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Sabina could only nod. She was so proud to see the man he was becoming—but she missed the boy he’d once been.
Mama smoothed a piece of Sabina’s hair, much like Sabina had just smoothed G’s. “You did a good job with him. Much of what he is, we owe to you. You are a good girl, Sabina. And now you will prove yourself anew by supporting your fidanzata. We’ll be going to see Enzo after we leave your father, if we don’t meet him at the jail.”
The thought of facing Lorenzo again made panic claw so ferociously, she feared the monster she’d become would roar its way out of her chest. She wanted to argue, to refuse.
She didn’t, of course. What was the use? Mama would only override her.
Mama nodded and moved down the hall, out of view. Sabina dragged in a breath and followed her.
On the ground floor, she had to fight the urge to point her feet toward the kitchen. There was no point going in there—she could hear Cook pattering about, mumbling in Sicilian—but she wanted to. She needed the comfort of ingredients before her, dough in her hands. She needed the scents of coffee and toast and sausage.
But the maid, Mia, stood at the door holding a tray with something wrapped in wax paper, and Mama shooed Sabina that direction. “You can eat in the car, cara. Hurry now. We do not want to keep your papa waiting.”
Sabina took one of the wrapped offerings—an egg sandwich—offered a tight smile to Mia, and followed her mother out the door.
Little G stood from where he’d been tying his shoes, snatched up three of the sandwiches with a grin, and hurried to open the door for them. Sabina slid out into the fresh morning air, wishing it were any other day, that she was heading out for any other errand.
Her brother took off down the street with a wave, heading for their cousin’s print shop, leaving her and Mama to move toward the car. Their driver came around to open the Pierce-Arrow’s rear door, all decorum and politeness. Sabina noted for the first time the bulge under his jacket. Had he always carried a gun? Probably—but it had never mattered before. Today, it made her heart race as she slid into the back seat with Mama. She had to think about something else, anything else, so she focused on the plush leather of the seat. It should have been an ostentatious car, but her father had specifically requested the less distinctive headlights so that cops wouldn’t recognize him easily—or confuse him with Colosimo, who had flaunted his ill-gotten wealth without concern before his death two years ago.
The chauffeur slid behind the wheel, and another bodyguard took the passenger’s seat. He looked only vaguely familiar, which made her frown. Who had assigned him? How did they know he could be trusted? What if he was another Roman, set on delivering them into the hands of their enemy?
“Mind your face, Sabina,” Mama commanded in quiet Sicilian as they pulled out onto Taylor Street. “If you keep scowling like that, you’ll have wrinkles before your time.”
Schooling her features, Sabina directed her gaze out the window. She’d been looking at Little Italy all her life, but it seemed different today. The old buildings, huddling together and leaning on each other’s shoulders, appeared more tired than charming. The signs, boasting both English and Italian, seemed faded and dirty. The smells coming from the dozens of bakeries and restaurants turned her stomach instead of enticing her taste buds.
She set the fried egg sandwich on the seat between her and Mama and slid her hand into her pocket instead, where her rosary rested. She tangled her fingers in the beads without actually forming the words of a prayer. Her words wouldn’t matter—her prayers never seemed to make a difference. No matter how many candles she lit, no matter how many times she said the Our Father or Hail Mary, nothing had gone right, not for years.
Still, there was comfort in the beads.
The miles to the Federal Building passed in silence other than the occasional toot of a horn, the rev of passing motorists, and the oblivious shouts of faceless passers-by. Sabina was glad for the insulating shell of calm.
That shattered when the chauffeur parked outside the courthouse and her mother muttered a quick Latin prayer. Sabina crossed herself by rote on the amen and climbed out, careful to hold her skirt down against a gust of wind. Pedestrians hurried by, unaware that the world had tilted for the Mancari house…and that parts of their world might tip with it. How many of those unconcerned people frequented one of Papa’s speakeasies? How many had a bottle of the liquor he smuggled stashed in a cabinet? How many secretly hailed him as a hero?
The Beaux-Arts building leered at her, its looming dome reminding her that it didn’t matter what the general public thought. It came down to the law, as Lorenzo would say. And to the whims of a government that chose at random when it would work and when it wouldn’t, whom it would crush and whom it would spare.
Which would it be today for Papa?
“Hurry up, Sabina.” The nerves in Mama’s voice matched the lines etching her face again. She held her cashmere sweater closed with a gloved fist, her eyes focused on the main entrance to the courthouse. Sabina picked up her pace, the armed chauffeur and bodyguard bringing up the rear.
A man held the door open for them as he exited and gave Sabina a gleaming smile. What did he see? Mama’s cheekbones in her face, Mama’s lips on her mouth? Or just the value of the jewelry encircling her wrists and throat, dangling from her ears?
She managed a nod of thanks and slipped past him.
Once inside, they halted and looked around, lost. The building housed the Midwest’s federal courts, a post office, and other federal offices Sabina couldn’t possibly name. Dwarfed by the sixteen floors of government, she forced a swallow.
The guards stayed outside to flank the door like sentries. When Mama gripped Sabina’s hand, the gravity of the situation struck her yet again. Unshakable Mama trembled. Sabina squeezed her fingers, though she wasn’t sure she had any strength to offer. “Do you want me to ask somebody where we should go?”
“I suppose we should—oh. No, there’s Enzo. Enzo!” Mama lifted her free hand to wave above the people dotting the entrance hall.
Though she had the sudden urge to avert her gaze, Sabina forced herself to look toward her fiancé. Part of her expected him to appear changed by all that had happened the night before. But no—he was the same old Enzo. Of average height, lean, wearing a suit a little too old-fashioned for her tastes. He kept his dark hair conservatively short, and when he was working, he wore a pair of spectacles that hid his sharp eyes. His nose was a little too large—a trait that ran in his family—and his mouth a little too wide. He was handsome, though not quite as handsome as his brother Tony. If he were a stranger walking toward her in a different world, perhaps she would have sent him a smile to see if he’d respond.
But it was Enzo—too serious for flirtation, and so distant these last three years, when they should have been so close. And so furious now.
He usually at least looked at her, but today his gaze only flicked her way once. Then he studiously ignored her and gave his full attention to her mother. She could hardly blame him—but still it cut. Perhaps, when she worked up the courage to go to confession, Father Russo would count this as part of her penance.
“Enzo.” Mama stretched up on her toes so Lorenzo could kiss her cheek. She pulled her hand free of Sabina’s and put it in his. “Have you seen him? How is he?”
Sabina curled her abandoned fingers into her empty palm.
