked the grief-ridden man, and Mia, Gloria, and Emilia trailed behind.
As they walked toward the front, every so often, a hand would shoot out from a pew to take Mia’s wrist, to pull her down for a kiss on each cheek, to thank her for the tremendous kindness she had done the Bruno family. Mia stopped each time to accept the murmured words, responding with her own, shaking hands, patting cheeks, and always, always saying, “Should you ever need anything, come and see me.”
She hardly heard Father Alessio’s words. Her gaze was fixed on the still face rising just above the casket—the profile of a young woman, hardly eighteen, gone much too soon. When Mia had paid Signor Bruno and his family a visit last Sunday, he’d shown her a sepia-tinted photo of his daughter taken only the year before. The girl had been beautiful in her healthier days, all huge eyes and wide smile and flowing black hair. A sweet girl, her father had said, a dutiful daughter and a doting big sister who had put her grief at losing her mother aside to care for her siblings and look after her father.
Perhaps that grief had not been totally forgotten, Mia thought, studying the girl’s waxy, pale-yellow skin drawn tight over the bones of the face. Perhaps that grief had driven her to try to dull the pain with the chemical. Plenty of people did it with booze.
She knew she was a hypocrite. She was part of an operation that sold alcohol to anyone who wanted it, regardless of whether they had a problem with the substance or not, but she was staunchly against drugs. Moritz had once called her on that, and she’d leaned on her stories of witnessing firsthand what the drugs did to those who fell to their evil siren song. And she still believed in what she’d told him—a snort of heroin was by far worse than a shot of liquor, but that didn’t change the fact that plenty of men and women abused it the same way. Plenty of men consumed so much they lost themselves and beat their wives, their children. Poor women sold themselves for a few dollars to buy a bottle of the rotgut product that would see them dead in half a year. Children took to the stuff at a young age, become prolific and heavy drinkers long before adulthood.
Knowing all of this, she still pressed Nick’s operation forward. She still drew her cut from the quantities that were sold and stored.
And yet, there was something inherently vile about drugs she could not look past. Perhaps Moritz was right and she could become a millionaire inside a few months if she would only put her beliefs to the side and view it as a business, a commodity, a product people wanted they couldn’t easily get, and that she could furnish for them. She could operate out of her own shop, out of Hyman’s nightclub. Even if she limited her clientele to those two areas, the addictiveness of the drug would keep her earning potential high. And the things she could do with that money…
No.
Another look at Signor Bruno’s dead daughter’s face, the memories of the starlets she’d seen overdose, and the echoes in her ears of the weeping and wailing and cries to be mercy-killed and for someone, anyone, to just bring them one hit ran through her mind in a blurred instant.
She might be a murderer, a criminal, and a hypocrite, and for the things she’d done in the name of vengeance for Nick, she was already likely going to hell, but she would not do this. She would not be a poisoner of her own people. Of anyone. Not for all the money in the world.
After the service, Mia and her family joined Signor Bruno and everyone from the neighborhood at the reception hall. She had told Hyman over the weekend she would not be at rehearsal today, explaining a family friend had a death in the family. To her surprise, though he did not sound pleased whatsoever, he asked no questions as he granted her the day off, but warned her the following day he would expect twice the effort from her.
At the reception, she tried to stay in the background, even when Signor Bruno publicly thanked her for handling all of the preparations.
Mia shook her head. “It was the strength of the family values of the neighborhood that made this day possible.” Her short words drew a round of applause, which embarrassed her.
She’d just taken her seat at the end of a long table, a plate of chicken cacciatore in front of her, when a young woman only a few years older than her approached. A child was half-hidden behind her.
“Signorina Scalisi?”
Mia set her fork down and stood to meet the woman. “Yes. What is your name?”
“I am Signora Cancio,” she said in a shy voice, taking both of Mia’s hands in her rough ones. “I have come to thank you.”
“Thank me for what?” Mia said, not unkindly.
