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

by Meredith Allison

  Without waiting for an answer, Mia scooped up her hat and went to the gilt-framed mirror on the wall. The light wool, picture-style hat was a creamy beige color with an asymmetrical brim that swooped low on one side of her face in a most dashing way. A wide, jade silk ribbon wrapped around the crown beneath a cluster of pale pink silk flowers positioned at the side of the hat, the ends of the ribbon trailing over the brim and brushing her shoulder. She settled it on her head and arranged the dark waves that peeped beneath the brim around her chin. It had certainly cost a pretty penny at the milliner’s, but it made her look so charming, it had been worth the indulgence.

  When she turned around, both women remained on the couch, watching her. Raquel’s eyes were wide, but Gloria’s were slightly narrowed.

  “Well?” Mia said, allowing a bit of her old impatience to creep into her voice as she tugged on a pair of white, wrist-length silk gloves, making sure her bracelet and watch were visible.

  “Go on, dear,” Gloria said softly to Raquel, patting her knee. “Fetch your things.”

  Raquel swallowed and nodded, then hurried to her bedroom.

  Gloria rose and retrieved her own hat and gloves from where they rested on a small table and walked toward Mia. She steeled herself for an inquisition, but was wholly surprised when Gloria lightly placed her hands on Mia’s shoulders and brushed her thumb over her cheek.

  “What a lovely hat,” she said. She touched the bow on the shoulder of Mia’s dress, then tightened it. “You were coming undone, darling.”

  Mia blinked.

  “Raquel,” Gloria called. “Please don’t forget Emilia’s dress.”

  “I won’t,” came the faint reply.

  She turned to Mia. “We discovered late last night that some of the lace had come loose, so she stayed up even later to sew it back on.” She reached for the door, cocking her head. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Yes,” Mia said, clearing her throat. “Thank you. That was very sweet of Raquel.”

  “That’s one of the things I love about her most,” Gloria said. “Her willingness to do anything at all for her family and the people she cares about, even if it’s to her own detriment.”

  They locked eyes, and Gloria gave her the slightest of nods.

  She understood.

  Most Precious Blood was nearly as full as it was for a Sunday Mass. Most of the neighborhood had turned up for the wedding, unsurprisingly. Signor Bagnoli and his family were well liked, and weddings were always an excellent excuse for an enormous party.

  Emilia danced along at her side, thrilled with her lovely new dress made of pale pink and white lace, fluffy layers of organza and a big ribbon sash around her waist. She loved less the process of plaiting her hair, but she’d been surprisingly well behaved that morning, putting up only a minor complaint when her mother approached her with the hairbrush.

  From the moment they’d arrived at the grocery to get Emilia ready, the air had felt different. Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie seemed to fuss over her more, finding every excuse to call her “niece” and pat her shoulder or cheek. When they’d arrived at the church, crowds of wedding-goers standing outside enjoying the fresh spring air had parted for them, their eyes on Mia. All she could hear as she bid polite good mornings were hushed whispers behind hands. Others rushed to greet them. They grappled for her hand and showered her with well-wishes as if she were the bride.

  Inside the church, a Bagnoli family member spotted them and rushed over, insisting they sit with the family near the front despite Mia’s polite refusal. The young man would have none of it.

  Acutely aware of the congregation’s collective stare, she led her family to the proffered pew and sat. She’d expected word to travel quickly and assumptions to be made, but she hadn’t expected quite so much scrutiny so soon. She shifted in her seat, trying to focus on the lovely sprays of flowers that had been set up at the front and listen to the cheerful organ music that filled the entire building.

  “Stop squirming,” Gloria whispered. “You’re as bad as Em.”

  “I feel like everyone’s staring at me,” Mia whispered back.

  “When did that ever bother you before, Saturday Night Special?” Gloria gave her a teasing nudge with her elbow. “Besides, everyone is staring at you.”

  “Great.”

  “It’s fine.” Gloria squeezed her hand.

