“Does that bother you?”
“That he’s African? No, why should it? That he might want to go back to his own family? Yes. That bothers me.” Nico sat himself down on the crate. “And he’s at war with himself. He doesn’t know how he feels. I think you should let him go, Wena.”
Hot and cold assailed her in turn. Her brother was right, she knew it in her deepest heart, but still... “You seem to know a lot about something that doesn’t concern you.”
“You’re my only sister. I love you, and I only want the best for you. I like Jonathan. He’s a good man and I consider him a friend – especially after that night with Pietro. But you have to be realistic. Let’s say your feelings are returned, but what if he doesn’t want to stay in Sicily? Would you go with him? Even if it meant giving up the business?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You see? By your own admission, you haven’t thought about it. But you should. You know I would never begrudge you a moment’s happiness, Wen. I mean it. You deserve the love of a good man who will stand beside you and let you be the woman you were destined to be. In your heart of hearts, is that man Jonathan Afua?”
She couldn’t look at her brother, lest he see the growing uncertainty in her face.
“Are you saying I might never marry?”
“No, I’m not. But would that bother you?”
“I... I don’t know. I just assumed that one day –”
“Well, isn’t this a touching scene.”
Morwena recognized the voice behind them instantly – Pietro.
Nico rose to his feet, a hint of a growl in his throat. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought it was time to reunite with my family.”
Nico approached his older brother and Morwena was struck by a thought – Nico was her younger brother – the baby of the family. How come she had never noticed he was taller than her? Pietro, who was older than both of them by more than half a decade, had always seemed like a man, even when he was a youth. But now, here in the warehouse where the light streamed in through the open door, she could see little difference between them.
Nico was twenty-two. Pietro was thirty – two men in the prime of life.
Morwena abandoned her place and approached.
“Reunite with family? After you tried to rob us? After you nearly got me...”
To her surprise, Pietro’s shoulders slumped. His longish, black hair obscured his features but it sounded like for all the world that he was crying.
Morwena glanced at Nico and saw the same surprised look as her own mirrored in his face.
“I’m sorry,” Pietro half-sobbed.
She knew her brother to be proud man – just like her father – “I’m sorry” were two words she never thought to hear from his mouth.
Another glance at Nico showed his surprise had become bewilderment. He looked to her for a cue as to what to do next.
“You’re sorry for what, exactly?” Morwena demanded.
Pietro’s next words were anguished. “Please don’t judge me harshly. I was forced to do it! You don’t know what these men are like.”
It was the same trick he had used before, a fake mask of contrition. She would not fall for it again.
“I know what they’re like. I felt the blade against my throat. And you’re the one who led us there! You betrayed your family, and now you want to be brought into the fold like the lost prodigal son? Where is your repentance? The brother in that story was willing to work as a servant. He worked among the pigs. Are you?”
A spark of temper lit Pietro’s eyes, but he mastered it, swallowing away the most visceral reaction – but it was there and Morwena saw it.
“I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I’ll even make peace with Father.”
Nico gasped. Guileless Nico, who could not hide his innermost thoughts for long.
Morwena kept her attention on her older brother.
“Why? Why would you make peace with Father?”
The question seemed to take Pietro by surprise, but only momentarily.
“It would please you, wouldn’t it? The Gambino sons under the one roof? A family together once more? A business to pass on to the sons?”
“Pietro, Father has –”
Morwena punched Nico hard on the arm to shut his mouth. It worked. Pietro did not miss the exchange, but he said nothing.
“Father has not changed his mind about you,” Morwena said smoothly. “So it is not Nico and I you have to convince, it is him.”
“So you will put in a good word for me?” Pietro asked hopefully. “Help prepare the way?”
“Perhaps. Once I am convinced you are here in good faith.”
The mask slipped. “Well, how on earth do you expect me to do that if you don’t give me a chance?”
“Think of something.”
Pietro held his tongue, but his reddened face and eyes screamed at her. She heard the insulting terms – whore, bitch, cow – as clearly as if he had spoken them. Nico must have understood, too, because he edged closer to her side in silent support.
“And you, too, Brother? Do I have to earn your love and respect, too? Is this what family means to you? What happened to Christian forgiveness, then, eh? Turning the other cheek?”
“You’d respect us less if we were fools, Pietro,” Nico answered. “We are not fools.”
“Then what? What are we to do? How do I earn this precious regard?”
Morwena stepped between the two men.
“Start by giving us time, Pietro. You cannot erase scars overnight. Where are you staying? Perhaps we can have a meal and talk – really talk.”
She watched Pietro take a breath and hold it. For a moment, she wondered whether she would witness an explosive burst of temper. Instead, he let it out slowly.
“I will come back next week.”
With Nico still at her side, Morwena watched Pietro disappear into the bright sunlight. She suppressed a shiver and went as far as the doorway, just in time to see Pietro round the corner into the laneway that ran between the two warehouses.
“What are we going to do, Wen? Do we tell Father?”
What to do, indeed?
