THE NEW BRIGHTON
1902—New York
Viola kept quiet as she walked with her mother the seven blocks to the small athletic club where her brother spent most of his days. The midmorning air was heavy with the threat of rain, and the smell of ash and soot mixed with the usual smells of the neighborhood—the overripe fruit and trash that lined the gutter and the baking of bread and the thick scent of garlic and spices that wafted from doorways. When they passed a still-smoldering building, Viola knew implicitly who was at fault for the tragedy.
She was.
Because she had let the magician outsmart her, she had failed Dolph. She had failed her kind, and she had failed herself. The Order should have been destroyed, but instead they had grown more oppressive than ever, taking revenge on the entire city for the deeds of a few.
She would kill them all if she could. But she needed to stay alive long enough to do it, and Paolo was her means to that end. First she had to survive whatever penance Paul had in store for her, and that would be trial enough, considering how she had betrayed the family by leaving them for the Devil’s Own. Because for all intents and purposes, Paul was the family.
After their father died and the responsibility for the family had fallen on his shoulders, Paolo had supported them all as a bare-knuckle boxer. He’d anglicized his name to Paul Kelly because he thought it would pay better, and it had. But her dear brother hadn’t stayed a boxer. Leading the Five Pointers had turned out to be far more lucrative than getting his teeth knocked in every night. Because he was smart enough to grease the right palms at Tammany Hall, the police looked the other way.
Paul’s deals with Tammany ensured the success of his athletic club, which was only a front for less legal activities. Come nightfall, the club hosted bare-knuckle matches, where beer flowed and bets were made—all with Paul taking his cut from the top, of course. Because Paul hid the truth of his work from their mother, she never knew what activities truly put bread on their table.
Unlike The Devil’s Own, the boxing club Dolph had run, Paul’s place didn’t pulse with the warmth of magic. Paul, like their mother, was Sundren, without an affinity, and his gang was populated mostly by neighborhood boys whose childhood roughness had grown into a willing brutality. Viola was the black sheep of the family, an unexpected anomaly when her affinity appeared after generations of nothing. Her parents had seen it as a waste, bestowed as it was on a girl, but her brother had seen Viola’s power as an opportunity—one that he felt he had every right to exploit.
Viola, of course, saw things differently, not that it had mattered to Paul or her mother at the time.
It was still too early in the day for Paul’s usual crowd, so when her mother knocked at the unremarkable wooden door of the club, it was a boy about Viola’s own age who answered and let them pass with barely a word. The main room of the club was mostly empty. A well-muscled man in the far corner pummeled a heavy bag that swung from the ceiling. He was bare-chested, and his left shoulder blade carried the angry red mark of the Five Pointers, an angular brand that was also a map of the neighborhood that gave her brother’s gang its name. Another duo of men was sparring in the center of the floor, the heat and sweat from their bodies making the room feel too warm, too close. An older man smoked a thin cigar as he watched nearby.
As Viola and her mother entered, the man with the cigar glanced up, his face flashing with surprise to see her mother and then going flinty when he noticed Viola at her side. His hand went for the gun Viola knew would be hidden beneath his vest. The two men sparring and the other, larger man in the back of the room all paused to see what the interruption was.
“Get my son,” her mother said, not paying any mind to the unease filtering through the room.
At first the older man didn’t make any move to do as Viola’s mother ordered. “What’s she doing here?” he asked, nodding toward Viola.
Like Viola herself, Pasqualina Vaccarelli was not more than five feet tall. She might have been a broad, sturdy-looking woman, but her size should have put her at an immediate disadvantage. Viola’s mother didn’t so much as flinch, though. She gave the man the same look she’d given Viola and every one of her siblings—including Paolo—any time they were truly in trouble, the look that was usually accompanied by the sting of her wooden spoon. “Why do you think that is any of your business?”
The man’s nostrils flared, but he waved off the two fighters, dismissing them, and then took himself off into the back room to find Paul. Viola’s mother took the man’s seat. Viola didn’t join her. She would meet Paul on her feet.
They waited five minutes, ten, the time kept only by the smack of the other man’s fist against the canvas bag. Finally, Paul appeared, dressed in his usual well-cut suit and with his dark hair slicked neatly into place, looking more like a banker than the thug he actually was. He embraced their mother and fawned over her for a minute or two, ignoring Viola completely. She wasn’t fooled into thinking he hadn’t seen her, though, so she wasn’t surprised when he finally turned his attention to her.