“You rescued my boy from bullies, thieves,” Signora Cancio said, and pulled the small boy from behind her.
His large, dark eyes set in his sweet face immediately tugged on her heart. “Of course. How are you?”
“He is well, and so am I,” the signora said. “We thank you from the bottom of our hearts. For helping him, and me. The…money you gave him. For us.”
“Yes. I only did what anyone else would.”
Signora Cancio shook her head. “What you gave him—we had our electricity turned off for a month because I was unable…” She lowered her eyes in shame. “I had been sick, not able to work at the factory. They fired me anyway, even when I came back before I was strong. My husband died last year. I had to choose between food and lights. I picked food for my boy. But thanks to you, we could put our lights on this month.”
Mia’s mouth tightened. She knew all too well the harsh conditions found in factory work.
“My boy, he is not in school because he must sell newspapers to make us a little money,” Signora Cancio went on, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I am trying to find work so that he can go back to school. But—”
Mia held up a hand. “Come and see me tomorrow morning at my uncle’s grocery. We’ll discuss your bills and your monthly expenses. We’ll talk about your skills for work. I’ll help find you a job—a good one, no more factory work. I own a shop, and I have a girl there now who needs help. I can offer you a good wage and good hours. Your boy can return to school. He can keep the paper job if he likes, but only on the weekend.” She smiled at the boy. “Would you like that?”
He nodded. “Grazie,” he murmured.
Signora Cancio had begun to weep softly. She used the sleeve of her worn black dress—likely her Sunday best—to dab her eyes. “You are so good,” she said, her voice breaking. “I only meant to thank you. I do not want you to think—”
“Nonsense,” Mia said. “I want to help you. Come to the store in the morning. All right?”
Signora Cancio nodded rapidly and kissed Mia’s hands. Mia knelt in front of the boy and patted his arms.
“Take care of your mother,” she said. “After all, you’re the man of the house. Aren’t you?”
He nodded, his face serious. “Yes. I am.”
She had only taken a few bites of her meal after they left before she had a new visitor—this time, a middle-aged couple, neighbors of Signor Bruno. They’d heard all about what she’d done for the man, and wished to pay their respects. After a few more minutes of chatting, Mia discovered the husband had been out of work for a few weeks due to some back trouble, for which he was unable to afford treatment. Mia promised to speak with her doctor friend—that was, Hyman’s doctor friend—and get him an appointment and some relief.
More and more people, emboldened by the visitors to her side they watched come and go, came up to her. Many simply wanted to formally introduce themselves and pay their respects. Some had requests—money, assistance of some sort, trouble with a job. She offered her pocketbook and aid whenever and wherever she could.
Her uneaten meal had long since turned cold when she finally returned to it.
After the burial, Paolo drove Aunt Connie and Uncle Joe back to the store, where they planned to reopen for a few hours in the evening—before the meeting. Aunt Connie seemed a little bewildered as she kissed Mia goodbye.
“Perhaps I should start calling you Godmother now, eh?” she teased
in Sicilian, a bit uncertainly.
Mia only smiled and clasped the older woman’s hand, the fingers still gently and teasingly pinching her cheek. “No, Aunt Connie. I just—I want people to know they can come to me for help. That I can help them.”
“I hope you do,” Aunt Connie said softly, then patted her cheek. “We’ll see you later for the meeting.”
“Don’t go overboard, Aunt Connie,” Mia said, knowing the woman would have cooked a three-course meal for Mia’s guests if she didn’t say something. “I don’t want them feeling too comfortable.”
She hadn’t realized something in her voice had changed, gone colder, but Connie’s brow knitted slightly as she nodded and backed away before turning to walk into the store.
Uncle Joe slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You did well today,” he murmured. “I had people coming in here asking about you since you got home. Word travels fast about things you do, Mia. People here know more than you think. You made a lot of allies today, but you made a lot of promises, too.”
“Promises I fully intend to keep.”
He patted her shoulder. “About tonight. You want me to get some boys from the neighborhood to stand outside?”
