by Jo Leigh
Ellie blinked and bit her lower lip just like her sister did, although the concern didn’t stick.
“It didn’t help that she was painfully shy back then.”
“Sara? Shy?”
“Crazy shy. And me and my big conceited mouth must have crippled her.”
Ellie shook her head. “There’s no way you did that. You’re like the nicest—”
“I’m not lying. You think it’s easy for me to admit I was that much of an asshole? If I was going to lie, I’d try to make myself look better than that.”
“Yeah, but you could still exaggerate so I’d feel all sorry for her.”
“Come on, Ellie, this isn’t grade school.” He sighed when she flinched. “Anyway, I don’t need to exaggerate. Pull out her yearbook. And once you’ve taken a good look, try to imagine what your life would be like if you hadn’t turned out so pretty.”
Her blush was quick, and it made her duck her head.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You were a beautiful child and now you’re turning into a beautiful young woman. You’re confident and outgoing. The only place Sara had ever been remotely like that was when she’d worked on the school paper, and because I’d been so cruel, she later retaliated by writing the article that got her kicked off the paper for the rest of the time she was at Loyola.”
“Well, that was stupid. She shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re absolutely right. She had no business writing something she knew was false. I’m not defending what she did.” He’d kept the girl longer than he’d intended. But no customers had come in, or at least he hadn’t heard the bell over the door, so Ellie was just going to have to hear a little more. “That said, I don’t believe she should have been taken off the paper as punishment. Sara made a mistake...we all do. But you and I both know how being one of the popular kids lets you catch a lot of breaks. She caught none.”
Ellie wasn’t exactly repentant, but neither did she look as defiant as she had before.
“I know you’ve realized that I’m interested in Sara. I have no idea why but, luckily for me, she decided to give me a second chance I don’t even deserve. It’s been a long time coming.”
The way Ellie stared at him—through him—made it clear she was thinking of someone else.
“One last thing. And I mean it. I’m not interested in Sara because she’s pretty. It doesn’t hurt, I’m not going to lie, but there’s so much more to her. I want to know Sara because she’s a remarkable person.”
Ellie took in a deep breath and actually met his eyes. “Okay. But that doesn’t make it all right for her to act like she knows everything about everything.”
Dom held back a laugh. “Well, I’ll leave that part for you two to work out.”
She almost smiled.
“Okay, I’ve kept you long enough—”
The door opened, and Sara, carrying a shopping bag stopped, worry spreading across her face at seeing the two of them huddled together.
Ellie took a step, hesitated, then offered Sara a tiny smile, before hurrying to cash someone out.
“What was all that about?” Sara asked, meeting him halfway.
“I think my pizza’s getting cold,” he said, taking the bag from her, then giving it up to Jeanette waiting at the counter.
“Dom...”
“It was a private conversation between Ellie and me,” he said, noting the girl’s little grin. “Nothing to worry about. I promise.”
Sara sighed, skewering him with a suspicious glare.
Dom just smiled. “I was wondering,” he said, loud enough that everyone near the counter and behind it could hear, “if you’d like to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
He looked at Ellie, Djamila, Jeannette and the blonde who was holding two slices of pepperoni. “Anyone have a problem with that?”
18
SARA SLIPPED HER flash drive into the Forty-second Street library’s computer to download another article she’d found on the Black Hand. It was from the New York Tribune, dated 1889, and it was more of an obituary than an article; the death of an elderly Italian man, patriarch of a large family who’d come over from Naples. He’d been beaten by an unknown gang on Hester Street, and the police had found part of a note that had the signature drawing of a black hand holding a dagger on the header. She downloaded the sepia-toned wrinkled picture, although she was more interested in the name of the deceased. Olivet. Just like the Olivet family who’d lived down the street from Sara’s family.
She made a note to get in touch with Gabby Olivet, who’d been her mother’s friend since childhood, then panicked when she noticed the time. Dom would be calling soon, but there was still so much to research. Of course, she’d be coming back. Since her focus had shifted to the Black Hand, her thesis was taking an interesting twist and she needed to do a lot more than chronicle the immigrant families’ stories. It was critical to record as many histories as possible.
At the same time, she needed to gather reliable data from the earliest immigrants. She’d had no idea the depth of the reportage that survived in the digitized articles from the Tribune, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, all dating back to the early to mid nineteenth century.
She went back to the computer, and found a police report that had a long list of names, all supposedly linked to the extortion rings.
The sound of her phone made her scramble to answer it before she got herself kicked out.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
Dom’s voice made her smile. “Hey.”
“I gather you’re still at the library. Or else you’re whispering because you want to have phone sex.”
