by Jo Leigh
“Oh, my God. He must have been terrified.”
“He never told us anything. I found that letter in an old book. Along with pictures of the family back in Italy, and my grandparents’ wedding papers. That was only a year before he died, so I never asked him more about it. It was a scary letter, though. And once, when I was cleaning the altar at Blood of Christ, I heard that the children who worked for la Mano Nera earned more money doing dirty business than someone who owned a street cart. A good cart.”
“That’s amazing.” Sara checked her recorder. It would kill her to lose any of this. “So, basically, they were gangsters?”
“They used blackmail. Not organized, not like the Mafia. Just bad men who got together and threatened good people who had next to nothing.”
For a moment, she thought Mr. Jacometti was going to add to the story, but he just held up his hand. The gesture was one she recognized from her own father. It meant, “enough already” but Sara wasn’t clear if he wanted his wife to stop talking altogether, or just stop talking about the Black Hand. She assumed it was the latter, judging by the subtle warning in his expression. It made Sara’s blood pump faster.
Armanda shrugged. “I don’t know so much about it. Just that people were scared, and people got hurt. Some even got killed. Did Regina tell you about any of that?”
No, she hadn’t, so Sara running into Armanda at the feast had been very lucky. But she didn’t want to press too hard and lose her source, so she changed the subject. For now. “She told me about the San Gennaro festival when Little Italy was still a big neighborhood. And about the cooking. My God, the recipes from your mother sounded so wonderful.”
Armanda sighed. “When Mamma died, I did everything. All the arrangements. While Regina was at the house, taking all the recipe cards Mamma left for both of us. She tells me she’s given me a copy of everything, but I know she keeps some to herself. Look what she brought to the feast, huh? That pastiera was Mamma’s specialty.”
Sara noted Mr. Jacometti’s eyelids were drooping again. “Do you remember where your great-grandmother worked?” she asked Armanda.
“She was an ostetrica. A midwife. Busy all the time. She left her oldest daughter in charge at the house, but then Cherubina got a job at the Triangle shirtwaist factory.”
“Oh, no.”
Armanda shook her bowed head, then sipped her wine. She didn’t have to explain that her great-aunt had died along with 145 other young women in the deadliest workplace disaster in twentieth-century New York.
Sara didn’t want to leave on such a sad note, especially now that she needed to figure out a way to talk to Armanda again, without her husband. The woman knew more about the Black Hand, Sara was sure of it. “What was your favorite recipe that was handed down from your bisnonna?”
The pasta dish sounded great, but Sara’s mind kept slipping back to this gang of extortionists. How had she known so little about this part of Little Italy’s history? Now she had to make time to get to the library where she could start doing some real research. She had a feeling it would be well worth it.
Dom had wanted to know why she wasn’t doing investigative journalism. With the fire that had been lit inside her tonight, her approach to the history of Little Italy was all about to change.
* * *
THANKFULLY, DOMINIC HAD finished going over the final checklist with the owners at the Chinatown renovation. Not that there’d been anything tricky in the job, but since he and Sara had hooked up, he’d found it difficult to keep his head in the game. Thoughts of her suddenly popped up at odd times. Quick images, sounds, even the memory of her taste. Once, right in the middle of a conversation.
But now he had a break before he had to meet Tony at the office. The walk would help him get back into his stride, in more ways than one.
When his cell rang, the number that popped up belonged to New York Adventures magazine. He grinned, figuring he’d made it to the next level of interviews, which was surprising, but good. “Dominic Paladino.”
“Mr. Paladino? This is Brenda Oaks, Winona Donovan’s assistant. She’d like to know if you’re available to meet for drinks this afternoon at five-thirty.”
For a moment, he just stood in the middle of the sidewalk as unruffled pedestrians brushed by. The request was completely unorthodox. Why the senior editor of NYA would be interested in speaking personally to someone who’d applied for the marketing and insights team made no sense, even if he had impressed HR. Hell, the magazine still managed to attract advertising rates high enough to keep the physical product—given away free in every corner of New York and New Jersey—more profitable than its very popular website.
Dom agreed, got the details and, as soon as he disconnected, called Tony to move up their meeting. Just so Dom would have time to run back to the apartment so he could change into a suit and also see what he could find online about Ms. Donovan.
By the time he’d made it to the bar at Betony on Fifty-seventh, it was as crowded with upscale drinkers as its Michelin star deserved. A quick look at his watch showed he’d arrived for his meeting five minutes early.
Ms. Donovan, whom he’d researched as extensively as possible, had beaten him to the punch. She was at a small table, one slightly offset from their neighbor’s, a champagne flute between her elegantly painted nails. She’d worn a silk blouse and a skirt and was sitting with her knees crossed perfectly, showing off her long legs and very high heels.
