The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  “I beg your pardon,” Sal said, the words dripping with sarcasm.” I can’t imagine what’s come over me. My first time being kidnapped, and all. I hope I’ve not come off as rude.”

  “You see, Bruno, civil discourse, that’s what the game is all about. If you can’t get along, no one can play,” said the man.

  “Never was much for play,” said a second man in a deeper voice.

  “Why do you always have to talk like that?” said a third, his higher-pitched voice marking him as a youth.

  That made three. Sal wondered how many there were in all. If he could get a hand on his locket, he could make quick work of three.

  “I suppose it would be due to an axiomatic belief to which I cling dearly, like a captain atop the foremast awaiting the rising of the tide, and with it, the inevitable, and arduously plodding rise of my comrades and compatriots.”

  Someone scoffed, but no one responded, and for an instant, silence hung in the air.

  “I look to the Lady White,” Sal said, “but I wouldn’t count myself among her acolytes.”

  “Not an acolyte, eh?” said the man with the familiar voice. Sal imagined he was smiling. But as he couldn't see, there was no way of knowing. “I don’t imagine there are many priests of the Lady left these days. Not after the coming of the Light. As to your question, my name is Alonzo Amato, and I dare say I am sorely disheartened you do not recall me.”

  Sal froze, it took him a moment to digest the implications of that name. Alonzo Amato wasn’t a Scarvini man. Unless Sal was entirely mistaken, and there had been a drastic change in the ranks, Alonzo Amato was a Moretti man. One of Don Moretti’s top lieutenants, no less.

  Sal began to see a glimmer of hope in the darkness. At the very least they were not Scarvini men.

  “And what is it you want from me?” Sal asked, unwilling to reveal more than necessary until he’d been able to fish out something useful.

  Sal felt a sharp kick in his ribs, and he cried out, doubling over on the carriage floor.

  “Shut your—”

  A loud crack that sounded of skin to skin contact cut the statement short.

  “Oy!” said the youth. “What was that for? I was only teaching him—”

  “Another word out of you, Danilo, and you’ll be waddling home with four red cheeks. Did you not hear me explaining to our dear Bruno that civil discourse is the only reasonable mode of discussion which should be considered by rational persons who share a common intent?”

  “I, well sure, but he—”

  “No, no, I’ll not grant you that. You don’t get to claim that as clearly self-evident, for as evinced by your actions which were proved diametrically opposed to the a priori statement a posteriori.”

  “You see,” said the youth. “That’s just it. Why do you have to talk like that? I can’t understand a gods damned thing you say. It’s like I’m always in the wrong even when I think I’m doing what you tell me.”

  “If we are going to be egalitarian about the issue,” Sal said, doing his best to ignore the pain in his gut. “I feel it behooves me to draw attention to the fact that your action in striking, uh—Danilo—was itself contrary to your stated intent, Alonzo.”

  Alonzo Amato laughed. “I thought there was something I liked about you, Lorenzo. Rare indeed is it I find a man solid enough in his intellectual grounding to dare act as a whetstone to the utterances of my contemplations. Yet you err, for you stake your claim on the assumption that Danilo is a rational person who shares the common intent of other rational persons. And, might I add, you formed this assumption on the evidence that Danilo was willing to silence you through the use of force. What might this say of you? I wonder.”

  “There are things I wonder,” Sal said. “Like what a couple of Moretti men would want with little old me?”

  “Leave it to Stefano Lorenzo to raise himself a protégé,” said Alonzo Amato.

  Sal waited for Alonzo to say more, but as they rode for a moment in silence, Sal spoke up.

  “Was that supposed to answer my question?”

  “I never said I would. This magnificent world is full of wonder. You would do best to get used to that.”

  One of the other men scoffed derisively.

  Sal's heart sank, the glimmer of hope fading fast. He wondered how much he could safely reveal in order to glean something from the Moretti men who'd taken him. The fact that he lived was either a good sign or the promise of a fate far worse. He supposed it was worth the risk to find out which.

  “Might be your egalitarian nature would prompt you toward providing an answer to my quandary,” Sal said, “You did say you recalled liking me, didn’t you?”

