“I need the jewels back, Angelo.”
The smile disappeared from his face as he slammed the door shut. To his credit, he didn’t dismiss her accusation. “What if I need them more?”
“You don’t understand. They weren’t even Madame’s. She was keeping them for a client. If they aren’t returned, she’ll be ruined!”
He shrugged and leaned a shoulder against the cab of the truck. “What’s that to me?”
“They aren’t yours. You stole them!”
“You should thank me. I’ve freed you from the bonds of oppression.”
She attacked him. Lashed out at him with a fist. “I don’t want to be freed! I want my job! I like it!”
He blocked her fist with his arm and considered her for a moment. He’d had more trouble trying to sell the jewels than he thought he would. So in spite of their promise, they hadn’t given him much return on his trouble. But she still had something he wanted. “How much are they worth to you?”
“What – what do you mean?”
“How much are you willing to pay for them?”
“I don’t have much money – ”
“I’m not talking about money. You give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want. How’s that for a trade?” He put a finger to her cheek and drew it down past her neck.
By midweek the Rossis were recovering, for the most part. Everyone but Mama. She had used the last of her strength to refuse Rafaello’s help. There was no known cure for the Spanish influenza, but those who kept warm and those who stayed nourished greatly increased their chances of recovery. Sadly, Mama Rossi would do neither. Not when it was a Sicilian who was offering the aid.
Annamaria watched from her bed, watched as Rafaello spent his days cleaning for them, as he fed them, and as he cared for them. She watched as her mother took her last breath . . . watched as her soul slipped away.
It was Rafaello who waited as she dressed Mama in her wedding dress, and Rafaello who carried her body out to the street and arranged for someone to collect it. Then later, it was Rafaello who found out where she had been buried.
She may have looked as if she were fifty. She may have acted as if she were sixty, but Mama Rossi had been just forty years old when she’d died.
Madame’s shop was deserted. The impossible had happened. It was the last week in September and the most preeminent gown maker in Boston had no appointments and she kept none. She had no girls and she needed none. There was no work to be done. The Spanish influenza had halted the city’s business just as surely as if the world had come to an end.
But she rose every day and went to the shop in the morning just the same. She didn’t want to be alone in her house with her thoughts. She didn’t want to worry about him. At least at the shop, her fears could be pushed aside by the hundreds of things that needed her attention.
But still she worried. She hoped he was still . . . fine. Still . . .
Alive.
Still alive is what she hoped he was, but she didn’t want to – wouldn’t – think it in those words.
She was so proud of him. As proud as if she were standing next to him. Prouder still, perhaps. For she knew that he would have accomplished nothing had she in fact been standing there.
It had been so plain to everybody. She only wondered that she had not realized it before. And wondered still more that he had realized it not at all.
He was an Irishman. She was an Italian.
Italian.
It wasn’t the word that condemned her, for she hardly thought of herself in that way. Not anymore. No, it wasn’t the word; it was the tone. It was the tone in which these Americans spoke it.
A tone that had been passed down from generation to generation. From mother to son. From father to child. Italian. With a half-dozen qualifiers strung along in front of it in order to debase that epithet even further.
What would he have become if she’d married him? Just what did he think he would have done? It was her quick thinking, her sacrifice, that had saved him. But did he ever think of her, in the dark hours of the night? Did he ever wonder?
He must know. He must know by now. He must be grateful. He must thank God every day that she had done what she had. If he thought of her at all, it must be as a man who looks back on an illness that nearly took his life.
He must be grateful.
That was the thought upon which she had built her life: He must be grateful. Madame assured herself, as she always did, that she had done what she had out of love.
One of the many tasks she performed that morning, just as she did every morning, was the opening of her safe. She peered into the interior as had become her habit. Pushed a hand inside just to see, just to make sure, that the bag of jewels had not been magically returned during the night. She spread her fingers wide as she reached toward the back.
But they closed around air. There was nothing there.
She didn’t know what she would do.
There had been so many jewels in that bag. And not only seed pearls. There were piles of sapphires and stacks of garnets.
The strega, it seemed, had wanted to wear her entire fortune on her chest. Ridiculous woman.
Ridiculous.
The word was Madame’s greatest insult. And it was reserved chiefly for that witch, Mrs. Quinn.
Strega.
There were so many other words Madame would have liked to have called her. So many other things she had thought up through the years. But strega was the only one that really, truly applied, and so the strega, Mrs. Quinn remained. And now the strega’s jewels were gone. If Madame thought too long about that obligation, worried too much about how she would ever repay their worth, her stomach tied itself into knots, her breathing grew shallow. She had almost fainted one morning. And so this morning she stopped her thoughts from running ahead to the seventh of October. She threw up a barrier. To there she would think and no further.
After the world had righted itself and the influenza was gone, there was Mrs. Winthrop to be received and Mrs. Kennedy to be fitted. A second fitting. There was Mrs. Putnam to be measured and the order for Mrs. Cabot to be placed. There were a dozen things that needed to be done before this day was over and a hundred to be done before the seventh of October. And at some point in between then and now, she desperately hoped that the jewels would be returned.
