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Four
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
—Gerard Manley Hopkins,
from “Spring and Fall”
When he spotted the two burly Italians standing guard at the courthouse doors, Roman O’Reilly stopped in his tracks. He recognized Mancari’s men, which meant they would recognize him, too. The only question was whether or not Manny had signed his death warrant. He had no doubt they had the gall to gun him down in broad daylight in front of the Federal Building if they had been told to.
Or perhaps if they hadn’t been told not to.
Since he had no intention of being the next casualty in this war on the Mafia, he spun on his heel and headed for the rear entrance. He was supposed to meet Henry Jennings, the prosecuting attorney, to give him a full deposition on what he’d learned in his months with the Mancaris. But thinking about the coming meeting just made a familiar anger surge, aimed straight at the crooked men he worked with.
“You know he’ll be out by next week,” Clifford Brewster had said last night as they headed toward their cheap apartments on the fringes of the Levee. “He’s got all the big politicians in his pocket.”
Roman had shaken his head. “Not this time. We’ve got him.”
“No, buddy. What we’ve got is evidence gathered by men with diamonds on their fingers and gold in their pockets. One word from the bosses, and they’ll either lose all that evidence or forget they ever heard a word to begin with. We’ll be left with nothing on him stronger than a first-time violation of the Volstead Act, if that.”
Cliff was probably right, and it infuriated him. Most of the Prohibition Bureau was comprised of men with political connections and practically no training, who not only didn’t believe in the cause for which they were named but actually enjoyed flaunting it and lining their pockets in the process.
Hunching against the wind, Roman strode around the building. It wasn’t that he thought Prohibition was a good idea, or that he was above imbibing. But in the two years since its conception, the new law had poured power into the hands of the Mafia, and that he couldn’t tolerate. If he could rip them apart on his own, he would. But since one man had no chance of that, he’d joined the Bureau.
Now he had the urge to rip them apart, too. They were the most ridiculous, ineffectual, corrupt bunch of bumblers he’d ever met. Cliff, at least, was honest. He had ethics. He also had some independent wealth from his family’s railroad legacy that helped keep him away from the temptation of the bribes. They made a good team…even if they were two islands in a treacherous sea.
Although Cliff had disapproved of the way he handled things with Sabina. Unable to join him undercover because of his obvious lack of Mediterranean blood, his partner had stood behind the scenes judging for the last six months. He said the distance gave him perspective. Roman figured all it really did was keep him from understanding what he faced every day.
Shoving that thought away, he hurried inside. Jennings had said to meet him here, since he’d be in court off and on all morning, but as to where exactly he would find him…
Roman froze and muttered a curse. There was Sabina, standing with her boyfriend.
Something shriveled up inside. He’d actually kind of liked the middle Capecce son, the few times he’d met him. He seemed like a decent sort, so different from the rest of the family. He reminded him, in some way he never really tried to put his finger on, of Sergeant Brentwood, who had gotten him through plenty of dark times in the Great War. Roman had felt more than a little bad for stealing his girl from him—he deserved a better shake than that.
But maybe he didn’t. Because here he was, a leather attaché in hand that said he was working. A criminal defense attorney. Here, now.
Of course. Everything came into focus. Lorenzo Capecce was no different from the rest of the Mancari crew—he’d just been given a different assignment. His role in the family wasn’t to tote a gun or ferry bootleg into the city. His job was to go to law school and become the next Clarence Darrow, defending the Mafia against any charges filed against them.
Men like him were the reason Roman was here, drawing a lousy salary instead of climbing the ranks back in the Big Apple. Men like him were why the Mafia kept growing stronger. Men like him had ruined everything.
Well. Men like him could be taken down too.
He was in view only a second when Sabina’s gaze homed in on him, as if she sensed his presence instantly. As soon as she spotted him, she flushed. That wasn’t unusual—he had always enjoyed the color that stole into her cheeks whenever she saw him—but he could tell from the glint in her eyes that it was fueled by rage this time, not attraction.
In spite of himself, he smiled. Her beauty had stolen his attention from the moment he first staked out the Mancari family. But it was the first conversation with her that had convinced him she could be his in. He’d seen such familiar, hollow pain in her eyes. The same pain he saw in all his friends from the war, the ones who had come back missing limbs or eyes or brothers.
He’d be doing her a favor, he’d told himself, if he could help her see past that. Be a friend. Spending time with her could help her just as it was helping him. She’d never have to know who he really was.
Cliff had warned him he was treading on dangerous ground—wisdom Roman had ignored. He had always been a sucker for a beautiful face, and Sabina’s was stunning. As a rule he steered clear of Italian women—no offense intended to his saint of a mother, who was born in Palermo—but he forgot his preference for blonds when Sabina smiled at him.
She now said something to Capecce, who spun around. Roman groaned when the wiry lawyer headed his way. His face was stony, his bearing resolute. Someone must have filled him in on the details last night.
Determined not to flinch, Roman planted his feet, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at the hypocrite striding his way. Representing the law—laughable. Twisting it, bending it. That was what this guy was doing.