  “Why don’t you tell us,” said Alonzo. “You can show us if that wit of yours is half so sharp as your tongue.”

  “I think I’ve a right to my sharp tongue,” Sal said. “Tied up as I am, and you lot with your blood up, there’s no telling who will try to stick what where. Therefore, it befits a man to keep a sharp tongue in the interest of self-defense.”

  “This one’s as bad as you, Lonzo,” Rumbled the man with a voice like chewed gravel.

  “Worse, I fear. You see the way he dances about my questions like a cripple in lockstep?”

  “Boss won’t like that,” said the gravelly-voiced man.

  “The boss?” Sal blurted. “Moretti, you mean? You're taking me to Don Moretti?”

  “Alas, revelation,” said Alonzo. “The reason becomes clear.”

  Sal wished that were the case, but in truth, having the answer baffled him all the more. What could Don Renaldo Moretti, crime boss of the Moretti Family, possibly want with Sal? Unless, he meant to call in the mark, his right to the life he had purchased—Sal’s life.

  They rode in silence for a time, the constant rattling of the wagon floor, shaking loose what vestiges of composure remained him. His breathing had quickened, the sound of his pulse throbbing in his ear. Everything hurt, from breathing to shifting his weight, he imagined he was covered with a whole host of fresh cuts and bruises, not to mention the rib he was almost certain had been broken by the kick.

  That voice of the man who’d delivered the boot had been whiny, but the kick he’d given Sal had been more than sufficient. A small-minded man in a large body. As for the man with the voice like crunching gravel, Sal could make few reads, apart from the fact that the man was quiet, and seemed somewhat more mature than Alonzo, and their whiney companion; whether it was due to discipline or experience was unclear.

  Sal had only seen Alonzo Amato in the flesh once, at that time he had been a mere boy of ten and three, but he could still put together a picture of the Moretti lieutenant. Stylishly dressed and groomed to please, a bold white smile and eyes that compelled trust, sparkling with potential. Sal imagined a fox in human skin, with the silver tongue of the Trickster himself.

  The carriage came to a stop, so suddenly that Sal nearly tumbled over. Horses whinnied, and the carriage driver yelled something. Sal heard the click of a latch and the squeal of rusted hinges; he was grabbed under the arms and dragged from where he laid, and his feet fell to the muddy earth with a splash.

  “Watch it,” said the gravelly-voiced man.

  “Watch it yourself,” said the other.

  “Get him inside, and then the pair of you can find a place to get some privacy,” said Alonzo. “For now, do keep in mind the boss is waiting on us. I wouldn't want to be the one to keep him.”

  “Who’s this then?” someone said as Sal’s handlers came to a halt.

  “Mind your own, and open the bloody doors,” said the thug with the gravelly voice.

  “Ho,” said the newcomer, as Sal heard what sounded like a heavy door bar being lifted. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, Bruno. Just curious is all.”

  After a moment, Sal's captors resumed moving. It was warmer within than it had been outside, and the solid floor resisted his dragging toes less than the mud had. The air smelled musty, damp, and moldy, and recalled to Sal one of the m
ore terrifying memories of his youth. He knew that smell; it was the smell of the Underway.

  He was dragged along for what seemed an endless trek. As they descended into the ancient crypt, the air grew colder, stale, and uninviting to life.

  They led him through at least one more door before he was shoved to his knees, the sack suddenly ripped from his head.

  Sal was hit with a rush of cold air on the sweat-soaked skin, sending a shiver through to his core. He smelled the strong scent of mint. When his eyes adjusted to the light, Sal realized he knelt before a dais. Above him was a man seated upon a throne: not just any man, but Don Renaldo Moretti.

  Don Morretti was not a tall man. He was rather toadlike with a big round face, and round shoulders, short arms, and short stubby fingers. He had a shock of thick black hair with white side-whiskers and a clean-shaven jaw that made his sagging jowls all the more pronounced.

  “This is what's become of the boy, is it?” said Don Moretti in a dismissive tone. “Stefano's kin to be sure. You all look like drowned rats washed in from the storm.”

  “Beg pardon, Don Moretti, but I'm not certain you have the right man.”