  For the duration of the ceremony, Mia managed to ignore the heat of dozens of stares. Signor Bagnoli’s daughter was so lovely and radiant in her wedding costume, her pretty face lit up with joy, that the attention immediately pinned to her. Her groom, a handsome young fellow, looked joyous as he watched his veiled bride make the trip down the aisle to him on her doting father’s arm.

  Mia studied the young couple once they were joined at the altar in front of Father Alessio. She’d never seen such a look of love between two people before—not even Nick and Gloria. She tried to recall Nick’s face at his and Gloria’s wedding ceremony, but failed. Had he looked so positively blissful to be wedding Gloria as this young man did?

  She sent up a prayer that they would never forget this moment or that bond of love between them. Though God was likely disgusted with her, she hoped the unselfishness of her prayer for happiness for the young couple would allow Him to overlook from whom the prayer was coming.

  After the ceremony, Paolo drove them to the reception hall a few blocks away. Uncle Joe, Aunt Connie, Raquel, and Emilia went inside while Paolo took Mia and Gloria to a specialty shop, where she purchased fine Italian cigars for the groom and Signor Bagnoli to accompany the array of gifts she’d brought for the couple, the bride, and her bridesmaids, which included an envelope stuffed with a generous amount of cash for the newlywed couple, bottles of expensive French perfume for the bride, her bridesmaids, and Signora Bagnoli, and some of Uncle Joe’s finest wine and imported olive oil for the parents.

  It took several long moments before the gifts were arranged and packed to her satisfaction. There was so much, in fact, they’d had to make a quick stop by the grocery to swipe an empty wooden crate in which to carry everything.

  By the time they returned to the reception hall, it was an hour later and the smell of baked cheese and tomato sauce rolled out the doors and into their noses. Mia’s stomach rumbled as she slid out of the car behind Gloria.

  “Let’s hurry,” she said to Gloria, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. “I’m so hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry,” Gloria said good-naturedly.

  “Signorina?” a woman behind her said.

  Mia turned to where two middle-aged women approached the reception hall. Both women seemed to hesitate for a moment, then they stepped closer to her. One of them took her hand and kissed the back of it, followed by the second woman. They simply murmured, “Grazie, grazie” as they dipped their heads.

  The fervency in their voices took Mia by surprise, though she was hardly naive to what exactly she was being thanked for. Before she could recover her wit, the two women disappeared inside the reception hall.

  A little terrified thrill shot through her at the realization that many people knew, or strongly suspected, what she had done. There was no proof, of course, but between her declaration after Mass last week and the scene on Mulberry this morning, it left little doubt in the minds of the shrewd people of Little Italy.

  On the heels of the fear was a burst of pride. She had heard their pleas and delivered her promise. She’d taken up for them when no one—no man—had.

  Gloria stepped up beside her. Mia glanced over, then drew her head back as she noticed Gloria’s piercing stare. “I got something on my face?”

  Gloria’s dark eyes swept over her face as if seeing her for the first time. A small, fond smile stretched her lips. “Yes. You do.” She put her palm to Mia’s cheek. “Pride.”

  Mia’s cheeks heated as she reached up to squeeze Gloria’s hand. She turned toward the car, reaching out for the crate of gifts. “We should head in.”

 
; Gloria’s hand shot out and closed around her wrist. “You can’t carry that in.”

  “Why not? It’s not that heavy.”

  Her sister-in-law gently pushed her aside. “You’re a woman of respect now,” she said evenly. “Paolo, would you please carry the box?”

  As Paolo came forward to retrieve the create, Mia couldn’t help a little incredulous chuckle. Gloria, who would have before been horrified by even thinking about the possibility of what Mia had done, what she’d become, was now scolding her for not acting according to her newly acquired station. It was absurd and touching and a little painful.

  Gloria caught her expression and lifted her brows. “What? What’s funny?”

  Everything, and nothing at all.

  “Nothing,” Mia said as Paolo stepped around her and headed for the building.

