“We’re finally going home,” she whispered to the box as she waited for Gloria to settle into her seat. Then, she passed Nick to his wife.
She’d called Father Alessio yesterday, letting him know what time her train would arrive on Saturday afternoon, and she would be going straight to the cemetery. He should have everything ready and waiting for them so they could lay Domenico Scalisi to rest properly, and for good.
The priest, she thought wryly as she settled back in her seat, would probably find some way to convince her to make confession again. She was starting to suspect that was more for him to feel better about pocketing the money she gave him each week than a concentrated effort to save the tattered remnants of her soul.
Mia remembered the last train ride she’d made between the two cities. The last time, she’d been fleeing Chicago after killing Sal. Even then, she’d been an entirely different girl than the woman she was now. Then, she’d been out of her mind with fear and exhilaration and grief and madness. She smiled a little at the thought that she’d had no idea back then what might await her. What she’d become. The things she’d be forced—or want—to do. Mia then would never have believed Mia now. Foolishly, she’d believed she could avenge her brother and return to a somewhat normal life back in her hometown.
But now, as then, she was struck by how being on a train with her brother again called up so many memories of their last train ride between the two cities, when they’d been coming to Chicago from New York. Leaving their home for a new one. Now, she was bringing him back home. It had been several years since he’d really been home—not on a business trip, not to make deals with Hyman Goldberg about her future in exchange for start-up money. His real home—their roots, their humble beginnings in the Lower East Side.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Mia glanced over at Gloria, seated across from her in their private car. Her sister-in-law smiled. “You look like you’re thinking up a storm. Don’t hurt yourself.”
Mia returned her smile with a little one of her own. “I was just thinking about the last time I came home from here. I haven’t ever made this train ride—from here to New York—with Nick before.” She reached out to rest her hand on the box Gloria held on her lap.
Gloria glanced down at it, her eyes soft and liquid. “Neither have I.”
“I keep thinking about how the only time he went back to New York was to hock Hyman Goldberg for two million dollars,” Mia said. “To invest in his crazy idea for a liquor business.”
Gloria chuckled a little. “Boy, he was proud when he came home.”
Mia rolled her eyes. “He was insufferable. If you ever wondered what a bantam cock would look like if he were a human, Nick Scalisi is it.”
Beside her, Paolo smiled as she and Gloria both broke up into laughter. It felt so wonderful to laugh, Mia realized. When was the last time she had really laughed? Not in a dark way or an exasperated way. A real peal of mirth. She couldn’t remember.
“He was smart,” Gloria said softly, shaking her head. “He was so smart. I often wonder what he would’ve become if he were still here. How much he would’ve grown. Twenty-five’s still young, you know.”
It struck Mia that she would outlive her brother. The glow in her chest faded.
“I wonder what he’d think of me, if he could see me,” she said. “All the things I’ve done. Sometimes it keeps me up at night, wondering what he’d think.”
Gloria leaned forward and put one hand over Mia’s. “He’d be proud of you. He’d be so proud.”
“Would he? What, exactly, is there to be proud of?”
Her sister-in-law tightened her hold. “That you never forgot where you came from. And that you always put blood first.”
Blood comes first.
It was the first lesson he’d ever taught her. The importance of familial blood, and loyalty to it above everything else, was something he’d instilled in her and hounded from the first moments she’d been able to comprehend.
“I almost let him have them,” Mia said.
“Let who have who?”
“Let Morelli have Little Italy, all its people.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t call that never forgetting where you came from.”
“You did it to save your blood,” Gloria said simply. “You had no choice but the two he gave you, and you picked us. I’ll never forget that, and Nick would’ve done the same thing.”
“You’re my family.” Mia shrugged. “You’re all I got. I couldn’t let anything happen to you. I just wish…Raquel had stayed.” Her heart ached from the hole her young cousin had taken with her when she’d gone. “I don’t think she’ll ever talk to me again.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Gloria said. She settled back in her seat, crossing her ankles. She linked her fingers together around the urn box. “It was a traumatizing experience for her. And I think she feels she let you down. They could never hate you, Mia. You’re family.”