  Moretti ignored Sal. Instead, addressing one of the men standing behind him. Sal turned to see who and saw a handsome man with olive skin and eyes of brilliant jade. His cocky smile and confident stare were just as Sal remembered them. He was the silver-tongued fox, Don Moretti's favored lieutenant, Alonzo Amato.

  “Any trouble along the way?” Don Moretti asked.

  Alonzo shook his head. “Seems Scarvini has quieted back down for the time. No telling how long it will last.”

  “Cut his bonds and get him on his feet,” said Don Moretti.

  One of the others stepped forward—a big man, with a pinched young face. The man smiled, but anger burned hot in his eyes as he grabbed Sal. He pulled a knife and sawed through the rope binding Sal’s wrists, then did the same for his ankles.

  Fire surged to his limbs where the bindings had been, but he was given little time to recover as the man grabbed Sal by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

  “I take it you know why you're here?” said the don—this time addressing Sal.

  Sal cleared his throat and shook his head.

  A touch of irritation flashed in Moretti's beady black eyes. He tipped his chin, and Alonzo began to speak.

  “Dominik D'Angelo,” Alonzo said. “Former bounty collector turned porter.”

  Sal's breath caught in his throat. He could hardly believe it. Dominik D’Angelo, but what could Moretti possibly want with Dominik?

  “No, no, Salvatori Lorenzo,” Sal said, putting a hand flat on his chest. “Just as I said. I believe you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “He's got japes, this one,” said Don Moretti scoffing. “I’d nearly forgotten how exhausting he was.” Don Moretti smiled sadly and stood up from his throne. He stepped to the edge of the dais, eyelevel with Sal. “Still, seems you’ve yet to follow through with your threats. Didn’t you tell me last we met that you would be—what was it, again? You would be running the Commission?” Don Moretti arched an eyebrow, shrugged his round shoulders, and struck Sal across the face with a backhand.

  The blow knocked Sal to the ground. As he pushed up to hands and knees, every breath sent jolts of pain into his newly broken ribs.

  “Get up, asshole,” said the young man grabbing a handful of Sal’s hair.

  Sal cried out as he was lifted to his feet.

  “Now, about this Dominik D’Angelo. Word is you were seen with the man, on more than one occasion.” Moretti’s thick black eyebrows rose, like two fuzzy caterpillars perched just below his thinning hairline. “You care to explain why that is?”

  “D'Angelo, yeah, we run in the same circles, know some of the same people. Why? He do something?”

  Alonzo Amato cleared his throat. “Dominik D’Angelo has been interfering with Commission business of late.”

  “How so?” Sal asked, feigning confusion as he tried to keep from shaking like a leaf.

  Alonzo’s sharp eyes narrowed.

  A bead of cold sweat rolled down Sal’s brow. He had the feeling Alonzo could see right through his façade, the way his uncle always did.

  “D'Angelo has made trouble with the Commission,” said Alonzo, his intelligent eyes studying Sal. “A most reliable source has informed us that he orchestrated the recent killings of Giuseppe and Garibaldi Scarvini.”

  There was a sinking feeling in Sal's gut. Where could they have heard that? How would such a rumor have even started? Despite his involvement the night before, Dominik D'Angelo had been nowhere near when Sal had killed Giuseppe at that warehouse.

  He wondered just how much they knew. Were they only testing him? Did they know the truth of Giuseppe's death?

  “Giuseppe and Garibaldi?” Sal asked. “Since when was Garibaldi Scarvini dead, and what should the Moretti Family care if someone kills a few Scarvini men?”

  Don Moretti snarled, but Alonzo laughed.

  “Surely, the boy japes,” said Alonzo.

  Sal shrugged. “Never much cared for the Scarvini Family myself. Way I see it, every dead Scarvini is just a good thing in an ugly package.”

  “Clearly, you've missed the point,” said Don Moretti. “I understand you're not a made man, but surely you know the Code? By his actions, Dominik D'Angelo has made a provocation of war, not with the Scarvini Family, but the entire Commission.”

  Sal knew the Code, but playing ignorant seemed his best option.

  “I don't see how you could construe this as a provocation of war; after all, the guy just killed a few Scarvini's, right?”