  People waited for her inside, to see her, to speak to her, to ask her for help. And other respected men attending the wedding—like Mr. Masseria—had certainly heard the rumors by now. What would they think of her? What might they say? Would they take her seriously and treat her as a peer, or would she be dismissed?

  What they think doesn’t matter.

  She swallowed her nervousness and straightened her shoulders. “How do I look?” she asked Gloria, teasing just a bit.

  Gloria’s smile, still proud, turned a little sad. “Beautiful. And terrifying.” She put her hand on Mia’s shoulder and squeezed. “Now be serious.”

  Mia nodded.

  “Because,” Gloria added, “they must respect you. And they must fear you.”

  She turned and walked to the building, opened the door, and held it, looking back at Mia.

  Mia glanced down at her shoes and drew in a deep breath. Releasing it, she looked up.

  Never let ’em see you sweat.

  With her head high, she walked past Paolo and Gloria without looking at them and stepped inside the hall as if it were her own reception.

  A long set of stairs led up to the large, open room, where the sound of loud, cheerful voices floated down to her on the music of a quartet of Italian folk musicians. As soon as Mia stepped into the room, several women flocked her to welcome her, including the mother of the bride. Mia received their greetings with quiet enthusiasm, shaking hands, accepting pats and kisses to her cheek.

  “I’ve brought gifts,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder as Paolo carried the crate over.

  Signora Bagnoli called for her daughter, who playfully tossed Jordan almonds into the mouths of her bridal party. The young women hurried over and exclaimed with delight over the gifts Mia had brought. Several of them, the daughters of hardworking and simple immigrants, had never worn perfume, much less owned her own bottle. Mia showed them how to apply it, dabbing behind the ears, on the wrists, brushing her fingers across her collarbone.

  Signor Bagnoli joined them, heartily wringing her hand. He leaned close to speak in Sicilian into her ear. “The neighborhood thanks you.”

  She gave him a small smile. “These gifts are to honor you and your family on your daughter’s wedding day.” It was the closest she was willing to come to outright acknowledging her actions. His meaning was clear.

  He nodded solemnly. “We are honored to receive them. All of us.”

  Mia swept her hand toward the crate. “There are still more. Wine and olive oil, from Uncle Joe.”

  “Ah, Joe!” Signor Bagnoli called laughingly over his shoulder.

  Mia craned her neck, catching sight of her uncle vigorously performing a traditional Southern Italian folk dance as the band played a lively tarantella. She caught Gloria’s eye and grinned, and her sister-in-law burst into peals of laughter.

  Finally, Mia took the bridal envelope full of cash and reached for the bride’s hand. She wore a white satin wedding purse over one shoulder stuffed full of similar embossed envelopes.

  Mia kissed both her cheeks and pressed the envelope into her hands. “I wish you and your husband a long, happy life together. I hope this helps you two get started.”

  The bride, perhaps a few glasses of wine into the celebration, gripped Mia’s hands. “Thank you,” she said. “You do our family a great honor by attending my wedding, Signorina Scalisi.”

  Mia nodded and patted her hand. “I’m the one who’s honored.”

  She stepped back to let Gloria exchange pleasantries with the young bride and surveyed the room. Seated at a round table near the back of the room, she spotted Mr. Masseria, Mr. Luciano, Frankie Yale, Charlie, and a few other men she didn’t know chatting over glasses of wine.

  She leaned over to Gloria. “I’d better go say hello.”

  Mia made her way across the room toward the table where the respected men sat. All eyes at that table swiveled to watch her with what seemed a new interest and intensity and not a little amusement. She had the feeling she’d be facing some kind of music—Mr. Masseria would likely have something to say about the fact that she had not sought his approval for her actions. That she’d known precisely what she planned to do the day they’d met at John’s of 12th to discuss the state of things.

  She squared her shoulders, making sure she took her time, indulging the people who reached out to her along the way. She would not allow any of them to think she answered to him, nor was she going to hurry over like a mindless servant.

