Il Bestione (The Golden Door Duet Book 2)

by Susan Fanetti

  In his current condition, could he fight one guard?

  Honestly, he didn’t know. Not even to save Mirabella could he be sure. But he had to try. He held out his hand. “I need my blade.”

  She closed it and handed it to him. He slipped it back into his pocket for now, so he could focus on getting to his feet. This rudimentary plan, founded on hope and fancy more than anything, went straight to hell if he couldn’t stand.

  He got to his feet, nearly dropped to his knees as his ribs shrieked, and managed to get himself stable. How he’d make a fist, much less swing an arm, he didn’t know. He hoped he’d find the strength in the need.

  Meanwhile, he’d hope Mirabella’s fancy was correct, and they were alone in the building.

  Then he remembered they were locked in a room, so her fancy fell flat at once.

  “Our first obstacle is the door. We can’t stroll through a locked door.”

  “I don’t think it is. Two of them were fighting about it, when they brought you in. They thought I was unconscious. The door sticks. The lock won’t turn.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She smiled—it was not the kind of smile you’d want to see if you’d recently crossed this woman. “They are arrogant men. Arrogance is stupidity in a fancy suit.”

  He chuckled—and immediately it became a groan. His ribs had no sense of humor. Surprisingly, Mirabella had unearthed his and buffed it up so well he found humor even now. “Words of wisdom to remember.”

  Her smile became pleased and warm.

  Though he had to lean on her a little, Paolo managed to walk. The door wasn’t locked, or even fully latched. Mirabella gave it a sharp yank, and it opened—with a loud squeal.

  If they were not alone in the building, they had just announced themselves.

  A thought exploded to the center of Paolo’s mind, and it suddenly, perhaps irrationally, became crucially important. He held Mirabella back. She turned, curious. “We must go.”

  “In the event I don’t survive this, I need to tell you something. I saw Lilith Barton on the street yest—yesterday? The day all this happened.”

  Dark, slashing brows drew in suspiciously. “Yesterday, yes. If you’re about to make a confession, Paolo, think carefully. I’m no priest to offer you absolution. I don’t care where we are.”

  This was why he loved her so. Fierce and tough as a warrior. Too stubborn to take a confession, even on what might as well be a deathbed.

  “No. I saw her on the street. She seemed ill. I bought her tea. She fainted, and I took her to her rooming house—the one who took our girls?”

  “Edna Crandall’s house? Miss Barton lives there?”

  “Yes. I carried her to her room and called for Dr. Goldman. That’s all. When he arrived, I left—and walked into a bevy of whispering girls outside her door. If you hear of it, I swear to you, it was nothing.”

  She studied him for a moment, her expression unchanged. Then the burgeoning accusation lifted, and she smiled brightly. “Oh my, what those girls must think.”

  “What do you think, Bella? That’s all I care about.”

  “I think this isn’t the time for such a talk. So let’s carry on.”

  When she tried to move, he held. “Do you believe me?”

  “Of course, silly man. But please, let’s—”

  “Going somewhere?” the Pinkerton with the scratched face asked, suddenly looming in the doorway.

  It was that brief moment he took to be clever that did him in, Paolo thought later. If he’d simply charged into the room, he’d have surprised them both, and likely subdued them again—and more securely the second time.

  But he took that second or two to announce his presence, and Paolo reached at once for his blade—which was not in his pocket. Had the tear been bigger than he’d thought? Had it slipped through?

  In the time it took him to realize his knife was gone and wonder where, the Pinkerton was already falling to his knees, holding his belly in hands dripping blood, and Mirabella stood over him, her hand dripping blood, too—and holding Paolo’s blade. He had a flash of a strained memory, of her standing over him much the same way, holding bloody tailor’s scissors.

  But she hadn’t stabbed the Pinkerton with scissors. She’d used Paolo’s switchblade.

  She’d picked his fucking pocket.

  And gutted a fucking Pinkerton.

  XXIV

  Dr. Goldman set his listening device on Paolo’s chest. “Take the deepest breath you can for me, please.”