“No... I don’t think we should tell Father.”
“You’re still angry at Pietro, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m angry! His friends tried to rob us. Who knows what they might have done if Jonathan and his men hadn’t arrived when they did. I cannot trust Pietro until he shows he is to be trusted.”
After a moment, Nico nodded and snagged the broom leaning against the wall. Morwena walked back to the table accompanied by the rasping sound of straw against stone. She stared at the ledger, filling in the pages by rote, still distracted by Pietro’s unexpected arrival.
She put down her pen.
“Nico?”
The rasping stopped.
“We shouldn’t tell Pietro about Father giving the business to me. In fact, we shouldn’t tell anyone. And not about our arrangement with the Terpsichore either.”
“Then what do we say? I don’t like lying.”
“I don’t either, but there’s a difference between telling a lie and revealing things which are none of anyone else’s business, capiche?”
“Yeah, capiche.”
“As far as anyone knows, we’re renting out warehouse space and doing a little buying for the Terpsichore, that is all.”
“I thought that’s all we were doing.”
“That’s true, but I think there is more to what the Terpsichore and her crew are doing than we know about – especially with the French and English at war. I think we should just be cautious with whom we share our business, that’s all.”
***
Jonathan closed his eyes and felt the resistance of the strings at his fingertips as ran the bow across the strings of the violin. He loved the sound it made – the sounds he created – a long, heartbreaking wail, a short stabbing staccato.
He was fifteen when he first saw
a violin during Gottleib’s early expeditions when Heinrich was with him. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on it. By the age of twelve, Jonathan had already mastered masenqo, the one-stringed lute, played with a bow that resembled one used to shoot arrows – a concave-shaped stick held taut by horsehair string.
But this compact instrument, elegant in its form, sinuous in shape, fit in his hand as though it was made for him.
It had not taken him long to pick up the rudiments of playing it and it gave Gottleib and his nephew no end of delight to teach him the language of European music until Jonathan far surpassed his teachers in aptitude and talent.
Now, he played a rhythmic folk tune, snatches of which he recalled from a tavern in Palermo, and watched the crew of the Terpsichore use the tempo of his playing to practice their sword drills.
Hardacre joined in, too, grinning as he whacked a mistimed sailor on the arm with the flat of his blade. The bruise on the captain’s face was still vivid, even after five days. The man seemed to wear it like a badge of honor yet treated him no differently.
So what was it?
As soon as Jonathan asked himself the question, he knew.
He had changed. As painful as it was – he could still feel the cut in his mouth – Hardacre had forced him to lance the boil, to confront his feelings of powerlessness and shame – indeed, the disgust he felt whenever he thought about his helplessness.
More than that, Hardacre had given him a purpose – a way to move forward and possibly exact justice for Mellesse and their girls. That’s why he stood here playing music, marking time for men around him to sharpen their skills.
We’re going to war.
He could die. With purpose now driving him, Jonathan felt a strange sort of peace. Ending Kaddouri’s reign of terror was the highest form of good he could conceive of. There was nobility in dying for such an end.
How strange it was – just a few months ago he was alive and wanted to die, now he was prepared to die and wanted to live.
Elias Nash caught his eye. He was a man of peace who eschewed violence where he could. On ship, he used his sharp mind, sense of fair play and physical bearing to help Hardacre bring order.
No wonder they called him Preacher.
It had never occurred to him that such a man had no idea how to fight, not until he made the confession that he’d never handled a sword, and the only time he used a knife was to eat.
The rest of the sailors onboard the Terpsichore were typical and rough seamen. Street brawlers no doubt, who allowed their fists to answer for them. As for himself, he had been part of the hunt as soon as he was old enough to hold a knife and accompany the men of his clan.
How Hardacre thought that these two dozen men would be enough to take on the hundreds Kaddouri had at his disposal was beyond him. Yet they followed – and cheerfully so.
Elias’ sword skills seemed to be coming along nicely. The man played guitar and, as a result, quickly picked up the rhythm, the ebb and flow of close quarters combat. Hardacre watched on and then drew his sword.
Two against one. Elias had caught him out of the corner of his eye and looked momentarily taken aback. Jonathan smiled and decided to complicate things even more so for the Englishman. He switched his playing to a lively reel and ignored the groans of protest from the other men exhausted from their drills.
Come on, Elias, draw your knife.
The man did, as though he could hear Jonathan. Elias quickly determined which of his two colleagues was greater threat. He turned to confront Hardacre with his sword, using his knife to fend off the other.
Yes, that’s it.
In his mind’s eye, Jonathan inhabited Elias’ body, feeling the weight of both cutlass and knife, and willed him forward. It was a strange sort of dance. As he played, Elias moved his feet. Only Hardacre was agile enough to keep up with him.
The other sailor dropped out and joined the others who had now abandoned their drills to watch Hardacre and Nash. He stopped playing the violin and joined the others.
Jonathan had no idea when the exercise became serious. Perhaps it was when Hardacre turned his blade, so it was no longer the flat of it that struck Nash’s arm. A line of blood seeped through a cut in his shirt.
