The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  “The job is simple,” Sal said, in an attempt to steer the conversation back to the task at hand. “Better yet, I have word there is a Commission meeting happening the same night the shipment arrives. So, the risk of my uncle showing up has been rendered null.”

  Bartley nodded as though he’d even considered the possibility of Stefano’s presence.

  It was possible Vinny had—he usually observed the bigger picture. People often discounted the wit of good-looking people, as much as they did big people. Vinny was both good-looking and big, and yet his mind was sharp. Perhaps he wasn’t so smart or well educated as Sal, but he certainly thought things through.

  Bartley, on the other hand, rarely thought farther ahead than his next meal.

  “And you both know your roles?” Bartley asked. As though he’d been the one to broach the subject.

  “I think I can handle it,” Sal said.

  Vinny nodded.

  “Well, my part’s easy enough,” Bartley said with a peevish smile. “The real question is whether or not this Norsic oaf is going to be able to hold to his end.”

  “You want to be eating your teeth with that lamb, do you?” Vinny asked.

  Bartley sneered. “You got a lucky punch in, and you know it. In a fair fight, I’d have you on your back begging for your mum.”

  Sal held his breath, hoping he wouldn’t be forced to break up a fight between the Norsic and the Yahdrish. Not that it would be much of a fight. They’d had enough interactions in the back alleys of Low Town to know Vinny would have things sewn up within a punch or two.

  To Sal’s relief, the half-Norsic only laughed, brushing a lock of straw blonde hair behind his ear as he took a drink of his ale.

  “And how about you, Salvatori?” Bartley asked. “You’ve got the ring—don’t you?”

  Sal sighed. “I’m working on it.”

  “We can’t do this without that ring, mate,” Vinny said.

  “I know that,” Sal said. “I’ll get it—I will—It’s just going to take me some time.”

  “We haven’t got much time,” Bartley huffed. “You’ll need it before the shipment arrives, or the whole plan is a bust.”

  Sal nodded. “I’ll get the ring. Don’t worry.”

  The tiles were cold against the bare flesh of Sal’s feet. His uncle told him they’d been shipped north from Krathus before Sal was born. Far in the south of Pargeche, Krathus was rumored to be warm enough that a man could walk naked in winter and still find himself sweating. Sal imagined the tiles would have preferred the sweltering heat of Krathus to the wet and chill of Dijvois.

  Stepping onto the comforting warmth of the Miniian spun rug, Sal’s entire body shivered. A mixture of relief and anxiety that threatened to cause internal combustion. He thought it best to simply get it over with. The sooner he had what he needed, the sooner his anxiety at being caught would disappear.

  Sal went directly for the small table between the two high-back armchairs. He took hold of the smooth silver knob of the drawer handle and slowly slid it open.

  Suddenly, there was a click at the solar door.

  Sal dove, tucked, and rolled behind one of the armchairs. He held his breath for fear that his uncle might hear, though he was fairly certain the man was going to sense the beat of his heart regardless.

  Luckily for Sal, Stefano was speaking to someone as he stepped into the solar. It was only with that realization that Sal calmed down enough to listen and hear the words.

  “I just don’t know that the boy is ready, My Lord,” Greggings said.

  “And that is not your concern,” said Stefano. “The boy is not your ilk.”

  The boy—were they speaking of Sal?

  “But a meeting of the Commission, My Lord, a council of the Five Families, do you truly think the boy is ready for such a thing?”

  “I do,” said Stefano. “And I did not realize it was your place to question me concerning such matters.”

  “I care for the boy,” said Greggings. “Both of them, and I don’t want to see either put in a position he is not ready for.”

  “You’ve a big heart, but you’re a silly old man and a fool at that. You serve my meals. You do not council me.”

  Greggings made no reply, yet his contempt was palpable, even in the dark room.

  The sound of Stefano’s footsteps came ominously close to the chair where Sal had made his hiding place. Only, Stefano did not look behind the chair. Rather, he took the book from atop the side table, then he and Greggings stepped out of the room.