  Twelve days ago, Paolo and Mirabella had staggered from an abandoned East River warehouse and made it a furtive block and a half toward the Five Points when the Mercedes—carrying Cosimo, Aldo, and Nello—had screeched its brakes right in front of them.

  They’d rescued themselves about twenty minutes before rescue would have come.

  In the ensuing days, Paolo had regained most of his strength. After only a bit more than a day in bed, from which he’d managed his men, he and Aldo had met with the Manhattan head of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and they had come to an agreement.

  Two Pinkertons were dead in their attempts to thwart Paolo. The others involved were being reassigned far from New York. In exchange for Paolo not killing the whole fucking gang and scattering their parts like seeds across the city, he would be notified should anyone—anyone—else ever attempt to retain the agency’s services against him.

  To have the notorious Pinkertons in his pocket was an accomplishment not even he had thought himself capable of. He might almost have thought the ordeal worth it for that result.

  Except the price had been greater than his and Mirabella’s peril.

  That sense he’d had of things not adding up, of too many coincidences happening too quickly and closely together, had never reconciled for him, not until that meeting—where he’d learned that one of his own men, Gustavo, had given him up. That was how and why the Pinkertons had known so quickly to retaliate, and had found Mirabella so fast. Gus had been working with them. Angling for a job.

  Gus, whom he’d assigned to Mirabella as her driver.

  In the course of handling that internal matter, Paolo had drawn from Gus the confession that he’d been frustrated at his relatively low status in the Romano family and hadn’t seen a way to rise higher at the pace he though he deserved. He’d wanted to move on.

  His groaned confession had been the last thing he’d ever said.

  Gus was the first of Paolo’s own men he’d had to kill, and he’d been sick with fury and betrayal. But Gus had been made an example, and Paolo had a new perspective on the family he was building. So he supposed there might be something worthwhile to be dredged from that ordeal as well. The new alliance with the Pinkertons had proven fruitful at once.

  A great deal had happened in not many days, including considerable physical recovery, but it still hurt like a gorilla was pulling his ribs apart when Paolo took a deep breath for the doctor now. And then two more, as the little device moved around on his chest.

  Surprisingly, only one rib seemed to have actually broken in the beating, and that not clear through. It was the same rib that had once been broken so badly its jagged edge had come through his skin; Dr. Goldman believed it had cracked this time at the point of its earlier reknitting.

  Other than that, Paolo had two new scars on his face, where repeated blows had torn the skin. The rest of the injuries had been deep, dark, massive bruises the doctor called ‘hematomas’ across his back, sides, chest, and belly. After twelve days, those still showed as nasty, blackish-green splotches and remained a bit tender.

  He’d pissed blood for a week, but that was over, too.

  He probably wasn’t going to be pretty for his wedding in a week, but then, the slash through his mouth had taken care of that long ago.

  Mirabella had a scar now, too, a thin red line about an inch long above her left eyebrow. Where a Pinkerton had bashed her face into a wall.

  The same Pinkerton she’d later killed. Sh
e’d stuck Paolo’s switchblade into his belly and yanked, gutting him like a fish.

  The switchblade she’d picked from Paolo’s own pocket. Turned out, she’d been learning more than cards from the boys she’d been teaching. He was torn between anger at the boys—and her—for such a thing, and admiration for her bravery and boldness.

  Not to mention her quick study. Considering that she’d saved them, he’d focused on his admiration and hadn’t expressed the anger. Much.

  All in all, Paolo felt quite fortunate. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to, the sense that Fate had been working with him rather than against him. Perversely, he wasn’t sure it was such a good thing to which to become accustomed. It seemed safer to expect the world always to be against him.

  For now, he’d take the good luck that had kept Mirabella relatively safe and them both thoroughly alive.

  Fortunate or not, he still hurt acutely when he did the doctor’s bidding and drew in deep breaths. But he tried not to show it.