“Captain! Ship off our port side!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
November 1811
“Did you go through the ledgers last night?”
Nico looked up, bleary eyed, over his coffee at her. He opened his mouth wide and screwed up his face in a yawn, shaking his head in answer to her question.
Morwena rolled her eyes at her brother’s uncouth table manners and set down her own coffee cup. “I asked Father and he says he hasn’t looked at the books in three weeks.”
“Are you sure?” he said through another yawn. “He might be becoming forgetful again.”
“Perhaps.” She offered that as a sop to her brother.
Papa had been fine for weeks – in fact, his health was the best it had been in ages. Having Nico come home had done wonders for his health. So much so, she waited for the day when her father would tell her he had changed his mind and the business should go to a son and not a daughter.
But that had been a month ago and nothing about the matter had been said. Perhaps, she worried over nothing. That didn’t explain why the ledgers were in the wrong order on the bookshelf. She was the one who looked at them last.
Nico set his cup down on the table heavily.
“You don’t think... Pietro.” He whispered their older brother’s name.
She grimaced, her brother giving voice to the nagging fear.
“It’s safer to assume that it is.”
She picked up her coffee again and savored the lukewarm bitterness in the strong, black brew and thought. Pietro knew how his father’s business was run. He was a young man being groomed to take over when they fell out.
And Morwena had done little to change the routine. The books were kept in the same place, the strongbox with their cash was always hidden in the same place. A register of contracts was on the bookshelf in the alcove across the way. Pietro could walk in here tomorrow and take away with everything of value. Had the locks ever been changed?
“Our contract with the Terpsichore, I want to hide it – along with copies of all of our new suppliers – anyone who doesn’t supply this shop should be kept separately. I trust Father Pieu to keep Father’s testament safe, but I want the copy here to be safe. The bank. We’ll rent a vault.”
She was already making a mental list of things she needed to do. She would have liked to have changed the locks also, but that could take weeks before they could be fitted – and besides, Pietro had shown himself more than adept at climbing up to the balcony and in through the windows.
“And the suppliers who know our family,” Nico began. “I’ll tell them that they should only speak to you, Father, and me. Pietro is persona non-grata.”
“I’ll feel much better when our friends return home,” Morwena said, more to herself than to her brother.
“Or is there one in particular?”
She screwed up her nose and poked out her tongue. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Nico’s answer was a grin. “What kind of brother would I be if I did? I am here to keep you honest.”
“Honest? I say –”
Crash!
The sound of breaking glass from down below brought them both to their feet. Nico reached the stairs first and he took them two at a time. She was right behind him. They pulled back the curtain and entered the shop. The large display window was smashed.
Nico surged forward and, in quick, practiced movements, unbolted the door and took off at a run down the street. The slamming door behind him set off the bell violently.
Morwena picked up the broom from behind the counter. Woe betide the little vandal if Nico got a hold of him.
The window would be expensive to replace but, at least from what she could see, nothing had been stolen from the d
isplay. Mind you, smashing a window and grabbing wrought iron fire dogs and cauldrons would not have been an easy feat. Even the tin buckets and the copper kettles were unmolested.
It was early and few people were about. Those who did approach tutted their dismay at the destruction, offered their commiserations and moved on.
The morning was overcast. Through the broken window, Morwena could smell the rain that came in on the cold breeze.
Pig’s Misery!
She swept the glass into a bucket; even so, little pieces, not much bigger than a grain of salt, glinted at her as the sun moved out from behind the cloud. The floor would have to be mopped thoroughly.
She started pulling apart the display when she spotted something that didn’t belong – a brick, and not one used to prop up one of the iron kitchen stands on the uneven floor. She reached in and grabbed for the ochre-colored block.
The shop bell rang again. Nico panted hard. “I nearly caught up with the bastard, but he had too much of a head start.”
She retrieved the brick and stood.
“Was it one of the local children?”
“No, a man, but he wore a hat and a cloak, so I didn’t get a good look at him. What have you got there?”
“A brick,” Morwena answered absently. She would have to see if they had enough wood to cover the hole. How long would it take to replace the glass? How much would it cost?
“Not the brick, idiot. There’s something tied around it.”
She looked down. How could she have missed it? A rolled up piece of paper was tied to the brick with string. She pulled out the note and tossed the brick to her brother.
Expect this and more. Traitor. We will make you pay.
“Is that all it says?” Nico asked after she read out the ten words. Morwena nodded.
“Cazzo!”
Morwena would never have used the profanity herself, not out loud at least, but she couldn’t disagree with the sentiment.
“We need to talk to our neighbors. We can’t let this grow,” said Nico. “I’ve heard how these extortion rackets start. They will ask for a small amount to stop the petty vandalism and then they will ask for more and more.”
Morwena knew it. The world had changed. The old order had gone for all of its injustice and flaws, and it wouldn’t return. Now, she was beginning to fear what might take its place.
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