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The newcomer to Torrio’s ranks really wasn’t Roman’s concern. “You know any of Mancari’s girls?”
Her fingers stilled on his chest. “Why the interest?”
He touched his bruise again. “His daughter’s the dame. I’m feeling vindictive.”
Sally chuckled and placed a skillful kiss on his shoulder. “Always did like scorned lovers. They make good customers.” She set her hand on an exploration of his chest, though she paused when her fingertips brushed over his necklace.
He tugged it away from her, wishing he’d taken the useless thing off a year ago, when he boxed up the rest of his mother’s tokens. Somehow it had been easier to pack away the icons and crucifixes than to take off the St. Michael medallion. The archangel was supposed to protect cops, after all.
Right.
“Mancari,” he said again, to distract Sally from his reaction.
“Hmm.” She set her fingers trailing over his chest again, but contemplation lit her eyes, not seduction. “Let’s see. There’s Gloria—no, wait, she’s over at the Victoria. Hm. Oh! Ava, that’s right. She’s been his girl for twenty years. Even claims to have his ear, if you know what I’m saying. Nice lady, real upscale. Took me under her wing for a few weeks when I first hit the city. A little old for you, though.”
Roman pushed himself up, leaned over to stub out his cigarette in the same ugly ashtray, and brushed Sally’s hands away. “Not looking for a roll in the hay with her. No offense, doll, but I’m not looking for one with you, either.”
Sally straightened with a shrug, her eyes cold and hard and older than her face. “No skin off my back, champ. But you’re paying for the night either way.”
He halted with his hands on his filthy shirt, which he had spotted crumpled on the floor beside the bed. “Think so?”
She ran her tongue over teeth that were surprisingly white. “This ain’t your mama’s house, buster, it’s a place of business. You take the bed, you pay for it. Couldn’t exactly bring up another john while you were sleeping it off, could I?”
“Fine.” Grinding out the word between clenched teeth, he fished his money clip out of his pocket and withdrew a bill, slapped it on the table. “That should cover a night’s rent in this dump.”
She fingered the payment for a second before tucking it into a book on the table. A Bible, of all things. He snorted at the irony. “Nice reading. Let me guess—you’re a good girl under the makeup and perfume.”
She didn’t bother to answer, though she shut the Bible again with a bit too much force. When he stood, she sat on the bed and leaned against the peeling wallpaper. “Well, nice seeing you, champ. You can sleep in my bed and give me a night off anytime.”
He shouldn’t let the insult get to him—he knew that. But he’d had a few too many of them lobbed at him in the last twenty-four hours. Who could really blame him for lobbing this one back? He undid that one button again, figuring he might as well take what he had paid for. Cliff always said Roman acted too fast, without thinking things through. But he was tired of thinking. “You clean?”
She folded her arms over her chest. “What a question.”
“Well this ain’t the Everleigh, doll.”
Her chin edged up. “I still take care of myself. Get myself checked. Yeah, I’m clean. Why, you interested after all?”
He flashed a smile and pushed her easily down onto the mattress. “I always did have a thing for blonds.”
Pain pressed Lorenzo down, heavy as an anchor. Searing, scraping, suffocating. His dreams were a collection of darkness and bursts of light that scorched his eyes, a continuous roar, and fear. The fear stalked and sprang, released him from its jowls only to toy with him. He wrestled with it, clawing his way up only to fall back down until finally, finally he won.
Lorenzo blinked his eyes open only to let them fall shut again. His head pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and it was enough to make him want to sink back into that horrible darkness. But no. There was a reason he couldn’t go there again. Something…there’d been something beyond it, hadn’t there? A reason he had to wake up. If only he could peel back the pain, just a little, he would surely remember…
Sabina!
His eyes flew open again and he jerked his head to the side, though he regretted it immediately. His senses swam, but this time flashes of images took shape through the fog. Manny. Father. Mama and Rosa. A lookout’s whistle piercing the night. He remembered turning and realizing Sabina was right beside her father, who was undoubtedly the target of the attack.
Panic made him force his eyes open again, pat the surface under which he lay, try to determine where he was so he could get up, find someone to fill in the blanks. What had happened after that whistle? Were his family all right? Mama, Father? Manny?
Sabina. What had happened to Sabina? Had he reached her in time? He had an image of horror on her face, of her body jerking back, of her scream. Was it real? Or was it just part of that nightmare that had been holding him down?
She couldn’t be dead—she couldn’t be. If those bullets had found her, if he’d lost her—and like that, after he’d said those things… Father, forgive me. Protect her. He reached for more words, his fingers looking for familiar beads, but there was no rosary in his hand, and words still darted away like fireflies in the night.
Then he realized that the darkness before his eyes wasn’t night—it was a cloud that smelled of Colgate’s Brilliantine.
Relief left him numb for one long moment. “Sabina.” He tried to form the word, but it came out as nothing more than a croak. The cloud of hair didn’t move. After a minute’s struggle, he managed to lift his arm and settle his hand on her head, smoothing down the disheveled mass of waves.
Sabina—his precious Bean. She was alive. He was aware, now, of her body rising and falling against his chest. Beyond her hair, in the dim light of an oil lamp turned low, he could make out walls with the expensive paper Mama Rosa had picked out last year for the guest room. He could see the beautiful painting of the Sacred Heart that he’d praised when she had commissioned it.