  “Signorina,” a middle-aged man she did not know said, kissing her hand. His wife with whom he’d been dancing clutched her hand next.

  “Signorina Scalisi,” she murmured.

  She shook hands with nearly everyone she passed, who all greeted her with undeniable respect in their voices. She made quiet, humble replies in return, wanting to be as gracious as possible. These people were not well-to-do, like the men she was about to speak to at the back of the room. These were the people she had decided to protect.

  These were the people she’d done mass murder for, and she spoke to them all, looking each of them in the eye with the same respect they showed her.

  When she’d shaken the last hand, she crossed the last few feet to Mr. Masseria’s table. The men no longer looked amused.

  “Don Masseria,” she said quietly. “It’s good to see you here. I hope you’ve been well.”

  He unfolded himself from his chair and stood, keeping his gaze on her. “Signorina Scalisi. Good to see you as well. I hear you’ve been busy.”

  “Performing does keep me busy five nights a week.”

  “Indeed. Sit.” He glanced at one of the men she didn’t know who occupied the chair next to his, grunted, and the man hurried out of the chair.

  “Signorina,” he murmured, gesturing to it, before stepping back to stand against the wall.

  She lowered herself into the chair and glanced around the table. “Mr. Luciano, Mr. Yale.” She glanced at Charlie, an unreadable but intense expression in his eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him since their brief row in her dressing room last night, and she was sure he had quite a few things to say to her now. “Mr. Lazzari.”

  “Miss Scalisi,” he said tightly.

  “So,” Mr. Luciano said, leaning forward. “That was some neat trick you pulled off last night.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Mia gave him her best impersonation of Hyman’s bland smile.

  He smirked. “Oh, no? You don’t know nothing about those eighteen poor saps laid out on the street everybody saw this morning?”

  “Totò,” Mr. Masseria interrupted, holding up his hand without sparing him a glance. “All of you, take a walk. I want to speak with Miss Scalisi in private.”

  Frankie shrugged and stood. “I need another glass of wine, anyway.”

  Mr. Luciano looked less than pleased about being dismissed, but followed Frankie toward the huge wine casks.

  Charlie glanced at her before stubbing out his cigarette and walking away.

  Mr. Masseria faced Mia. “What you did was risky. Very risky. Theatrical.”

  “Well, I am a performer, Don Masseria.”

  He fr
owned. “This is no time for jokes. The police have been all over this place since dawn.”

  “I took care of all that,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have some friends within the New York City police department. They’ll conduct an investigation, they won’t get any information from anyone here, and eventually, they’ll forget about the case.”

  “Is that what you think?” he asked, lifting a brow. “You don’t think that can be traced back to you?”

  “It would be quite a stretch,” she replied. “But if so, I have an alibi. I was singing last night. Hundreds of people from all over Manhattan can to attest to that.”

  “So.” Mr. Masseria leaned toward her. “You kill eighteen men for working for Morelli. But did you know some of them worked for Maranzano, too?”

  “None of them were high-ranking in his organization,” Mia said. “Low-level button men at best, none of them made. All of them spent more time doing Morelli’s bidding than earning any money for Maranzano.”

  “So why didn’t you kill Morelli?” he asked softly. “You’ll never be able to trust him again.”

  “I never trusted him to begin with,” Mia said. “I sent him a message—to back off. Perhaps now he understands how serious I am. Someone very smart once told me blood is too expensive. It should only be shed in the direst of circumstances.”

  “Eighteen men,” Masseria said. “That’s quite an expense.”

  “For the people of this neighborhood being raped and murdered by those men,” Mia said through her teeth, “I’d say it was worth it. They needed the help, and they certainly weren’t getting it from anyone at this table.”

  “Careful,” he said, holding up a warning finger.

  She held herself rigidly for a moment. “I mean no offense.”

  “Look, I understand,” he said. “I’m an immigrant of this country, too. I arrived here when I was sixteen years old. The year before you were born. In many ways, I grew up here like you did.”