  Sal took a moment to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. He could hardly believe what he’d heard. His uncle meant to take him to a meeting of the Commission. It was truly unbelievable, but there it was, his uncle’s intentions, announced plain as day.

  Regardless of the mistakes, Sal had made in the past; Uncle Stefano meant to teach him the family business. Surely, from this point on, everything between them would change.

  Sal stood and returned to the end table before sliding open the drawer and removing the silver ring from within.

  19

  Follow Through

  Sal crossed the Singing Bridge, hardly looking where he was going, but thinking about how he was going to get out of this. Or at the least, get out of paying the consequences of his actions. Yet no matter what choice he made, it seemed he had already lost.

  He could back off, pretend he’d forgotten the deal, and let things fall where they would. Or he could be a man of his word. After all, he’d made a promise, hadn’t he?

  But there was also Alonzo to consider. Him, and the Code. Laying hands on a made man was as good as a death sentence. Still, it’s not as though the entire Commission wasn’t after him already—they just didn’t know it yet—or so Sal hoped.

  Sal spent the entire walk through the Cathedral District, thinking he’d made up his mind, only to change it in the next instant. Yet all the while, his feet propelled him forward as though the decision had been made for him—he simply had to sit back and watch it all unfold.

  Heart racing, breath shortened, the question of which route to take spun through his mind all the way across the High Bridge and until he stood just outside the Agora.

  Doubtless, Sal would be denied entry to the walled market place, so he slipped into a familiar alley and followed it to the very edge of the market. He turned sidelong and squeezed into a tight gap between a pair of buildings. His nose scraped against the rough surface of the wall, as his warm breath careened off the bricks and back into his face. His heart rate quickened as the gap tightened in places, causing pangs of fright in which images flashed through his mind—scenarios where he found himself trapped—wedged in too tight ever to escape.

  With one last exhalation, Sal slipped free of the crevice.

  Flushed with a wash of relief, Sal began to walk on down the street of the Agora’s Jeweled Horseshoe as though he belonged. And yet, quick as his anxiety had gone, it returned in a rush.

  Sal grabbed hold of the locket, his pace quickening. The closer he drew to the shop, the more concerned he became that he was already too late. Sacrens, that’s what Pumphrey had said.

  How could Sal have overlooked speaking with Alonzo?

  The sign of Tailors’ Tailors swung listlessly in the breeze. The door of the little shop hung open, creaking on its hinges.

  Sal’s breath caught. He crushed a bit of skeev between his finger and thumb and grabbed hold of the locket.

  He burst through the open doorway like a bolt of lightning streaking through the air.

  Danilo whipped around to face Sal, while Bruno held Pumphrey Tailor pressed up against the showroom wall.

  After a moment to take in the bewildered looks of the three men, Sal grabbed the locket and rode the lightning.

  He closed the distance to Danilo in a flash and drove his fist into the man’s face with the full force of a charging bull. The contact shattered knuckles and sent a bone splintering shockwave surging through his arm.

&n
bsp; Danilo’s head whipped back, his back arching unnaturally as both feet kicked into the air.

  Pain exploded in Sal’s hand as he dropped to one knee and vomited.

  Danilo hit the floorboards and folded into a crumpled heap before Sal.

  Bruno Carbone dropped the little tailor, his eyes wide as he stared at Sal, open-mouthed.

  Another rush of vomit, the pain was so severe Sal thought the throbbing pressure behind his eyes might explode. His head rattled, his vision shook, and he closed his eyes.

  “The fuck!” said Bruno.

  Sal opened his eyes and breathed deep as his vision focused.

  Pumphrey Tailor cowered against the wall, somehow looking even smaller than usual.

  Bruno stared at Sal with pure incredulity in his eyes. “Lorenzo, what in the bloody hell did you go and do that for?”

  Sal looked at the young man lying unconscious on the floor before him. He thought to check for life but could hear a wheezing breath escaping the mangled, bloody mess that had been Danilo’s nose. Sal turned back to Bruno. The swollen, broken hand trembled, the full intensity of the pain yet to set in.

