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

by Meredith Allison

  “No offense, Don Masseria,” Mia said, “but you moved uptown to get away from here as soon as you could afford it.”

  “And you?” he said. “I suppose your lavish hotel suite is in the heart of Little Italy, eh?”

  “At least I haven’t forgotten this place,” she said. “At least I still care. I see it as more than protection money.”

  “You are fortunate I have affection for you and your family,” he said, a low growl curling the edges of his words. “You are an impudent young woman. That will be your downfall.”

  “What will be yours?”

  His face reddened. He glared at her.

  She stared impassively back at him.

  After a long, tense moment, he huffed out a mirthless laugh and shook his head. He still looked quite irritated with her. “You are your brother’s sister.”

  “I am a Scalisi.”

  “Then be like your brother and heed my words. Your problems with Morelli are not over. He’s a cunning fellow.”

  “I didn’t expect them to be over,” Mia said. “But he forced my hand. What I do from here is up to him.”

  “You should know,” Mr. Masseria said, “that he came to see me a few days ago. After you and I met.”

  She drew her head back. “See you about what?”

  “To apologize for destroying my stock in the explosion,” Mr. Masseria said smoothly. “And he paid me a handsome tribute, to cover what was lost and a bit extra to rebuild our friendship.”

  “So you’re aligned with him now?”

  He made a casual face, shrugging. “He and I are square. I don’t hold you accountable for what happened, or your Jew partner. I’ve worked out some warehouse space with Frankie Yale. As far as I’m concerned, I have no problems with any one of you. But that’s not alignment. That’s peace.”

  “Peace?” Mia repeated. He was too smart a man to say something so foolish.

  “Peace can, of course, be fleeting,” he said coolly. He rose from his seat and extended a hand to help her up. “I am going to bid Signor Bagnoli farewell. I came only to fill his daughter’s bridal purse and to speak with you. It was quite a sight to see you received by your people like a riggìna.” There was nothing mocking in his voice.

  She kissed both his cheeks. “It was good to see you, Don Masseria.”

  He tilted his head, amused. “I’m not an easy man to speak to. And you are not an easy woman to speak to. I’m not sure if that’s truly good.” He tapped the tabletop with a finger. “Take very careful next steps. My offer of help is still open, should you need it.”

  He bowed slightly, stepped around her, and disappeared into the crowd. His men, the ones she didn’t know, followed him like shadows.

  An alcove next to the window at the back of the room caught her eye. An old, battered, tufted red chair was tucked there, out of sight from the rest of the room, bathed in shades of white and cream.

  She walked toward it. Disappearing, even for a few moments, appealed to her suddenly weary mind. The chair was made of velvet that might have once been soft. It smelled musty, but nonetheless, she sat down in it. The old cushion curved around her hind end as though it had been made for her. She sighed and leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs, and stared out the window for a long moment, allowing her mind to wander.

  “Bang, bang.”

  Mia whipped her head from the window, then froze.

  Jake Morelli stood a few feet away, his fingers formed like a gun pointed at her. He grinned, then blew on the tips of his fingers. “Boy. Coulda had you there. Gangsters gotta pay attention, dollface. Lesson number one. Although, you look more like a queen on her throne sitting there.”

  She remained seated in the chair, legs still crossed in a relaxed, casual position even though her heart had leaped into her throat and stayed there. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He shrugged, stepping closer to her. “It’s not hard to get invited in when the people doing the inviting don’t know you from Adam. A full money envelope helps, too.”

  “You got some goddamn nerve to show your face around here.”

  “So do you, after you killed my men.”

  “That’s quite the accusation.” She kept her tone deliberately cool, even though panic began to claw at her chest. She was alone and hidden, and as good as defenseless.

  If Jake meant her harm—which, she assumed, was a certainty—he had her right where he wanted. She could be dead before she was even able to utter a scream for Paolo.

  He cocked his head. “Ain’t we past playing coy?”

  “Why don’t you tell me? I don’t believe you’ve stopped.”

  He smirked, then reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit coat. Mia tensed, gripping the arms of the chair, but he removed what looked like a small card and held it up.

  It was a card—the ace of hearts from their poker game. The red lipstick print was slightly smudged.

  He tossed it in her lap with a flick of his wrist. “Believe you left your calling card behind.”

  Her heart thundered, but her hands were steady as she plucked the card from her lap and tucked it into her clutch. She forced a smirk up at him. “Didn’t want to keep it? I’m hurt.”

  Jake’s dark eyes gleamed down at her, and she wanted to recoil at the violence she saw in them. Instead, she crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair. She would die before she let him get a whiff of her fear.

  She supposed she’d done a bang-up job of drawing him out—it was a shame she was completely unprepared for it.

  The band shifted into their next song, a Sicilian mazurka, to cheers from the crowd. They loved to dance, and would go as long as the band held out.

  “Hear that?” Jake lifted a finger in the air, then held out a hand. “What do you say?”

  She stared at his hand as though it were a spider. “You must be out of your mind if you think I’ll let you touch me.”