Mia nodded. She changed the subject, because talking about Raquel hurt too much. “I was also thinking about our childhood. It’s strange to me now, how I look back fondly on those times when back then, to me life was so hard. I’ll never forget the bad times—going hungry, freezing in the winter, sweltering in the summer. Never knowing where our next nickel would come from, or if we’d be able to pay the landlord that month. When Nick got drafted and I had to fend for myself. But those aren’t the things I think of when I look back.”
“What do you think of?” Gloria’s soft smile was back.
Mia shifted her gaze out the window as landscapes passed at blurring speeds. “I think of the summer nights we spent on fire escapes after it got really dark, drinking cold water that tasted funny from the ice chips off the old block the grocer used to keep the meats cold. We’d look out over all the city lights, and imagine what the fancy, rich people were doing and make up stories for their lives. Then we’d imagine what we would do if were fancy and rich. Other times, we’d go to the tenement of this immigrant couple. The husband brought his mandolin over on the boat. One of the only possessions they had that made the trip. He could really play. And sing. He had the most beautiful voice. His wife would bake sweet taralli and let us sit and listen until his voice gave out or we fell asleep. We could just be…children then.”
“Except for all those nights you had to stay up and learn how to be a world-class poker player,” Gloria teased.
Mia chuckled. “I complained so much about it then, because I was so tired. I’d fall asleep playing poker with him, and he’d nudge me awake with his foot and make me keep going. But you couldn’t tell him his plans wouldn’t work. Once he got me up to snuff, we were the terror of those card halls. Well, he was. No one knew about me.”
“His secret weapon,” Gloria said.
Mia sighed deeply. If only she’d known then that their time together was limited, that he would be taken from her before they’d had a chance to triumph after so much struggling. “I just wish he’d at least gotten to see what it became. All his hard work. If he hadn’t died, none of this would be happening. I’d still have gone to New York to work for Hyman, because he sold me off, but he’d be king of Chicago.”
“It wasn’t quite like that,” Gloria said. “The selling you off.”
Mia snapped her head up. “You…knew?”
She shook her head. “Not for sure. No details. He just mentioned to me once he’d like that for you. He thought it would do you some good to be back home, because he thought for all you loved living in a luxurious hotel like the Lex, you missed being around the people. Not the showbusiness people. Real people. The ones from back home. He wanted you to be happy.” She lifted a shoulder. “And if that meant he had to use some questionable tactics, maybe even underhanded, to ensure that… Well, I think if it had been you in his place and someone else you loved in yours, you wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. You’re like him in that way. You make snap decisions because you see the good they can do, and you deal with the fallout la
ter. He knew you’d find out about his deal with Hyman sooner or later, and that you’d be furious. But he was prepared to discuss it with you when the time was right.”
“Perhaps that’s true,” Mia said. “But also, he was a businessman. I don’t want to shove him up on a pedestal just because he’s dead. He loved me, Glo, of course I know he did. But I also made him a good amount of money. We had a two-man act, me and him, and I was the acrobat, and he was the ringmaster.”
“You sounded fond before,” Gloria said. “Now you sound…bitter.”
“Not bitter, no. I just see things clearly now. I’ve made peace with it.”
That was a lie. She had barely come to accept her brother’s many sides. She still grappled with who he’d really been. In the end, she knew he was a different person to everyone, and perhaps she’d known the version closest to the real man. She would never know what his true intentions were. But she did know he’d loved her, and that would have to be enough for the rest of her life.
Now, she could give him something by taking him home. He would rest beside their parents for an eternity. And one day, she would join them in the small cemetery in Queens, and they would finally all be together again. She might be an old, old woman when that happened, but it would happen. She had to be sure of it, or else she’d slide beneath the waves of pain that threatened to drown her ever since the night he’d died.