  Moretti shook his head and turned away from Sal, moving for his high-backed chair.

  “What else do you know of D’Angelo’s plans?” asked Alonzo.

  “Pardon?” Sal said, stalling for time.

  Sal was grabbed by the shoulders and roughly turned to face the big man who’d kicked him earlier. The man drew back a fist.

  But Alonzo held up a staying hand and flashed Sal a beseeching smile. “Let’s not make matters more difficult than they need to be.”

  4

  Vincenzo

  INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

  “Bloody hell, that went right smooth, didn’t it?” Bartley said as they slipped into the alley.

  Sal smiled and nodded. His pockets filled to bursting with silver bracelets, gold torcs, a jade necklace, and a ring with a fat shiny green sapphire.

  Bartley laughed loud and carelessly. “That Miniian crone had no idea what hit her. Did you see the way she came running after me?”

  “I was a touch too busy looting the cart to watch, but I caught the gist of it,” Sal said nudging Bartley with a friendly elbow.

  “Let me see what we got,” Bartley said loudly. “Tell me you got that sapphire. The bloody rock was bigger than my thumbnail, it was.”

  “The bloody rock is bigger than your brain, yeah,” Sal whispered. “You want to keep it down? Go through the alleys shouting about sapphires, and you’re going to bring the Sacrull damned City Watch down on us.”

  Bartley laughed, loud and unhindered by sense. “Let them come,” he said in a tone ringing with hollow bravado. “If they dare to show their faces, I’ll deal with them the same as I did that Miniian crone.”

  “Oh, and how is that?” Sal asked. “By waggling your tongue and dropping trou?”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Bartley said, laughing and clapping Sal on the back. “Now let me see them jewels. How much did you get? It’s a king’s bloody fortune, I’ll bet.”

  Sal shook his head. “I’ll show you once we’re back at my sister’s.”

  “Gods that was droll, though, wasn’t it?” Bartley said, a broad smile still spread across his peevish face. “Did you see the way I handled her?”

  “Sure did,” came a voice from down the alley.

  Sal and Bartley both stopped short, as someone slipped out of an alcove.

  A tall, broad-sho
uldered Norsic with shoulder-length hair and a smile that Sal didn’t like in the least. A kid, not far off Sal’s own age, but big; a good head and a half taller than Sal, and no doubt, he out weighted Sal by six stone. “How about it?” said the Norsic. “Why don’t you show us the take?”

  “Who’s this then?” asked Bartley, his chest swelling, his hands clenching into tight fists.

  “Come on now, Bart. This way,” Sal said, trying to guide his friend away from the big Norsic kid. There was a look in his eyes that told Sal he was looking for a confrontation. The opposite of what Sal was looking for.

  “Where you going?” said the Norsic kid. “I haven’t seen the take yet.”

  “And you’re not going to get a look at anything, now bugger off,” said Bartley.

  The Norsic kid laughed and shoved Bartley. “The way you teased that jeweler I’d ‘ve thought you were a bloody mummer. Good on you, little fella,” the Norsic said as Bartley regained his feet. “Seems you Yahdrish ain’t all as worthless as dry cunny.”

  Bartley lunged, but the Norsic shoved him away without bothering to look.

  The little Yahdrish roared and charged again, fists swinging, he manage to clip the Norsic on the chin with an audible click.

  The Norsic kid took the hit without so much as flinching. He snarled, laughed, and punched Bartley square in the nose.

  Bartley cried out, clapped his hands to his face, and crumpled to the cobblestones.

  For a heartbeat, Sal considered running. He had the loot, after all. All he had to do was run.

  Instead, he charged the Norsic and tackled him to the ground.

  Sal reared up to throw a punch when lights burst behind his eyes, he felt a sharp pain and a dull ringing in his ears as the Norsic’s fist cracked him in the nose.

  “Lady’s sake,” Sal mumbled through the blood streaming down his face as he rolled off the Norsic kid shaking his head in an attempt to clear out the fuzziness.

  Sal gasped as a boot took him in the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs and putting him flat on his back.

  The Norsic kid stood over him, looking down with a smile that Sal didn’t much like.