She laughed, covering her mouth. Actually phone sex in a library sounded kind of exciting. Risky, though. She didn’t need to be barred from the best resource she’d found. “Yes, I’m at the library.”
“Damn. Maybe another time. How’s it going?”
“Better than I’d imagined. There’s so much material from the mid-1800s on, from so many different sources. Thank goodness I brought my 128-gig flash drive.”
“There’s that much?”
“Probably not. Listen to this. Three tenements were set on fire within a span of one week in 1887. No one died, but some kids were hurt, and seven families were displaced. The fires were traced to three different gangs, all claiming to be the Black Hand. Most of them weren’t gangs at all, just a few desperate men who’d heard about the racket and were trying to cash in. It’s actually sad and tragic.”
“You’re sympathizing with the extortionists?”
“No. Yes, kind of. What wouldn’t you do for your family? I’d like to think I wouldn’t steal or hurt anyone, but I’ve never been in such dire circumstances.”
“Huh. That’s actually a lot to think about. I wonder if there are any accounts from the blackmailers in those archives. It would add a great slant to your thesis.”
“I know. The more I learn, the more excited I get.”
“Okay, now I really want to see you.”
Sara grinned. “You trying to weasel out of buying me dinner?”
“Nope. Too many witnesses yesterday. How about Chinese? I was thinking—”
She lost what he was saying when she got to the next line. In a list of names one stood out: Valente Paladino. The sentence after that was just as shocking. Considered a ringleader on Mulberry Street.
“Hello?” Dom asked. “You still there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Something in this article caught my eye.”
“You think you’ll be done soon?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, scribbling the names as fast as she could, even though she would download the whole page after she’d closed it.
�
�Good, because I’m...” His voice changed. It was no longer coming from the phone but from behind her. “Already here.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin, her finger instantly hitting the page down button several times. “You scared me.”
He leaned over and kissed her. “I didn’t mean to do that. Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said. “It’ll just take me a minute to wrap things up. Where were you thinking about eating?”
He walked around the table and pulled out a chair.
“I’ll only be a minute,” she said, ignoring the temptation to just stare at him.
Wearing a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie askew, his top button undone, he looked sexy. Her heart had already been beating fast because of what she’d seen on the screen, but now...
With the reminder of what she saw, she got a bit manic in her rush to put her notebooks away, unplug her flash drive and zip up her backpack. There was no need to jot down her place in the Times—she’d never forget it now.
Dom pushed the chair back in as she turned off the machine. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she said, hoping that the name in the paper meant nothing.
Dom came around the table, slipped her backpack over his shoulder, then stole a kiss that wasn’t meant for a research library.
Everything else that had busied her mind for the past several hours drifted away on his taste, his scent and the way he used his mouth to show her what he wanted for dessert.
When they finally pulled apart, he looked deeply into her eyes. And there was that frisson thing again. Only this time it didn’t just travel down her back, but all the way to her toes.
She forced herself to step back before they did something they’d regret. “Did I tell you I got two calls today? People wanting me to interview them. Both women said they know about the Black Hand.”
“At least the gossip chain is working in your favor.”
“Yeah, I hope it keeps on going.”
As they approached the exit, Dom slipped his arm around her shoulders. “So, Robert?”
She stopped dead. “What?”
“Ellie mentioned him yesterday. I know it’s probably none of my business and if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Sara said, and she really didn’t, but she had to wonder what Ellie had told him. “Robert and I were together for two years at GWU, both majoring in journalism. He left for Rome to make some connections in the Vatican a couple of months before I came home. The plan had been for me to finish my thesis, then join him there. It didn’t take long for that to fall apart.”
“I figured it had to be something like that.”
“I wasn’t hiding anything.”
“Oh, no. It wasn’t an accusation.” Dom tightened his arm around her as they reached the exit and walked down the steps between the two lions. “Ellie was still mad at you when she told me.”
“It’s getting better between us,” she said. “It’s fine that neither one of you will tell me exactly what happened. Sort of. We’re not exactly besties, but the verbal jabs have stopped.”
“Good. And if you really want me to tell all, I will.”
“No. It’s okay, but I reserve the right to change my mind.”
He walked them to the curb and stuck out his hand. The traffic was crazy, so it wouldn’t be a quick ride to Chinatown. “You think you guys broke up because of the long-distance thing?”
She sucked in a breath.
“Hey, sorry, I shouldn’t be asking.”
She shook her head. “The reason I hesitated was that I’m kind of embarrassed to tell you the truth.”
“So don’t tell me.” Dom smiled. “It’s okay.”