Paolo reached over and lightly patted her arm with quick taps without looking at her. It was a surprisingly affectionate, reassuring gesture, and it went straight to her heart. She smiled at him.
“It’ll be good for Em,” Mia said after a long moment. “To have him close by where she can visit him.”
“Yes.” Gloria glanced down again at the box. “I hope she remembers him.”
“We’ll never let her forget him.” Mia reached for her hand. “Ever.”
When they arrived in New York, Trudy was at the station with Emilia to greet them. Gloria rushed forward to scoop her child into her arms and hug her tight.
Mia kissed Trudy’s cheek. “How were things?”
“Nice and quiet, miss,” Trudy said, her eyes twinkling. “Always a good thing.”
“Indeed, it is,” Mia said. “How’s the shop?”
“We’re almost ready to reopen next month, in time for Christmas shoppers,” Trudy replied. “They’ve done a lot of work this past week. I daresay you’ll be pleased. They finished the wainscoting, and the furniture arrived.”
“Wonderful,” Mia said with genuine pleasure.
An attendant brought their baggage to them on a cart, and led the way outside to their waiting vehicle. Joey jumped out of the driver’s side, tipped the attendant, and loaded the bags in the car.
Trudy opened the car door for Gloria. “The, erm, warehouse beneath the shop is, ah, already being put to good use.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Trudy cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing. Her freckles stood out alarmingly. “Mr. Goldberg seemed to take advantage of your absence and it is, if I might use the American idiom, loaded to the goddamn gills.”
“Brother,” Mia muttered. She slid into the back seat beside Gloria, and Trudy climbed in next to her. Paolo rode up front next to Joey.
“Cemetery, Miss Scalisi?” Joey asked.
“Yes, please. Thank you, Joey.” Then she turned to Trudy. “At least we’re back up and running. That business with Morelli really threw a wrench in that. Was Mr. Goldberg pleasant to you, at least?”
“Oh yes,” Trudy said. “I think the combination of so much product arriving and you not being there to boss him about lifted his spirits tremendously.”
Mia hesitated. “So much product, you say? From…Iowa? When I spoke with Mr. Wyatt before I left, he made it seem like he was producing normal amounts.”
“I believe there is other product besides the Iowa lot,” Trudy replied. “Cuban rum.”
“Cuban…rum?” This was news to Mia. Hyman had mentioned wanting to branch out and include other products, but Cuban rum had not been one of them.
“It appears it was a gift from a seller who’s been courtin’ him,” Trudy went on. “To test the waters in New York and see if there could be a demand for it.”
Her interest was piqued. Hyman couldn’t be rid of her for long, and she fully intended to sit down with him and discuss this new venture—whether he wanted to or not.
“Did you try it?” Mia asked.
“I did. One of the young men who brought it by the shop fixed it for us. A bit of rum mixed with a Coca-Cola.”
“Coca-Cola?” Mia repeated.
Trudy smiled. “And a twist of lime.”
“How’d you like it?”
“I thought it was quite lovely,” Trudy said. “A little too lovely.”
Mia giggled, picturing a tipsy Trudy. “Well, thank you for looking after things for me. I’m certainly looking forward to a nice, long chat with Mr. Goldberg.”
“And I reminded him you’d be wanting that chat as often as I could.”
At Calvary Cemetery in Queens, the somewhat lighthearted mood dissipated into the air. Father Alessio waited with Charlie, who held three white roses, at the newly dug plot, small to fit the urn vault Nick was in. When their father had died in 1906, their mother had scraped together enough money from her savings and the kind tenement families to bury him in a pine box in a plot with no headstone, just a simple marker so the cemetery would know who was buried there. When she’d died five years later, Nick had hustled for days and nights to earn enough money for a sturdy wooden casket for her, as well as two lovely headstones.
Now, beside their plots, a third had been dug, and a third headstone added.