She had to hope. She hadn’t the money to be wrong.
But she puzzled over their disappearance. It had to be one of her girls who had taken them. She wouldn’t stoop to calling them stolen.
Julietta.
Annamaria.
Luciana.
Which of them had it been? And why?
Julietta had been wearing new clothes recently. Madame recognized that they had been remade with bits and pieces from the workshop. From leftover trims and braids. Madame wasn’t concerned about that. She applauded such resourcefulness and creativity. But Julietta had a new hat . . . a very pretty, very stylish new hat. Still, Madame considered herself a good judge of character and she would have told anyone, had she ever been asked, that Julietta, though vain, was reliable. That’s why she was hoping to train her as an assistant.
So she wouldn’t have said that it was Julietta.
Luciana?
The girl was new. And that lent a certain trace of suspicion to her character. But she came from a good family. Madame would have sworn to it. She was poor, but then, so were many of her girls on the second floor. That didn’t mean they lacked in honesty. In fact, Madame insisted upon it.
No. She wouldn’t have said that the thief was Luciana.
Annamaria?
That was something to think about. She wouldn’t have even considered the possibility a month – even two weeks – ago, but there was something different about the girl. A certain attitude. A new kind of knowledge in her eyes. And she had the look of a girl who kept a secret. She was hiding something. That was certain. Madame had to hope that it was the jewels. She had run out of other options.
<
br /> Annamaria.
She wouldn’t have thought it. But she would just have to pray that it was true.
40
As Madame was keeping busy at the shop, Julietta was getting ready to go out. She was getting ready to meet Angelo. She bent at the knees so she could see her reflection in the little mirror Mama Giordano had hung by the door.
Mama came to stand behind her. “Have you seen Mauro lately?” Mama was waiting for her daughter to turn around. Her youngest, dearest, most beloved daughter who insisted on wearing that hat! Madonna mia! In Avellino, only the wealthiest or the loosest of women wore hats . . . though sometimes they were one and the same. Scarves had been good enough for the rest of them. They still were! She didn’t know why Julietta insisted on wearing the hated thing. Although she’d been insisting on so many things recently. She’d insisted on coming home late. She insisted on disappearing at community events. She seemed to be . . . seemed to be . . . leaving. If that were possible.
“Mauro? No. Why?” She didn’t want to see him for another hundred years. Couldn’t bear to think of seeing him, knowing she would never again be able to look him in the eyes again. Not after she finished paying the price that Angelo had demanded for the jewels.
“He said he hadn’t seen you either. Not even when he went by the shop last week. He said it wasn’t even open.”
Julietta closed her eyes. She was so tired of lying. So tired of pretending. So tired of feeling so dirty. She opened her eyes, took one last look at herself. Told her reflection to act like that girl in the mirror. The one that looked so confident, so American with her darling hat and her newly altered blouse. All she really wanted to do was to throw herself into Mama’s arms and confess everything. Confess that she had run around with a stranger; confess that the stranger had turned into a murderer; and confess that the murderer wanted to turn her into his whore.
But how could she?
If she confessed to having told Angelo about the jewels, wouldn’t that implicate her in the crime? And if she confessed to having walked out with him, wouldn’t that make her exactly what she would shortly become?
Though she wanted to confess to Mama, what she really longed to do was run to Mauro. He had always protected her, always listened to her in the past. And he might have done it again if she hadn’t thrown Angelo in his face.
She’d dug a hole for herself that there was no way out of, and there was no longer anyone she could ask for help. Her only option, her only chance to right all those wrongs, was to do exactly what Angelo wanted. Her virtue wasn’t worth so very much, after all. Not after she’d lied, and cheated, and allowed him to steal from Madame’s safe.
“Mauro said the shop was closed.”
Julietta answered her mother without turning around. What was one more lie? “Madame did close the shop. For a few days.
For most of the girls.”
“He said he knocked on the door. He asked after you.”
“Sometimes Madame sends me out on deliveries.” Or she might have, had Julietta proven herself more able for the job than Luciana. How she wished she could speak to Mama without having to lie. How she wished she could just be Julietta again. She had no illusions; she knew her faults just as she knew her weaknesses. She was vain and not particularly devout, just as she was not fickle or cowardly. In most instances. But as she stood there, trying to keep from looking Mama in the eye, she wished for the time when she was truly a part of the family. A family that she didn’t have to hide from or flee. The family that they had been before there was Angelo.
She’d thought he’d offered excitement and flirtation and fun. But what she’d gotten was lies and deceit and the death of everything of value. He’d destroyed everything that was good in her life.
Mama cocked her head and looked at this daughter whose eyes seemed to have such trouble meeting hers of late. “Is there anything you want to tell me, cara mia?”
Those bewitching eyes, startled, swerved to meet her mother’s in the mirror for just a moment.
Help me! Pray for me! Rescue me!
But Julietta didn’t deserve anyone’s help, just as she didn’t deserve any prayers. She’d wanted to experience life on her own two feet, uncommitted and free. Well, she’d gotten what she wanted, hadn’t she? And now she would have to pay for it.