On the one hand, she could always use the extra security. On the other hand, if things went sideways—and that was a fair assumption with how volatile Jake was, and what she had to tell him tonight—she wouldn’t be able to look their mothers in their faces if any of the boys got hurt. Or worse.
Mia shook her head. Perhaps unwise, but she had Paolo, and Charlie had arranged for a couple of his men to join them. She had her own plans to beef up extra security that might be more effective than neighborhood boys. “No. Just…” She paused, then looked up at him. “Don’t set the table by the window, all right?”
It was meant to be a joke, but the coldness seeped back into her voice before she heard it.
Uncle Joe’s bushy gray brows lifted a fraction of an inch. He bobbed his head. “Of course not. You know, I’ve held meetings like this before here.”
“You have?”
“Many times. In fact, back in ’twenty-three, I hosted Don Masseria and Signor Luciano. He was in big trouble.” He laughed. “That is why the padroni pay me respect. I respect them. I provide neutral place to conduct business. I pay my tributes, my protection money.”
“You help keep the peace,” Mia said, still amused over the idea of the fearsome Lucky Luciano getting an earful from Mr. Masseria right here in Uncle Joe’s store.
“I do my best.” He bowed his head. Then he studied her, head tilted, and clasped her hand in his. “I never thought my niece would be the one to have a meeting with the padroni.”
Niece. She patted his hand. “I’m honored you think of me as blood.”
“Aunt Connie and I, we never had children. That we had Gloria sent to us from her parents was a blessing. In a way, we think of her as our daughter. And we’ve come to think of you as our daughter, too.”
She smiled teasingly. “Or maybe a son?”
Uncle Joe pecked her forehead. “Better than a son, though I worry more. Go and rest. Everything will be ready for tonight.”
Paolo drove them back to the hotel. Gloria carried a sleeping Emilia toward the elevators, but Mia caught sight of the two people she’d asked to meet her at the hotel restaurant.
“Go on ahead,” she said to Gloria. “I’ll be up shortly.”
Gloria had been uncharacteristically silent on the ride home. Mia had expected a barrage of questions, more than usual, but her sister-in-law stayed silent. It was more unnerving than the questions.
“All right,” she said, and walked toward the elevator attendant.
“Go with them,” Mia said to Paolo quietly. “Make sure they get settled, then come back here.”
He gave her a sharp nod.
Mia turned and walked into the restaurant, offering hellos to the host staff who recognized her, and headed straight for the round table in the back of the room, where two hulking, suited, dark-haired men sat.
When they noticed her, they both stood.
“Bobby, Joey,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Miss Scalisi,” Bobby said, taking her hand.
“Miss Scalisi,” Joey said, doing the same.
“Let’s sit.” Before she could touch her chair, the men shuffled around the table as if in a choregraphed movement, and Bobby pulled out the chair whose back faced the wall. He gestured for her to sit.
When they were settled, she looked each man in the eye. “Thank you for coming to meet me on short notice. I should’ve called you yesterday, not this morning on my way out the door.”
“It was no trouble,” Joey said.
“What did you want to meet with us about, Miss Scalisi?” Bobby asked.
“Where we stand, the three of us,” Mia said. “I’ve been gone a year. A lot’s changed, hasn’t it?”
Both men nodded gravely.
“I’ve been feeling rather…alone,” she went on. “It’s hard to know who I can rely on these days. Men who I once called ‘friend’ because of their friendship with my brother seem to have gone their own ways. And there seem to be some new faces hanging around that I’m not sure I like too much.”
The two men exchanged a look.
She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the table. “I need to know where you stand. Who you’re loyal to. It’s all right if it’s not me. I get it. I’ve been away. I haven’t done much for you. But my brother trusted you both. With his life. I want to be able to do the same.”
The two men looked at each other again for a beat.
“Miss Scalisi, do you remember when we brought you to the train station in Chicago for your first trip here after Mr. Scalisi was killed?” Bobby asked.