Together, she and Gloria lowered the urn vault into the ground. Gloria wept softly as they stood. “It’s as though it just happened, all over again.”
Throat tight, Mia wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Charlie held her hand on her other side. Hers felt clammy and too hot, but his was cool, dry, and reassuring. He gave it a squeeze.
“To you, O Lord, we commend the soul of Domenico Scalisi, Your servant,” Father Alessio intoned. “In the sight of this world, he is now dead; in Your sight, may he live forever.”
Mia arched her brows, and jerked her head slightly toward Gloria.
Father Alessio cleared his throat. “Forgive whatever sins he committed through human weakness, and in Your Goodness, grant him everlasting peace.” He made the sign of the cross, and everyone hastened to do the same. “Through Christ, our Lord.”
“Amen,” Gloria breathed.
“Amen,” Mia murmured, staring down into the ground.
“Here.” Charlie handed her, Gloria, and Emilia the roses. He placed a gentle hand on top of Emilia’s head. “Give Papa the rose.” He pointed at the urn.
Emilia, confused and overwhelmed, started to cry. “I wanna keep it.”
Mia swiftly knelt and drew her niece to her. She cradled Emilia’s soft cheek. “I’ll get you a dozen white roses—or any color you want—every single week, darling. But I think Papa would like that rose you’re holding. It’ll keep you near him. Is that all right?”
Emilia hesitated, two large tears rolling down her cheeks. She nodded.
Mia brushed the tears away with her thumbs. “That’s my good girl. Come, let’s toss them in together.”
Emilia stood between her aunt and mother at the edge of the plot. Gloria counted to three, and the three women Domenico Scalisi had loved best in life tossed in their white roses.
The cemetery’s gravedigger had kept a respectable distance during the short ceremony. Now, he came forward, head bowed, and began to fill the plot with dirt.
When Emilia began to cry again, Gloria picked her up and turned away. “I’ll wait in the car,” she said to Mia. Joey and Paolo followed her, and after a moment, Father Alessio joined them, hands folded in front of him.
Mia stayed where she was, her feet rooted to the ground. Charlie stood beside her and slid an arm arou
nd her waist. He drew her close and pressed his lips to the top of her head.
“This feels right,” he said. “Nick being here, with your parents. It feels peaceful.”
She nodded against his chest, not trusting herself to speak. She didn’t want to cry anymore over her dead brother. If she started again, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.
“You did a good thing,” he added softly.
How could anything she had done be considered good? She had surely earned herself a seat right next to her brother in the eternally burning fires of hell. It didn’t matter that she’d bribed a priest for Nick’s salvation. She could have bribed a thousand priests, and it wouldn’t change anything. It didn’t matter that he had an entire congregation in Little Italy saying masses to save his soul. He’d done what he’d done, and she had followed suit without skipping a beat.
But at the very least, she’d brought him home.
“Thanks,” she said at last, because she didn’t know what else to say. “Would you mind… Could I have a moment? Alone.”
“Of course you can.” He kissed her head again, then walked away toward the car, where everyone waited for her.
Mia knelt next to his grave, bracing herself against the headstone for balance. She touched the soft, fresh soil that filled his grave.
“Do you think he’s right?” she murmured. “That I’ve done…good.” She huffed in amusement.
Almost as though in response, a little surge of wind kissed her cheeks.
After a moment, she said, “I don’t know if you heard, but Hymie Weiss is dead. I got him for you. I promised you I would.”
The wind rustled the leaves in the trees.
“Everyone who plotted against you is gone now,” she continued. “The revenge is done. And…nothing’s changed. It still hurts. And in a way, it hurts even more.” She took a deep breath that trembled slightly on the exhale. “I don’t really know what to do now, other than keep your business alive. Rum, Trudy says. We’re going to start selling rum, maybe.”
She ran her fingers along the rough edge of his headstone. It was a bright, clean white-gray. It stood out starkly next to their parents’ headstones, which time and the elements had darkened to a dull cement color.
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