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Twenty
But quench her bonniest, dearest | to her, her clearest-selvèd spark
Man, how fast his firedint, | his mark on mind, is gone!
—Gerard Manley Hopkins,
from “That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire
and of the comfort of the Resurrection”
Surely he hadn’t heard what he thought he had. Roman stepped out of his bedroom, certain that Cliff, who never had a constructive word to say about him working with Sally, would not have told her that. Cliff knew that talking about his father’s death was off-limits.
Once again, Da’s face flashed in his mind. The laughing green eyes, always ready to tease his family but which could turn as hard as stone when he was working. The deceptive freckles across his nose that made him look young and innocent, even after years as a cop. Those pristine white teeth flashing out as he smiled—or snarled at a lowlife. All framed by deep red hair that branded him as Irish before he ever introduced himself.
He’d been so proud when Roman joined the force. So proud as he’d slipped that St. Michael medallion over his neck as Ma pinned on his badge for the first time.
But Da’s matching medallion hadn’t kept him safe, nor had all those prayers Ma said every morning, every noon, every night. He’d still ended up in a gutter with a Mafia bullet in his head. And the two thousand dollars that had shown up the next day—hush money? Some convoluted apology to his Sicilian mother?—had spurred Roman to turn in his badge and sign up for the Prohibition Bureau.
The Mafia had to pay. They had to be stopped before they could take any more husbands from any more wives, destroy any more good men.
Roman stomped out to the kitchen loudly enough to warn the two gossips standing there that he was none too pleased. “Brewster. What do you think you’re doing?”
Cliff didn’t even have the grace to look chagrined at being caught. He just leaned into the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “You have her risking her life for this obsession of yours. She deserves to know what drives you.”
A flicker of something hot and guilty flashed through him when he glanced at the blond stirring dried noodles into a pot of boiling water on his stove. “What would that help? And since when do you even care if she’s risking her life?”
Sally’s back went rigid, and it was on the tip of his tongue to assure her that he cared—and he did. He didn’t want her hurt, certainly not killed. But this was so much bigger than either of them. He would make sure to tell her that later, when his partner wasn’t glaring at him.
Cliff folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t want you to have anything to do with her. That doesn’t mean I want her dead.”
“I knew we’d find something to agree on,” Sally said as she dropped a handful of noodles into the pot.
Cliff didn’t even glance her way. “I understand why you hate them—you know I do. I commiserate. I hate them for you. But it’s gone beyond coloring what you do. It’s become your only reason for doing anything. You’re acting like bringing down Manny will bring back your father, which is just stupid.”
Roman clenched his teeth until it hurt. He knew nothing would bring Da back. Nothing would make the ache any less for Ma. Nothing could ever, ever undo the damage those gangsters had done in that Brooklyn street. But he had to do something to stop the same thing from happening to someone else.
Sally turned her inquisitive eyes on Cliff. “Was it Manny who—?”
“No.” Cliff’s eyes shot familiar reproof at him. “Which is why it’s so stupid. It’s not even direct vengeance, it’s some convoluted form that isn’t going to make him feel any better. Because he knows that the Mafia isn’t one single entity, that striking off one head wouldn’t hurt another. Chances are, the gangster who killed his father doesn’t even know Manny.”
Maybe not. But cut off enough heads, and eventually the beast would writhe its way to Hell where it belonged. Plunge enough daggers into its heart, and it would bleed out. He had to believe that. Or what was the point of anything?
“Hm.” Sally cocked her head to one side so that golden waves touched her shoulder and studied Roman like he was a newly discovered species of insect. “You know, this makes it supremely ironic that you fell for a mafioso’s daughter.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Roman rolled his eyes and stormed over to his grimy window. He hadn’t meant to fall for Sabina—but she deserved to be redeemed from this lousy underworld, and Capecce had already proven he couldn’t do it. “Butt out, both of you.”
“Not a chance, buddy.” Cliff strode his way, stopping only when he was close enough to poke a finger into his shoulder. “I don’t want to see you end up like your father just because you don’t know when to call it quits. Pack it in and tell your little light-skirt over there to take a hike.”
“Maybe he’s right. About the packing it in part, I mean.” Her disembodied voice came from the kitchen and created far too homey a sensation. How many times had his parents carried on conversations in two different rooms like this? A parallel so insane that it could only have been inspired by the talk of his father. “Miss Gregory is undoubtedly right about Manny losing patience. I don’t want you to get hurt over this.”
Cliff snorted. “Yeah, you might lose your ticket out then, right? She wants to be your mistress, Roman. Hopes you’ll set her up.”
She…what? They’d been having a good time when they weren’t out risking their necks pumping gangsters for information, sure, but he knew well he’d been taking his foul temper out on her. Why the devil would she want to stick around? “As if I could afford it.”
Her blond head poked out of the kitchen, sunny smile in place. “You haven’t seen elasticity until you’ve seen me stretch a dollar, champ.”
In spite of himself, a bubble of amusement floated through his system. Under the lipstick and that devil-may-care attitude of hers, she had real gumption. “I have no doubt of that, Sally. But it’s not going to happen.”