  “Look.” He unbuttoned his jacket and held it open. “No guns, no knives. I just wanna dance with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Come on, it’s a wedding, for Christ’s sake.”

  He would likely not let her be unless she danced with him. He didn’t seem to have any weapons on him, and if he tried anything in front of this crowd—where Paolo and Charlie could see her—it’d turn out as badly for him as it would for her if he managed to land a blow of some kind.

  She sighed and reluctantly stood, ignoring his outstretched hand. They received a few curious and surprised glances when Jake, grinning, wound an arm about her waist and hauled her in close.

  From a corner where he stood chatting with Frankie Yale, Charlie watched them, eyes burning. She shook her head at him ever so slightly.

  Seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny, Jake swept her into a surprisingly elegant waltz step. His confidence was disarming, along with how closely he held her.

  Mia stumbled a little, but quickly caught her footing. “This isn’t how you dance a mazurka.”

  “I know, but I wanted a reason to hold you close.” He held her fast to his body as he swept her around the floor, causing other couples to stumble out of their way. The crowd, unaware of the murderous tension between them, burst into applause. Surely they thought her and Jake a handsome couple, and he was as gifted a dancer as she was. She did her best to smile as they whirled around.

  Jake did the same, nodded and flashing charming grins to the women who cheered them on. His hand drifted to the small of her back as he held her tightly and placed his lips against her ear like a lover, eliciting more excited shrieks from the women, including the bride.

  To everyone watching, it appeared a romantic overture was happening between them, that the handsome man must be professing his love to her.

  “That was quite the fucking stunt you pulled, you bitch.”

  Mia’s smile turned wintry. “Ah, finally. The truth emerges.”

  The hand at her waist tightened from a possessive hold to a painful grip. “You think you’re real smart,
huh?”

  “Smarter than you. Certainly.”

  “Why?” His voice shook slightly, but his steps remained as smooth as ever as they glided around the floor. The mazurka ended and a true waltz began.

  This time, she leaned up to murmur into his ear, her cheek against his. “The mother of the young boy your men killed wants to know the same thing. As does the mother of the girl your men raped. And the father of the young woman who overdosed on your poison and died calling your name.”

  “Some of those men worked for Maranzano,” Jake hissed. “They just peddled for me as a side hustle. I got him up my ass now.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “How long do you think you can keep this up, dollface?”

  She drew back to stare up into his face. “As long as you want, Mr. Morelli.”

  “Until one of us ends up dead?”

  “Yes,” she said grimly, glaring at him. “One of us. And most of my partners want that to be you.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as his face lost its usual sneer. “I thought we were partners.”

  “Partners don’t try to have each other killed,” she growled. “They don’t burn each other’s shops to the ground.”

  “I just… I got sore, all right?” he said, sounding like a petulant child. “I never took well to no broad telling me what to do, and I lost my temper. Look, nobody got hurt and I squared it with Masseria. All’s well that ends well.”

  His nonchalance left her speechless.

  “Not as far as the businessmen I deal with are concerned. They want you dead, Mr. Morelli.”

  “And you?”

  “I can’t come up with a good reason to keep you alive.”

  “Look. Let’s call a truce,” he said, waltzing her into a slow turn. “No more funny shit from me. I’ll forgo vengeance of my men. They cancel everything else out. I’ll even give up half of my percentage in the Madden deal, just to show you I’m a good sport. Back down to twenty percent, even. No heroin in the neighborhood—not that I got any more dealers at the moment. In exchange, you let the others know you’re good with me. That they should be, too.”

  “Those are the original terms I presented you,” she said through clenched teeth. “Not good enough.”

  “Fine.” He spun her away, then back in and resumed the tight hold of his arm around her body as he lifted her other hand in his. “Then how about I pay for that little shop of yours? What else do you want?”

  “You’re out of the deal with the Cotton Club. I want my stolen trucks back with everything on them, or the money to cover the losses, plus an extra fifty grand for my partners’ inconvenience. And I want thirty percent of all your books, card games, and protection business in all your territories.”

  Jake stopped dancing. “What?”

  “And don’t try to trick me, Mr. Morelli. I know where all seven of them are, all over this city. Shall I list them for you?”

  His mouth tightened into an angry line. “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind if you think I’m agreeing to that.”

  She brought her mouth close to his ear. “You want me to speak on your behalf to my partners. Tell me, how much is your life worth to you?”

  His eyes darkened with fury. “If I’d wanted to, I could have killed you when I found you in that chair. It’s because of me you’re still alive. You’re not untouchable.”

  “Neither are you.” Without taking her eyes off him, she made a beckoning motion with the fingers of the hand that rested on his shoulder.

  A moment later, a knife appeared at Jake’s throat as Paolo emerged from the crowd like a wraith and snatched him from behind. His other hand slipped under Jake’s armpit and pulled, effectively trapping the man.

  Jake’s eyes went wide. People in the crowd gasped, a few crying out in dismay. The music came to an abrupt halt.

  The only sound in the room was Jake’s harsh panting as Paolo held him fast in his brutal grip, the knife pressing lightly into his skin.