Sara thought for a moment. “I let him manipulate me,” she said. “I just didn’t realize it until a couple of weeks ago—”
“Sara, honestly, I—”
“I want to.” Snuggled up against Dom’s hard body, she felt brave. And happy. She’d never felt this way with Robert. “We were both focused on investigative journalism. But I always got better grades, more articles in the school paper. Oh, and we first met in Italian class, of all places. I was already close to being fluent, and he’d always had a thing about the Vatican. A year ago he started pushing me toward human interest stories. Trying to convince me that was where my real talent was. I feel foolish that it took me so long to realize he didn’t want the competition.”
Dom lowered his arm, even though no cab had stopped. He studied her, his face solemn. “That complaint to the school board and then the fallout probably had a lot to do with your willingness to believe him. You were young. I can see how something that traumatic could make a person vulnerable to manipulation.”
It was Sara’s turn to search his eyes. “I hope you’re not thinking any part of what happened to me was your fault. I made a very bad choice. But I think you’re right. It did make me doubt myself.”
“I’d still like to punch out Coach Randal.”
“Well, then I’ll hold him down for you.”
“That wouldn’t be necessary.”
“Show-off,” she said, squeezing his hard biceps.
Dom smiled and pulled her close. “You’re a strong woman, Sara, and your ethics and values are going to make you a great journalist. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Sara’s eyes misted and she buried her face against his shoulder. She doubted he’d ever know just how much his support meant to her.
* * *
“COME IN, COME IN.”
Mrs. Di Stefano led Sara into her beautiful Queens town house, with elegant drapes, a Persian rug framed by a gleaming hardwood floor and a portrait of what Sara guessed was a matriarch from the old country above the fireplace.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Sara said, and sat on the couch across from a pair of wing chairs. “You have a lovely home.”
The older woman, who was as polished as her surroundings, beamed. “Would you like some sangria?” She gestured to the pitcher sitting on the coffee table between them. “It’s an old recipe from my mother, but if you’d prefer I have sparkling water and tea.”
“I’m fine for now. Although I’d love to try some sangria before I go.”
“Yes, of course.” She sat in the wing chair and watched as Sara brought out her recorder and notebook. “This research about la Mano Nera is for school?”
“My master’s thesis, yes. As I mentioned, I’ll be recording our conversation, all right?”
Mrs. Di Stefano nodded, and with pen in hand, Sara turned on the recorder.
“I heard many stories about the Black Hand, mostly from my husband’s grandmother, who lived with us for many years before she passed. She wasn’t a morbid woman, in fact, she used to talk more about her mother’s stories of elaborate puppet shows, and how before La Guardia became mayor, there were organ grinders throughout the city, with their dressed-up monkeys, collecting pennies and nickels in tin cups.
“But she also remembered some terrible things. Her uncle worked at Penn Station, which was a very good job at the time. He’d learned to speak English, so he sold tickets for the steam trains.” Mrs. Di Stefano stopped. “I have cookies. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.” Sara smiled graciously, but all she wanted was for the woman to keep talking.
“He brought home more money than a lot of other men living in the old Little Italy. Now it’s East Harlem, but back then, it was all Italian. He received a letter with a handprint, big, black ink, in the center of the paper, with a drawing of a dagger. It wasn’t that unusual, and he knew that if he didn’t pay what they wanted, they could hurt his family.
“The story went that he paid a large sum to the blackmailers. Maybe the equivalent of thr
ee thousand dollars. Much more than was typical. Usually, they asked for a hundred, maybe two. So, he paid the money, and it was very hard for a long time. At least he was alive. His friend, who also worked at Penn Station, was strangled and his body burned after he refused to pay.”
“Oh, God.”
“Everyone knew. They wanted to create fear. People became suspicious of neighbors, of relatives. It wasn’t an easy life in those days.”
“Your husband’s grandmother, did she mention her uncle’s name?”
“Orsini. Jacopo Orsini.”
Sara recognized the name. He was one of the men listed in the police report, although not as a victim. “That’s fascinating,” Sara said, pulling out one of the documents she’d copied at the library. It was easy enough to find Orsini’s name on the list. “I found a reference to a man by that name, on a police report from 1903. He was arrested for extortion and threatening a family with violence.”
Mrs. Di Stefano looked utterly horrified. “That’s someone else. There must have been a lot of people with that name. It wasn’t her uncle.”
Sara had done a more detailed search on the names from that report. “It says here that he was married to Elena Passerini and had brothers named Taddeo and Isidoro.”
“Impossible.” She stood up, looking at Sara as if she’d been responsible for the arrest.
“This information is from the public records. I can show you, if you like.”
“Those records are lies. I think it’s best if you leave now.”
Sara was stunned into stillness. This morning she’d been worried that she’d have so many stories that there would be arguments and contradictions. It never occurred to her that anyone would actually be upset by something that had happened generations ago.