Viola saw the attack coming—had expected it—and could have dropped Paul in his tracks to prevent it, but instead, she accepted the blow when the back of his hand collided with her left cheek. She stumbled and saw actual stars as her vision threatened to go black and she struggled to stay upright. But at least she had not so much as yelped at the pain. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
The next blow came before she was completely upright again. And then the next, until she felt the warmth of the blood trickling from her nose and tasted its coppery tang in her mouth. Her head spun too much for her to remain standing any longer, and she stumbled to her knees. It felt as though the world had narrowed to the pain her brother’s fists had brought to the surface of her body.
Gingerly, Viola touched her mouth where her lip felt split. But she didn’t look up at Paolo and she didn’t say a word. She simply listened to the dull thump . . . thump . . . thump of fists hitting canvas, a sound that matched the beating of her own tired and scarred heart.
Paul pulled her to her feet, and Viola’s head swirled as she tried to focus on him. His face was close to hers when she heard her mother’s voice saying “basta.”
“I’ll decide what’s enough, Mamma,” Paul said, tightening his grip on Viola’s arm where their mother couldn’t see.
Viola could smell his expensive cologne, could feel the heat from his body as he crowded her with his size. He was trying to intimidate her, as he had when they were children. But she wasn’t a child anymore. She hadn’t been for a very long time.
“She needs to know her place,” Paul said.
“You’ve shown her,” their mother said, her tone indicating that nothing more was to be said about this. “Whatever she’s done, she’s still family.”
Paul glared at Viola, who met his eyes without flinching. He held her a moment longer, though, his viselike grip on her arm painful, before he finally released her. Then he walked over and, placing his hands gently on his mother’s shoulders, leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Mamma. I know how to take care of family. I take care of you, don’t I?”
Viola didn’t have to look to know that her mother’s eyes had softened and her stern mouth had tugged up at the corners. She could hear the fondness in her mother’s voice. “You’re a good boy, Paolo.”
It took everything Viola had not to snort at that.
Paul called for one of his boys, and when two arrived, scurrying from the back room like rats, he told them to take his mother home.
Before she left, her mother came over and took Viola’s chin with a sure grip. With an almost warm expression, her mother examined Viola’s bloodied face. “Listen to your brother, mia figghia. Later we visit Father Lorenzo, and you can confess.”
“Yes, Mamma,” Viola murmured, lowering her eyes as the bitterness of the words mixed with the blood pooling in her mouth. She ignored the weariness that felt like a weight, the hurt that couldn’t be brushed away any more than the tattoo inked between the blades of her shoulders.
After their mother left, Paul came over and looked at her face, disgust—and also jealousy—shining in his eyes. “I know why you’re back.” His wide mouth curled into a sneer. “Mamma, she thinks you came to your senses, but that’s not it, is it?” He gave her still-sore cheek a less-than-friendly pat. “No . . . It’s because the damn cripple isn’t around to protect you now, isn’t it?”
She wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to curse his name and tell him that Dolph Saunders had been more of a man than Paul would ever be. But Viola kept her mouth shut and tried to keep the hate from her eyes.
“What? Nothing to say for yourself?”
“What does it matter why I’m here?” she said, her words thick on her swollen lips. “I came back. I’m yours to use again, aren’t I?”
His wide mouth turned down. “You’re no good to me if I can’t trust you.”
“Who else would I be loyal to?” Viola asked. “You’re right. Dolph Saunders is dead, and I’m not interested in dying or getting caught by some Order patrol. You think I haven’t seen your boys working with them? You think I don’t know you have friends in high places?” She shook her head. “I’m not an idiota, Paolo. I don’t have nowhere else to go. I’ll do what you need so long as you keep the Order away from me.”
“I know what you want. . . . You want to control the Bowery,” she persisted. “Everybody knows what I can do. Everybody. You don’t think it will be a boon if they know I’m for you now?”
He considered her, his face so much like her late father’s and yet so different. It was harder, less forgiving. Much, much more determined than her father’s had ever been.
Paul stepped toward her, and before she realized what he’d planned, he had her by the throat, his large, meaty hands squeezing her neck so tightly she couldn’t draw breath. Tight enough that she would wear the mark of them. “You were smart to go to Mamma, little sister. I’ll take you on, for her sake. But if you go against me again, it will be the last time.”