  Dr. Goldman listened for a minute and then leaned back, peering at Paolo over his spectacles. “I know more than most, I think, what you can survive, Paolo. And I know more than most when you’re in pain. It helps me help you if I see the pain clearly. Don’t be stoic now.”

  At the end of the bed, Mirabella snorted. “That day never come, doctor.”

  Paolo ignored her and kept his focus on Dr. Goldman. “Are you done?”

  He was finding his way back toward an esteem for and trust of the doctor, but he would always feel threatened by anyone who wanted to see him hurt, for whatever reason they might want it. Mirabella was right. He didn’t appreciate the snort—or the roll of her eyes he was sure had accompanied it—but she was right. He would not show pain.

  Dr. Goldman sighed. “Yes. Will you tell me, at least, the extent of your discomfort?”

  “Manageable.”

  “All right. I won’t push. You’re healing well, overall. I’ve given you my lecture about the dangers you put yourself in, but you’ve survived this last one well. I don’t think I need to wrap your chest again”—he turned to Mirabella—“but if he lets it slip that he’s really hurting, you can wrap for him, yes?”

  Mirabella nodded. “I know to do it, yes.”

  “Good.” He took Paolo’s chin—unshaven for these twelve days; he now had a full beard—and lifted his face to study it by the light from the window. “The bruising on your face is fading well. Your torso will be colorful for a while yet, that bruising is deep in the muscles, but your face should be back to its usual color in time for the wedding. And you can shave now, if you’d like.”

  Another nonverbal noise from the end of the bed. Mirabella liked his new beard.

  Paolo did not. It itched, and it was hot—though he might keep it through the wedding, as a little gift for her. He hadn’t decided yet. It really did itch.

  He pulled his head free. “Thank you, doctor.”

  Dr. Goldman nodded.

  “There is a thing one more,” Mirabella said. “Is he strong good enough for … for to be … to make …?” Her English failed her, but Dr. Goldman spoke Italian, so she said, “Fottere?”

  Which was just about the most impolite way of expressing the act of love she could have chosen for this company. Paolo grinned. His face was becoming more used to the expression, and the ache in his muscles was lessening over time. He’d checked it in the mirror and knew his smile was an odd thing, moving far more up the less scarred side of his face, and making the slash through his mouth twist a bit, but Mirabella loved it anyway.

  The doctor turned, peering over his spectacles at her now. He was obviously shocked that she’d brought it up at all, much less in that way. He didn’t know Paolo’s woman like Paolo did. There was little she was shy about, and propriety only mattered to her as a boundary to make note of as she stomped over it on the way to doing what she wanted.

  Dr. Goldman cleared his throat. “Uh … well …” Unable to bear speaking of this to a woman, even one so comfortable with frankness, he turned to Paolo. “Until the bruises fade completely, you should be careful of exertion. The rib doesn’t seem to have snapped this time, but it will take a month or more still before it’s fully healed. But I know next week is your wedding, so … yes. If you’re careful not to engage in too much … exertion, I think it will be fine.”

  The man—a medical doctor—was actually blushing.

  As he packed up his bag, Mirabella cleared her throat in a decidedly rhetorical way. Paolo knew what she wanted, they’d talked about it, but Paolo had built up long habits of reticence and they weren’t so easy to break. When she cleared her throat again, even more obviously, he relented, before she took matters into her own hands. The doctor was a bit thrown by Mirabella at the moment.

  “Doctor.”

  The old man was in the process of buckling his bag. He stopped and turned back to Paolo. “Yes?”

  “Mirabella and I would be honored if you’d join us at the church next week. Mrs. Goldman, too, of course.”

  “You mean for your wedding?” He blinked. “You’re inviting us to your wedding?”

  His confusion made Paolo see what a bastard he’d been to this man who had been sometimes, deservedly, firm with him, but always, even undeservedly, kind.

  “Yes. Will you come to see us married?” In the event that the invitation needed more enticement, he added, “Caterina and her family will be there.”

  Now the doctor smiled warmly. He turned to Mirabella, and that warm smile became beatific. “I see a great deal of healing has happened of late.”