  Bruno shook his head. He began to approach but stopped short as Sal clambered to his feet.

  Fear showed in the older man’s eyes.

  Sal took hold of the locket. He turned his broken hand palm up, the entire arm throbbed with pain, but he swallowed the pain and focused his will.

  Thin crackling bands of ethereal blue lightning began to form about the hand.

  Bruno’s wide jaw dropped. He shook his head as he stared speechlessly at Sal.

  “Pumphrey Tailor is under my protection,” Sal said, with all the authority he could interject.

  Bruno’s eyes narrowed. “Pumphrey Tailor is under the protection of Don Moretti.”

  “I can see that,” Sal said. “But now he’s under my protection, as well.”

  Bruno shook his head. “Look, kid, we’ve got a job to do here. I don’t think you—”

  Sal focused his will harder, and the lightning about his broken hand crackled all the louder. “Take him, and go,” Sal said, nodding to the crumpled form of Danilo.

  Bruno did as he was instructed, scooping up his limp companion and exiting the shop without another word spoken.

  Sal flexed his hand. The pain had not faded entirely, and some of the swelling remained. He breathed deep as he spread his fingers wide, exhaling as he clenched his hand into a fist. The air was thick with the smoke of incense, acrid, yet sweet. The prominent fragrance of an eastern spice Sal didn’t recognize seemed to dominate the mixture.

  Alzbetta’s home was small, yet comfortingly homey. Every nook and cranny seemed occupied by a shelf or table, crammed with books on the healing arts, vials filled with a proper panoply of liquids in all the colors imaginable, strange devices, and oddities of a nature that Sal couldn’t even begin to categorize.

  He felt a twinge of guilt as he recalled the pearlescent glowing orb he’d once nicked from one of those shelves. Not even two years had passed, and yet it felt an eternity ago. He wondered if any of those orbs remained. Pavalo was long-dead, but who knows what happened to his stock of flashers.

  Sal flexed his hand, an oddly numb throb, but the pain was minimal.

  Dominik D’Angelo stared at him from across the table, a dark look in his eyes. No doubt, he’d not liked being summoned to Alzbetta’s as though he worked for Sal, but Sal imagined that was a mere ember of the fire that burned in his eyes after Sal had spoken.

  “I won’t leave the city,” said Dominik, his thickly muscled arms crossing over his broad chest. He leaned back in his chair and shook his bald head. “Not until I’ve done me job.”

  Alzbetta swallowed and put a hand on Dominik’s shoulder but said nothing to dissuade him.

  “Look, all I’m saying is that things are heating up faster than we’d expected,” Sal held up his newly healed hand, “and they’re only getting worse. So, either you are going to have to go so deep into hiding, you’re going to be no help to anyone. Or, you’re going to need to get out of the city fast and never look back. I don’t know if you understand this, but the entire Commission is out there, right now, looking for you.”

  “Mate, I been dealing with the Commission longer than you’ve been sucking air.”

  “Sure,” Sal said. “But if you want to keep on sucking air, you’re going to need to get the hell out of here, yeah?”

  Dominik shook his head. “Way I see it, I’ve got me another option.”

  “No,” Sal said, crossing his arms. “We’ve already moved things up once. We can’t afford to do it again.”

  “We can’t afford not to,” said Dominik. “Said it yourself, the whole Commission is out there looking for me, but it’s not just me they’re looking for, whether they know that or not. But if we take out Scarvini,” Dominik opened his arms and turned his palms upright, his eyebrows arched.

  Sal appealed to Alzbetta with a searching look, hoping the old Talent might be able to talk sense into the man. She’d known Dominik far longer than Sal had, after all.

  Yet Alzbetta remained silent. There were tears in her soft eyes, the hint of a tremble beginning on her bottom lip.

  “Look,” Dominik said, leaning across the table, his eyes locked with Sal’s, “you can’t do this without me, but if it comes to it, I will do it without you.”