“Of course.”
“We pledged our loyalty to you then,” he said. “And we pledge it to you now.”
“We’ve known you’d come back,” Joey added. “Sure, we’ve had to do what we needed to do to make ends meet. We drive the trucks. We provide security at drop-offs and pickups. We do whatever Mr. Schapiro and Mr. Lazzari ask of us.”
“Are you contracted to them in any way?” Mia said. Behind Bobby, Paolo walked toward them, a silent shadow in the mostly empty dining room. He took a seat just away from the table at her right side. Not part of the conversation, but near her.
Bobby shook his head, glancing at Paolo. “We work for them. But we’ve pledged no oaths of loyalty to anyone…but you.”
“I need to know why,” she said. “Why me?”
“Your brother saved my life,” Joey said earnestly. “I don’t know if he ever told you how I came to work for him.”
She shook her head.
“Just after the war, I was home and looking for work. I’d discovered my wife had left me while I’d been off fighting. I found odd jobs here and there. Dock work, deliveries. I used to work for a butcher on Mulberry. He had a bad gambling habit. One night, he wasn’t feeling well, he said, and he asked me if I could stay late to handle the customers. I’d done some of that the more I proved myself to him. Of course, I said yes. Three fellas came by, looking for the money my boss owed them from a card game. They told him he’d pay them, or they’d kill him. They decided to try to use me as a message. I fought back as hard as I could, but three against one, what’re you gonna do? They beat me, sliced me open, left me for dead in the alley. Your brother was out on the streets that night coming from a different card game. He found me, took me to the hospital. Saved my life. Came to visit me too, asked me about what happened. He said for all they sliced me open and I didn’t die, I must be a tough son of a bitch. When he found out I fought in the war too, he gave me a job on the spot. Said he could use a reliable bodyguard. And he never turned his back on me. Ever.”
Mia thought back to that terrible night when her world had changed forever, when Nick had been murdered. Joey had been crouched over his body on the sidewalk. He’d looked up at her with tears in his eyes, agony on
his face. There’s nothing I can do, he’d said in a broken voice. I couldn’t get to him in time.
“I used to work as bouncer at this Irish joint in the Bowery,” Bobby spoke up quietly. “All the work I could find, and I had a sick mother to take care of. Nick come in one night, he sees me takin’ all kinds of shit from the owner, some of the patrons. He walked up to me and said, ‘Hey, paesano, how about a real job?’ He had me start driving for him for a while. We’d talk, I’d tell him about my mother. The cancer eating away at her. He fixed her up with a good doctor to get her medicine to make her final months as painless as possible. Paid for everything. He always used to come visit her too, bring her flowers and books and little things like that. When she passed, he paid for her funeral. Stood right by my side the whole time, cried with me like a brother.” Bobby swallowed and looked down at his hands for a moment.
Mia’s eyes stung. She should not display this much emotion in front of men if she wanted them to take her seriously, but hearing of the kindnesses her brother had shown these men, the second chances they’d gotten because of him, the loyalty he’d shown them and had earned in kind, moved her beyond measure.
“The one thing he always asked of us,” Bobby went on, “was that if anything should ever happen to him, we look out for you. He only asked that of us and Mr. Lazzari. He never would have trusted anybody else to watch out for you, but he trusted us. I made him a promise I would do that. And I intend to keep it.”
“Me, too,” Joey said. “And even if you’d never done the things you did to avenge him, we’d still keep that promise. But…you did.”
“We respect you,” Bobby added. “And we respect what you’re trying to do now—save his business. It ain’t my place to say so, but…it ain’t the same as it was before you left. It’s like the rules changed.”
“It’s like they forgot whose business it was in the first place,” Joey said, a sharp edge in his low voice.
“I’m hoping you’ll help me make them remember,” Mia said.
Bobby stood, then Joey. Bobby clasped her hand. “I pledge my loyalty and service to you, Miss Scalisi, until the day I die.” He kissed the back of her hand.
Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel) Page 17