  Mirabella’s answering smile was like the sun. Her face was so wonderfully expressive. The statement her smile made needed no words to be clear.

  Dr. Goldman returned his attention to Paolo. “It is a great honor to be invited, Paolo. Mrs. Goldman and I would be happy to attend.”

  Oddly, it really did feel as if something inside Paolo was healing. Something deeper than blood or bone.

  As the doctor headed to the door, where Mirabella waited to escort him downstairs, he stopped and turned back. “You asked after Miss Barton when I first saw you after …” he waved vaguely at Paolo, who understood.

  Aldo had sent for the doctor after getting Paolo and Mirabella back to the house, and Paolo had asked how the woman he’d helped was doing. Then, Dr. Goldman had reported that she was weak and in difficult straits, but improving over when Paolo had last seen her.

  “Yes. How is she?”

  The doctor sighed. “I’m sorry to report that she passed away two nights ago.”

  “What?” Mirabella asked in a burst. “But she is young!”

  “Yes. Twenty-nine.”

  Two years older than Paolo. “What happened to her? Illness?”

  “Of a sort, yes. She took too much laudanum and died in her sleep.”

  “Santa Madre,” Mirabella gasped. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Goldman said. “I don’t know if she meant it or made a mistake.”

  Paolo thought he knew why, and he doubted it was a mistake. Contempt for the woman’s weakness rose up inside him. Yes, she’d met some difficulties, but if she hadn’t been able to withstand a loss of status, then there wasn’t much of worth to her at all.

  He was almost sorry he’d helped her. “Thank you, doctor.”

  He heard the chill in his tone, and the others in the room did, too. They both looked at him with surprised reproof. He stared back but said no more.

  “Yes, well,” Goldman said. “I don’t need to check in on you again, unless you need me. If so, send for me.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Mirabella said. “Come, I take you to the door.”

  While she led the doctor down, Paolo stood up from the bed and reached for his shirt.

  The summer sun streamed through the window, and he looked out over the bleak grime of the street to the sky above it. Clear and blue. A breeze lifted the curtains, and a robin chirped from its perch in a scrawny treetop.

  He
did not understand people who wouldn’t fight. Twelve days ago, he’d seen the end of his life looming immediately in front of him, but not for a single moment had he thought of giving up. Almost seven years ago, he’d spent weeks in a hazy purgatory of constant near-death, so weak and broken he had few memories of it but a red fog of pain. He should have died every day for weeks, but he’d hung on.

  Even his sister, who had little strength in her body, had a powerful spirt. She’d endured her own horror, but she hadn’t quit fighting for them.

  His mother had endured as long as she could as well. His father had run, but that had been a bid for survival, too. Unsuccessful, but he’d tried. He’d fled certain death into an uncertain future, trying to hold on to life and hope.

  The people of his blood family had each endured agonies far above the difficulty Miss Barton had briefly faced, and not one of them had given up. For the people living at or near the Five Points, every day of their lives was worse than Miss Barton’s worst day, yet they kept going.

  Paolo’s survival had been powered by rage and hate, and he’d thought only that had kept him alive.

  But now, standing bare-chested and bruised before his bedroom window, looking out at a bright blue sky sheltering the seedy streets of the Five Points—the roughest area of all New York, the place that had tried to kill him the moment his feet had touched its ground, the territory he now controlled—Paolo saw something he’d never seen before.

  He’d had hope. All his fight, all his will, the fiery engine of his rage and hatred, his determination to climb over all those who tried to hold him down, who saw him as less than they, as less than human, as the Beast—under it all, there had always been hope.

  He’d seen a future where he would be on top.

  His Long Island project was proof positive that he’d always felt hope, somewhere in his shadowy heart. He’d reached for something big and high above him, and he’d stretched until he could get it in his hands.

  Mirabella was proof. His love for her. Her love for him.

  He’d been fighting for something better, because some part of him had seen it was possible. He’d been capable of falling in love because there was hope in his heart.