She was a beautiful woman in her early forties who exuded the kind of lifestyle the magazine was famous for. Young people, in age and at heart, living a cosmopolitan life in the most exciting city in the world. Her chic auburn hair was pushed back with a wide, pale band, her face had a healthy youthful glow, and her smile, when she saw him, withheld just enough to let him know she was in charge.
“Ms. Donovan,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, as well. Please, have a seat.” She raised one hand, and by the time he was settled, a waiter was at his side holding an immense wine and beverage list.
“I’ll have the Pilsner.”
The young man bowed, and Dom was left with the woman who had been in the top twenty of Fortune’s Most Powerful Women three years in a row.
“A degree in finance,” she said without preamble, “two masters’ degrees, one in entrepreneurship and one in marketing and public relations, all with honors, and yet it took a rather long time to get there, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, it did. I had to take some time off due to an illness in my family. As I’m sure you know, I work for Paladino & Sons, and I was needed there.”
“Admirable. But wouldn’t joining our team take you away from them?”
“They’ve known I wasn’t going to stay in the construction business. While I’m good at my job, it’s not my calling.”
His drink arrived, and he took a sip, taking advantage of the break. He’d expected questions along these lines, but the way she studied him was intense. If it hadn’t been a work meeting, he would have said it was predatory, as if she were scoping him out as a conquest. But he doubted very much that there was anything sexual happening. Unless she assumed that he’d be exactly the kind of man who would play up the sexual angle.
Tricky, but not unprecedented. That wasn’t his game. And if it went on too long, he’d know the job wasn’t going to work out for him. He just wished he understood why he was even a contender.
“I’m surprised you wanted to meet with me.” He leaned in slightly. “I only had the one interview, with Alan Beckman.”
“Which, as you know, was recorded. You handle yourself well, which impressed a number of my colleagues, as well as myself. Along with your video résumé, we watched several speeches you’ve delivered. The talk you gave at the BuildingsNY show last March was impressive.”
“Th
ank you. Although it had very little to do with marketing.”
She smiled, as if she’d been waiting for the comment.
“The reason I wanted to meet with you today isn’t about the marketing position. I would like you to consider something else. Something new that we’re spearheading here in New York.”
He set aside his glass. “You’ve certainly got my attention.”
She stared directly at him, hesitating just long enough to hammer home that she was in charge, and that she liked a slice of drama along with her champagne. “We’re looking to hire a Director of Events.”
The title was interesting. But vague. “And what’s your vision for the post?”
“Instead of just listing major events in New York, we’re going to start sponsoring some ourselves. We want to explore producing parties, screenings, concerts, but we want our events to be unique, which isn’t going to be easy in this city. We want to make a big splash, attract a lot of attention straightaway. The Director of Events wouldn’t be responsible for the productions themselves. You would be in charge of a creative team who would put together at least two major events per year. And you would be the public face of New York Adventures Productions.”
The only thing about her pitch that excited him was the part where he’d work with a creative team. The part where he was “the face” sent all his red flags flying.
“Of course, more interviews would be necessary. You’ll have to meet with publicity and marketing. And other key members of the team. This is a pilot program, remember, and even considering someone who isn’t steeped in the NYA culture would be risky.
“However, it’s very clear you’re deeply invested in New York City. You have great appeal as a public speaker, and who knows? You might turn out to be just the breath of fresh air we’re looking for.”
“That’s very flattering. Thank you.”
Winona leaned in, her right elbow on the table. “If it goes as well as we project, our other branches will climb on board. Specifically, London, Los Angeles and Paris.”
“All three markets that are already saturated.”
“Exactly. What’s already in place is becoming stale. People know about Lollapalooza and Burning Man and U2 concerts. We want millennials and GenZ to come out in droves.”
“It’s a tall order.”
“One I don’t believe you’ll have a problem with. Unless it doesn’t appeal?”
“No, it’s interesting.”
“I’m sure you’re curious about what a position like this would mean financially. That’s not nailed down yet. I can say it will include excellent benefits, and we’re considering a bonus structure, but even without those, we plan to be competitive. We’re looking at close to six figures.”
He honestly didn’t care much about the money. It was more important for him to love what he did. Not that he’d tell her that. Even more appealing than the creative challenge, he was certain a job like this, done successfully, would open a lot of doors.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he said. “Give me a week. I’ll let you know.”
She looked surprised, but only for a moment. “A week will be fine,” she said, then looked at her watch. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Paladino.”
He stood, waited for her to alight, and then offered his hand, which she took firmly before handing him her card. Then she was off, walking with the telltale grace of someone who understood her own power.
* * *
“OH, PLEASE.” ELLIE spat the words, the look on her face one of furious betrayal. “You knew from the first day that I liked him, and you couldn’t stand that he was nice to me. How could you be such a bitch?”
“It wasn’t about you, Ellie. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. He was worried you’d be upset but I assured him you were too mature not to understand.”
“Understand that you wanted him just to prove you’re better than everyone else? Or is it that you’re trying to make Robert jealous?”
