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Hope had grown grey hairs,
Hope had mourning on,
Trenched with tears, carved with cares,
Hope was twelve hours gone;
—Gerard Manley Hopkins,
from “The Wreck of the Deutschland”
June, 1922
Chicago
The wind tore down the alley, forcing Sabina Mancari to hold her cloche hat in place with one hand as she stepped around the corner. Another turn and she’d be at her father’s office—not a moment too soon. Her gaze flicked to the dark clouds knuckling on the horizon. If she were lucky, she’d beat the storm and be able to hitch a ride home with Papa.
She took the final turn but then halted. Cars littered the street, parked helter-skelter in front of the steps to Papa’s building. Men, stationed in formation at regular intervals, clutched guns aimed at the windows. Cops? They wore no uniforms, but her skin prickled.
Every Sicilian, Papa said, was born able to detect a cop from a mile away. And every Sicilian was born with a distrust of them. He said it had come after centuries of government abuse. That kind of instinct, so hard-won, hadn’t vanished from their blood just because they immigrated to America.
Sabina took half a step back, eyes skittering in search of cover. Never cross a cop’s path,her parents had taught her all her life. She lived by that mantra. How many times had she taken one of Little G’s hands in hers, gripped Serafina’s in the other, and tugged them across the street to avoid a policeman out on his beat?
Her fingers flexed against her palm, the habit of reaching for her siblings so ingrained that her hand still felt empty, years after Little G refused to hold it anymore. Years after Serafina…
No. Don’t think about her. The cops, she had to deal with the cops. How could she avoid them? They were everywhere.
The force of it hit her—a dozen policemen, covering every door and window of Papa’s office. Her throat closed. Her brows knit together. Plain clothes could mean only one thing—Prohibition Bureau. But that didn’t make sense. Everyone knew the Bureau was too corrupt to ever make an arrest.
A tall, fair-haired man raised a megaphone. “Come out, Manny! It’s all over! We’ve got you surrounded!”
Sabina lifted a hand to her throat and retreated another step into the alleyway from which she’d not fully emerged, willing the building at her side to keep her out of the sight of those men. This couldn’t be happening. They couldn’t be here for her father. That happened to other bosses—she’d heard the stories, she knew it was true—but not Giorgio Mancari. He ran his operation too carefully. He knit his family too tightly. Omerta, their code of silence, ruled too strongly—no one would ever turn on a Mancari.
So why were the Bureau boys surrounding Papa’s office building?
“Don’t waste our time, Manny!”
Without warning, the familiar tattoo of a Betsy sounded from a second-floor window. Papa himself or one of his many underlings? Sabina winced at the shattering glass and peeked around the corner as answering fire rang out from the cops. Bullets ripped through the battered Fords, turning steel into sieves. The men all ducked for cover.
Sabina jolted when a drop of cool rain splashed onto her nose, followed by another and another. The skies unleashed a steady shower that did nothing to drown the thunder of gunfire. She rested a gloved hand on the brick wall at her side and took another step back, Papa’s instructions ringing in her memory.
She had to get home, warn Mama and Little G. They would gather everything in the top drawer from the desk in Papa’s office—Mama had the key—and flee to the basement. They were not to open the doors to anyone. They were to go into the hidden partition that Sabina had watched the builders install when she was thirteen, with Serafina perched on her hip, and wait. Papa would take the hidden exit out of his office and meet them there, but they’d have to be ready to leave the moment he got home.
He had a series of rendezvous already laid out. All they had to do was get to the right one, and Papa’s men would pick them up. They’d get them out of Chicago until the heat was off.
She knew the plan. She’d recited the plan on Papa’s knee, then from his side when she outgrew his lap. Home. Papers. Basement. Hide. Escape. Words as familiar as the prayer that sprang by rote to her lips, even as her fingers sketched a hurried cross. “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
But she’d never actually had to use the plan. Certainly not while guns barked across the alleyway, surely aimed at Papa. “Hallowed be Thy name…” She spun around.
There was no time to waste. She lurched forward—and collided with a male chest. Strong hands gripped her arms, held her captive. She opened her mouth to scream.
“Sabina? What are you doing here?”
Relief left her limp. A prayer answered before she could even finish it—that was new. She blinked against the rain and fell into the arms of the man she loved. “Roman! You have to help. Papa’s inside, and they’re shooting at him, and—”
“I know.” Roman Oliveri’s reassuring smile lit hope in her heart as he moved his hands down to her elbows, halting her idiotic babble. Even through the steady rain, his eyes gleamed like emeralds and his teeth shone white as pearls. “Come on.”
He used his grip on her elbows to spin her around and guide her forward. Roman would help her get home, help her and Mama execute the plan. She let him tug her a few steps toward the fray—but then reason kicked in. Why was he taking her toward the gunfight? She dug in her heels and pulled against his grasp. “Roman?”