“Anything at all? We are both women, cara mia. Both Avellinesi.”
There was a moment when Julietta might have told her mother everything, might have admitted to seeing Angelo, might have admitted to going to those meetings . . . even told her mother that he was a murderer and a thief. But her mother was exactly what she had said. She was Avellinesi and she would never have understood. So Julietta turned around, giving her mother a swift hug and a kiss on the cheek before she opened the door and walked out.
Julietta met Angelo in front of Zanfini’s, the way they had arranged. Angelo assumed she lived somewhere near there, although the truth was she lived some three blocks up and three blocks over. She was glad now for her deception. She didn’t want anyone to see them together. Not ever. She sat beside him, meek and silent, while he completed his deliveries. And then as he pulled the truck to a stop by the wharves.
She let him kiss her. Let him embrace her, not moving, trying not to react until she felt a breeze pass across her chest. She pushed him away and discovered that her blouse had come undone.
A flush lit her cheeks as she fumbled with the buttons. She’d have to sew the holes up smaller when she got home. As she was trying to regain her modesty, Luciana’s lavaliere fell from her open collar, sparking a gleam when it swung into an errant ray of sun.
Angelo caught it up in his hand. “Where did you get this?”
She answered by grabbing the necklace from him and dropping it back beneath her blouse.
“Where did you get it?” He grabbed her by the forearm.
“I – I was given it. As a gift.”
To her mind, it was. It was worth far more than the few hours she had put into altering Madame’s gowns for Luciana.
“A gift.”
“Sì.” She spoke with her eyes downcast.
“Because the last time I saw that crest, I was in Roma.”
Roma? But – that’s where Luciana had come from. How did . . . ? “It was given me by a friend.”
He was staring at her chest, at the place where the lavaliere dangled beneath her blouse. “I’ve changed my mind.”
She looked up at him, startled.
“If you introduce me to your friend, then I’ll give you the jewels back.”
“If I – ” Did that mean . . . ? She was freed? And all she had to do was introduce him to Luciana? She tried to stem her rising elation. It didn’t make any sense. Her eyes had been opened and she knew now that he had been trying to seduce her for weeks. So why should he discard her now? When he could so easily take what he wanted? And why did he want to be introduced to Luciana so badly? She slid to the far side of her seat and opened the door, wanting to slip away before he pressed her further. “I’ll see.” He was going to have to leave it at that. Because he was never going to meet her. Not as long as Julietta had any say in the matter. Something didn’t seem right.
Julietta couldn’t leave quickly enough after work the next Monday. She wanted to be home. Back at the tenement. The shop was too quiet, with none of Madame’s clients visiting. And outside, on the streets, it was so eerie. There’d been no mass on Sunday; church had been canceled throughout the city. No bells had rung, no people had promenaded in the streets in the afternoon. And today there had been no cars. Motorists had been ordered to keep them garaged. It was strange. And frightening. As if the world had come to an end. And now, Angelo wanted to meet Luciana. That thought was frightening too. Because niggling away at the back of Julietta’s mind were several remembered conversations, which all pointed to one horrifying conclusion.
It was with great shock, then, that she observed him as she pushed open the door to the alley. “Angelo!” Fearful o
f being seen with him, and yet wanting to take him far away from the shop – far away from Luciana – her eyes swept the alley. She discovered there was someone else, another man, lounging in the shadows.
That man was Billy. He was waiting for Luciana so that he could take her to city hall to sign the papers necessary for their wedding. He’d borrowed one of his mother’s servants to stay with the contessa.
Angelo smiled at Julietta. It was a lazy smile that didn’t quite spread from one side of his mouth to the other. “Did I surprise you?”
“Sì. Of course you surprised me.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her a kiss that nearly made her retch. She broke from his embrace. “Why are you here?”
“To meet your friend.”
She wasn’t about to let that happen! She linked an arm through his and began to hurry him away.
But the door squeaked open at just that moment, and Angelo turned back toward it.
Julietta knew who it had to be.
Angelo had gone completely still. His eyes were the only thing in motion, and they burned with an unearthly glow that made the hairs on Julietta’s arms stand on end.
For her part, Luciana, who had just come through the door, had also come to a halt. And her face had gone deathly pale. It was just as she’d known. Just as she’d feared. Her father’s murderer had found her, just as he’d promised. But the fear, having washed over her in a horrific wave, rolled past and left a quickly rising anger in its place. Her face burned red. “Assassino!” Her voice was hoarse, her tone low. But then she said it again with all the outrage her slim frame could muster.
Billy had pushed away from the wall. He moved past Julietta and Angelo on his way to Luciana’s side.
But Luciana paid no attention to him; indeed, didn’t even seem to see him. In fact, she marched right past him, up to Angelo, and slapped him across the face.
Julietta gasped as her mouth fell open.
Angelo just stood there, a livid outline of Luciana’s hand making an imprint across his cheek.
A Heart Most Worthy Page 27