“Robert and I are finished.”
Ellie’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, yeah. Right. So that whole ‘engaged to be engaged, then moving to Rome’ thing was complete bullshit?”
Sara leaned against the door frame and wanted to cry. Ever since the morning after the feast, Ellie had been a terror. It was exponentially worse than Sara had expected. Even the other girls who worked at Moretti’s were angry with her. And though Jeanette hadn’t said anything, Sara had the feeling she was disappointed in her.
“Rome wasn’t bullshit. But obviously I’m not going there now.” Sara was ready to just shut herself in her bedroom until Ellie got her sense back. “Did you really believe Dom was going to ask you out someday? He’s eleven years older than you.”
The way her sister folded her arms over her chest and looked at her with such contempt made Sara feel sick.
“I knew it. I heard you had a crush on him in high school. That’s why you broke up with Robert. So you could trap Dom.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Oh, really? You must think I’m stupid. Every person at church has figured you out. Now everyone thinks my sister is a scheming slut. I hope you’re proud of yourself.” Ellie turned, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and marched off to her room as if she’d not just won the battle but the whole war.
Sara closed her door, then sagged against it. If this wasn’t so heartbreaking it would be funny. Ellie was so young and soon enough she’d be over Dom and totally embarrassed by her crush. Just like Sara had been.
That humiliation wasn’t something that would ever go away for Sara, not now that she understood the depth of her foolishness. But she couldn’t help thinking that maybe distancing herself from Dom would be for the best.
It would certainly ease things at home and work. And even though she had no regrets when it came to Robert, there might be a chance that Dom was simply a rebound fling. It all made complete sense. But she wouldn’t be able to do it. Stay away from Dom. It was bad enough she thought about him so often.
After that incredible night and not seeing him for three days she missed him so much.
They’d spoken, twice, and she’d been the one to tell him maybe they needed to cool it for a few more days, until Ellie got over her jealousy. It was looking as if a few days wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Anyway, all this madness had kept her too preoccupied to work, and that was crazy because she had that whole new string of inquiry to explore. If the Black Hand had been in Little Italy, why hadn’t she heard about it sooner? It could just be some old tale that had stuck in Armanda’s head.
Straightening up, she looked at her desk, then checked the time. If she got her act together quickly, she could spend at least an hour and a half looking through periodicals and newspapers.
Or she could call Dom and find out if he was busy tonight.
No. Not yet. The Black Hand search would require her full attention. She’d forget about Ellie, Robert, her parents. Dom.
Well, maybe not Dom.
Yes. Dom, too. A real reporter wouldn’t let their personal life interfere with the story.
She put her laptop in her backpack, along with her tape recorder and a notebook, and went to change out of her work clothes. When her phone rang, her heart seemed to skip a beat, hoping...
“Hey, beautiful,” Dom said, before she even said hello. “What are you doing?”
“Why?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
She’d barely shaken the image of her sister’s angry face and here she was grinning like a loon, his voice stirring up butterflies in her stomach, among other things.
She really shouldn’t.
“Oh, too soon?” His voice changed. “Are things not better with Ellie?”
“Not really.”
“That’s fi
ne. It’ll wait. You just tell me when.”
She stared at her door, thought about how the night would go if she turned him down. “No. It’s all right. We’ll just meet somewhere.”
“How about the corner of East Thirteenth and University Place. By the Union Square subway?”
“Okay. When?”
“How soon can you be there?”
“Twenty minutes. Unless I need to dress up.”
“Nope. Wait. Have you had dinner?”
“No.”
“Good. Oh, and Sara? I can’t wait to see you.”
The flutters got worse. Or better. She wasn’t sure which.
14
SARA HAD ENDED up in a taxi, even though she should have taken the subway. Her hair hadn’t cooperated, and then she’d smeared her eyeliner and had to start all over again. She’d worn one of her favorite dresses—navy blue with daisies on it that looked like spring—along with her navy ballet flats and tiny yellow cross-body bag, and it had only taken her five complete changes.
After leaving a somewhat cryptic note on the kitchen table, she’d left the house and spent her ride visualizing every worry and thought about her family floating away in an opaque bubble.
As soon as she stepped onto Thirteenth Street, she saw Dominic standing near the exit of the subway. Her breath left her on a sigh and she hoped his surprise was to take her right back to his place and do a moment-by-moment replay of the best sex she’d ever had.
It was evil, but fun to sneak up behind him and pinch his butt. Instead of jumping with a startled yelp, he just hummed low and sexy. “Finally,” he said, as he turned around. “Oh. It’s you.”
Her mouth open, about to give him a what-for, she noticed he’d seen her coming up behind him in the big old ad window next to the subway entrance. “Spoilsport.”
“I promise, the next time you pinch my ass, I’ll jump like a frightened rabbit.”
“Never mind that.” She moved in closer at the same moment he did. Now they were just a handbreadth apart. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