With every ounce of strength she had left, Viola pulled her affinity around her and pushed it toward her brother until his eyes went wide and he gasped, releasing her throat and bringing his hands up to his own. The man who had been punching the bag stopped his assault and started to approach them.
“Call him off,” Viola told her brother.
Paul’s eyes were filled with rage, but his face was turning purplish already from his inability to breathe. Finally, he lifted his hand, and the man halted.
“I didn’t come back to hurt you, though the good lord knows I have every reason to, after what you’ve done. But you touch me again—if you let any of your men touch me—I will end you.”
She released her hold on him, and he gasped, stumbling forward. “I’ll kill you myself,” he rasped.
Viola simply stared at him, unimpressed. “The bullet better be quick, Paolo.”
He glared at her. “It will be.”
“And how will you explain that to Mamma?” Her lips felt tight as she forced her mouth into the semblance of a cold smile. “Don’t think I haven’t made arrangements to expose you if anything happens to me. Mamma will know all about your other activities, the whores and the criminals you depend on for your money.” It was a lie, of course. If she’d had anyone else to turn to, she wouldn’t be standing there, humiliating herself. “I need your protection, and in exchange I’ll be your blade, but you and your scagnozzi can keep your damn hands off me.”
The siblings studied each other in tense silence until, finally, Paul huffed out a hollow breath that sounded like he was vaguely amused.
Va bene. She needed him to respect her power, even if he didn’t respect her.
“Go get yourself cleaned up.” He gestured to the blood staining her shirt. “Can’t have my blade tarnished, can I? You want my protection? You’ll work for it.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Viola was too tired, too jaded by the violence of her life to feel anything close to relief. But she did feel a certain satisfaction. Paul would have killed her already if he didn’t mean to keep her. Until she figured out what she needed to do next, she’d be safe. Or as safe as any Mageus could be in this city.
But before she could go, the bell over the front door rang, signaling that someone else had come into the club.
“James,” Paul said, stepping past Viola to greet the new arrival.
She turned to see who had arrived. Silhouetted by the morning light was a familiar face, a boy of no more than sixteen with dirty-blond hair and gold spectacles. What is he doing here, when he’s supposed to be leading the Devil’s Own? He was leaning against a familiar cane, one topped with a silver Medusa head that wore the face of Viola’s friend Leena. It had once belonged to Dolph Saunders.
Viola took a step forward, ready to rip the cane from Nibsy’s hands. He has no right. But the sharp look Paul gave her made her pause. It was too early to cross him. Too early for him to know where her true loyalties lay.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Paul.”
“Of course. You know my sister,” Paul said, gesturing absently toward Viola. “She’s recently come back into the family.”
“Has she?” Nibsy Lorcan said as he limped into the room.
She could see the questions in Nibsy’s eyes, but she didn’t say anything to answer them.
“Hello, Viola. I can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Nibsy said, gesturing to his injured leg. His eyes glinted behind his glasses. “But it is certainly a surprise.”
“I’ll give you a surprise,” she growled, taking a step toward him.
“You already did.” Nibsy’s voice was lower and more dangerous than she’d ever heard it. It was enough to make her pause. Then he looked at Paul. “If you can’t control your sister, I’m not sure our arrangement will work out. Which would be a shame, since I brought the information you wanted.” He pulled a small packet of paper from his coat pocket and held it up, drawing everyone’s attention to it.
“Enough,” Paul said, barely glancing in Viola’s direction. “Go clean yourself up, like I said.”
“I’m not leaving until he gives me what’s mine.” She met her brother’s eyes, determined. “You want me to be your blade? It works better when I have a good knife.”
Paul’s expression barely flickered, but Viola had known her brother long enough to recognize the cold calculation in his eyes. “You forget, little sister, that I know you don’t need a knife to kill. As far as I’m concerned, if Mr. Lorcan has something of yours, he can keep it . . . as a gift from me.”
“You can’t—”
“But I can,” Paul said softly. “You’re either back with the family or not. You’re either loyal to me—obedient to me—or we are finished.”
Viola glared at him. She thought briefly about ending the entire farce—about ending Paolo. But if she did, then what? She would never be able to face her mother, and she would be on her own again. The beating she’d just taken would have been for nothing. And she might never discover what was in the package that Nibsy had offered Paul.
She held Paul’s gaze a moment longer, to make sure he understood that she wasn’t afraid. This was a choice. She would bide her time and pretend to be dutiful, but when the moment came, she would make sure they regretted what they had done. Death was too easy for her brother. Family or not, first she would make him crawl.