  Mia ignored the room and stepped toward him until their noses nearly touched. “Kill him.”

  The knife pressed harder into Jake’s skin, Paolo’s teeth bared in silent rage. Jake made a desperate noise in the back of his throat.

  Another sharp gasp came from the crowd.

  She tilted her head. “That’s enough, Paolo.”

  Paolo lowered the knife.

  “What the fuck?” Jake demanded.

  “I want you to see how fast it can happen,” she said softly. “How quickly things can end for you. I want you to understand I’m only thing keeping you alive in this moment.”

  His nostrils flared as he stared at her.

  She held out her hand. “I heard your terms. Now, you have mine. Do we have a deal, Mr. Morelli?”

  After a moment that could have lasted sixty seconds or half an hour, Jake shook her hand, his gaze full of hate and a darkness that made her insides quiver with fear she refused to show him.

  “Good. Let him go, please, Paolo,” she said.

  A small voice in the back of her mind whispered to her. What have you done?

  Paolo released Jake so slowly, it was an unmistakable warning—one wrong move, and he’d be truly dead.

  Jake jerked away from him and straightened his jacket. He glanced around, finding nearly every pair of eyes in the room locked on him.

  All except one.

  At the edge of the crowd, Charlie watched her with the same expression that had been on his face the night she’d used his pistol to shoot and kill Vincenzo Fiore, in that warehouse on that beach in Atlantic City. The expression that had made her feel like a stranger to him.

  Mia looked away from him.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Jake shouted at the room. He started for the door, giving Mia a wide berth but shoving through the crowd. The small handful of men he’d brought with him followed him out of the reception hall.

  She had worn out her welcome, too, by now. Besides, it was time to prepare to head to the club.

  “Paolo,” she said.

  He nodded, unfazed by the eyes that now watched them.

  She looked at Signor Bagnoli, who stood with his shell-shocked daughter and her groom. “I apologize for making a scene,” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. Thank you so much for inviting me here to celebrate your daughter’s wedding. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  “Th-thank you,” she stammered.

  But Signor Bagnoli had an understanding gleam in his eye. He bobbed his head. “Thank you, Miss Scalisi. We hope to see you again very soon.”

  “If you ever need anything,” she said, patting his arm, “I hope to be the first person to receive your call.”

  On her way to the door, she paused in front of her family, clustered off to the side. “I’ll have Paolo come back to bring you home later, so you can stay.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she walked toward the door. People stepped out of her way before she could utter a simple, “Pardon me.”

  In the car on the way home, Mia thought of the looks on the guests’ faces. Her family’s faces. Gloria had said they must respect and fear her.

  It seemed, today, fear had won out.

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty-One

  June, 1926

  Summers in New York were typically hot, but that first week was unseasonably mild, with temperatures barely creeping past sixty-five. It reminded Mia of cool but balmy Sicilian nights out on the villa balcony. It seemed another life entirely that she’d been there.

  Life had settled into an easy rhythm since Signor Bagnoli’s daughter’s wedding. For several weeks afterward, she’d stayed practically holed up in the hotel suite, only leaving to go to rehearsal, after which she stayed locked in her dressing room. Her security detail had grown from Paolo, Bobby, and Joey to a team of a dozen men, who guarded Gloria, Emilia, and Raquel nearly as closely as they guarded her. She also had eyes on the grocery at all times.

  It was no way to liv
e, but at least she was alive.

  When reports reached her last month that Jake had left the city, she relaxed a little more. She had no idea who was running the handful of territories in which he’d operated across the city, but her thirty percent take showed up every week. Joey sent trusted men to collect, who went over the financial records in detail, and then brought her back what she was owed.

  Though she felt she could take a deep breath again knowing Jake was out of the city, some deep warning inside her niggled at her, and that was what kept her from fully letting down her guard. Only a fool would ever do that.

  The first Saturday in June, Mia rode around Midtown with Hyman, considering a number of potential new properties to rebuild the shop. Eventually, she settled on a lot at West 42nd Street near 7th Avenue. It was a block down and east of The Divine, and it was a busy, affluent area surrounded by fine restaurants and theaters. The new space was larger, and Hyman, pleased to have her indebted to him again, grudgingly agreed to give her full design control and a generous budget.

  “But keep it reasonable,” he added, wincing, after signing the purchase agreement with the previous owner.

  “It’ll be lovely.” Mia turned in a circle and envisioned the empty space decorated. “No more French cathouse décor. You’ll be proud to be my landlord.” Now that she’d have a little more space than the last location, she’d be able to offer more goods—of both varieties.

  “I’m already your landlord,” he replied. “We can begin construction immediately.”

  “Swell. Tell those boys to get ready for me.”

  Hyman rolled his eyes. “Please just keep in mind, they’re professionals who know their craft.”

  “Then they should be used to dealing with women who know what they want.”

  “I’m not quite sure anyone can be prepared to deal with a woman like you,” he said drily, but the twinkle in his eyes took the sting out of his words.

  She smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyhow, I’d like there to be an extra-large warehouse beneath the shop. Business has been picking up, especially now that our Canadian friends don’t hate us.”