  Something hot and ugly began to boil up from Sal’s belly, but he swallowed the retort and considered the man’s words. Rushing in was certainly a mistake, but it could be that waiting was an even bigger one. If they didn’t do something about Don Scarvini, and soon, they were all dead men.

  “Hold tight, for now,” Sal said, still uncertain of what he ought to do. “I’ll speak with the rest of the crew.”

  Dominik nodded. “Remember, no matter what they say. No matter who comes along.”

  Sal frowned but nodded to show that he understood.

  Don Giotto Scarvini, was the only man on Sal’s mind when he finally stepped out from Alzbetta’s cottage. He had no idea how he would approach the rest of the crew concerning the Don Scarvini job. They’d be furious, no doubt. But after some convincing, Vinny and Odie would likely take his side. Valla would undoubtedly try to cut his throat just for suggesting it, and Aurie would want more time.

  Still, could they afford to wait? Things were escalating faster than they had anticipated. The unrest within the Commission seemed to build with each day Dominik D’Angelo walked the streets alive. Whatever it was that Dominik and Sal’s crew had stepped into apart from the drug trade, must have been something integrally connected within the Commission to get Dominik marked by all Five Families.

  It wasn’t clear precisely who was involved and how. If the Scarvini Family and the Moretti Family were so closely tied to the city’s drug trade, it begged the question, who was in charge?

  The question niggled at him—had niggled at him for months. A question that had slowly morphed into a statement of fear.

  Sal had spent the past few months, planning and executing the downfall of the Scarvini Family. It had seemed the only rational way to ensure the survival of his crew, knowing that there was someone else out there who knew just who it was that had been at the warehouse the night Giuseppe Scarvini had been killed.

  Early on, Sal had expected it would only be a matter of time before they were outed and picked off one by one like minnows in a bucket. Only, now, months later, the only name on the street was Dominik D’Angelo, a problem—that—but not nearly so big a problem as the unknown backer of the warehouse job. That unknown could be the hidden catalyst that brought the entire thing collapsing down on their heads. Just because no one in the crew had been outed yet, didn’t mean they weren’t going to be outed. And even if they managed to pull off the assassination of Don Scarvini, there was still the problem of Valla’s unknown backer.

  If the drug trade was as integrally connected with the Commission’s entire operation, as Sal suspected, killing Don Scarvin
i would only solve a piece of the problem. But the true problem would still be out there.

  Still, none of that mattered nearly so much as the task at hand.

  He’d saved Pumphrey Tailor, for now, but in doing so, he had dug himself a deep hole. Danilo was a made man. The typical punishment for an outsider laying hands on a made man was death. And no doubt, Sal had been marked.

  Even worse, Sal’s connection with his uncle would do nothing for him. Don Moretti had purchased Sal’s death mark years back.

  Sal’s only hope was Alonzo Amato.

  “Alonzo in?” Sal asked the Moretti man standing guard outside the entrance to the Underway.

  The door guard’s eyes narrow skeptically.

  “I’ve been summoned,” Sal said with a shrug, doing his best to affect nonchalance.

  The made man nodded and stepped aside, allowing Sal entry.

  As Sal descended into the stone tunnel of the ancient crypt, the air cooled and grew moist. His legs grew heavier with each step, as though his body would simply shut down before allowing him to turn himself over. But he trudged on, step after step the fear rendering deeper and deeper within him. A sickness in his belly, a black ball of anticipation, and then it was over.

  Sal stood in the cutout stone doorway, looking wide-eyed at Alonzo. His voice caught in his throat, and he went into a fit of coughing.

  To his utter amazement and horror, Alonzo smiled, a big, white vulpine smile that sent a shiver through Sal.

  “If you’re wondering whether Danilo survived his encounter with you, the answer is indubitably,” Alonzo said, the smile never faltering. “From what I have surmised, his intellect has not been sapped, though he possessed little enough, to begin with. He may also do the rest of his breathing through his mouth. Though, I suspect Danilo has always been a mouth breather.”

  Sal wasn’t sure how to respond. This was far from the rebuke he’d been expecting, and he found Alonzo’s good-natured greeting made him cautiously optimistic.