Promises Unbroken: The Moretti Trilogy, #1

Chapter 1

NEW YORK CITY

June 1922

THE BLARE OF HORNS, the hum of conversation, and the occasional squeal of brakes combined in a cacophony that was the city. Mae Ashton’s life for the past three months.

Yet the noise was no danger to her. That position belonged to the man behind her. The man who’d been waiting for her outside Rossi Shipping. Who’d followed her for the last two weeks.

Two weeks ago. The day she’d shown Hazel’s picture to her boss and several coworkers at Rossi Shipping.

She tightened her grip on her bag. At least she had Frank’s gun with her.

Frank. He alone had believed her when she’d promised him their sister still lived.

She glanced over her shoulder. Still, the man followed.

This could go on no longer. She needed to confront him before the people around her streamed away to the safety of their homes. If anywhere in this place could be considered safe.

Help me. As if God would help her. No, He hadn’t helped in the two long years since Hazel’s disappearance.

She shoved her hand into her bag, gripped the .45, and turned. For Hazel, only for Hazel.

Twenty steps separated her from the man, and he showed no sign of slowing.

She forced her feet into motion, the .45 pressing into her palm.

He stopped and crossed his arms. Pedestrians flowed around him, some casting frustrated glances his way.

She halted a scant three feet in front of him. What do you want?

The corners of his mouth tipped up. Instead of softening his swarthy features, the smile accentuated the scars won from a lifetime of brawls. Who’s to say I want anything?

He took a slow step forward.

No. She wouldn’t turn and run. Even though her heart pounded. Even though sweat slicked her palms. Stop following me.

Yet she had nothing to back up the command except a pistol she’d have to drag from her handbag and cock.

You’ve got more to worry about than me.

Tension caught her shoulders. With his tailored suit, fedora, and heavy Yankee accent, this man was everything Frank had warned her of.

That’s a threat. Numbness gripped her fingers, and she loosened her hold on the .45.

He lowered his arms to his sides, and his shoulders stretched his suit coat. I’d say it’s a warning. You don’t belong here, Miss Ashton.

How did he know her name? Leave me alone.

Go home. Go home while you still can. Without another word, he walked away.

She stumbled back until she leaned against a brick building. Breath after breath rasped in her throat, and she released her grip on the pistol.

Trembling spread through her arms and legs. If only she hadn’t found that picture shoved deep in Hazel’s drawer. That picture with a man’s name and business scrawled on the back. Vincenzo Rossi. Rossi Shipping.

If only Hazel hadn’t disappeared.

She swiped at the perspiration slicking her forehead. In front of her, the crowds streamed on.

The man could be anywhere, watching her, waiting for an opportunity to harm her.

She needed to get back to the boardinghouse before evening set in. Even if her legs shook as if she’d already run a mile.

Never mind. She splayed her hand against the brick and shoved away from the building. Nine blocks paled in comparison to the miles she’d covered in the mountains of northern Georgia.

Oh, to be home in Lawrence City again.

Yet she couldn’t go back. Not until she found Hazel.

MAE GRIPPED THE RAILING and dragged herself up the four stairs leading to her boardinghouse’s front porch. All the strength left her legs, and she sank onto the bench shoved beneath the window.

She let her bag, hat, and cardigan slip to the boards at her feet and rested her head in her hands. A dull ache throbbed at her temples, and her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth.

To be home with Ma, Pa, Frank, and Hazel. To help Ma can tomatoes, peaches, and beans. To help Pa plow the fields. To go back to a time when all had been peace and happiness. Before Hazel had left or been stolen away. To walk arm in arm with Davis by the river and plan their future.

A future she’d broken with a few strokes of her pencil. All for Hazel.

She should go inside and rest. The morning and its dangers would come all too soon. Besides, that man could be watching her even now.

Mae.

That deep, mellow voice. The combination of tenderness and frustration with which he’d formed her name.

She lowered her hands from her face.

He stood before her, holding his hat, his suit wrinkled and dusty.

Davis. Wh-what ...? You ...

He crouched in front of her and rested his hat on his knee, his blue eyes kinder than she deserved.

She clenched her knee. What’re you doing here? I thought I made myself clear. Once, she’d have thrown her arms around him, and he’d have held her. No more.

He rubbed his jaw. You did. But I thought you deserved a chance to explain yourself.

He hadn’t sent word in three months. Not that she’d left any way for him to contact her. Those three months had changed him, had fanned faint lines around his eyes he had no reason to possess at twenty-eight.

He pushed to his feet, tossed his hat to rest on the bench beside her, and ran his hand through his brown hair. Four steps carried him to the end of the porch, and another four brought him to stand in front of her. He clasped his hands behind his back. I thought you should have a chance to tell me what you only had the courage to tell me in your letter.

A few scrawled lines saying she had to find Hazel in New York City and couldn’t marry him didn’t deserve to be called a letter.

I ...

He shook his head. I know I was harsh. I shouldn’t have called your desire to find her an obsession. I should’ve tried to understand. But you refuse to give up hope, and it’s destroying you.

Heaviness pressed over her shoulders. I have to find her. She’s still alive. No matter what you believe.

Mae. He released his arms from behind his back. You know she can’t be. Your parents identified her body almost two years ago. You were there too.

A body decayed by the river and heat. A body unrecognizable.

That wasn’t her. I can’t believe it was. I know she’s alive.

And a man threatening her on her walk home had made that a hundred times more clear.

He stepped forward, as if he’d sit beside her, then stopped. Please come home. I love you, and I refuse to believe you don’t love me.

I can’t. Come home or marry you. We’re ... we’re too different. You have your work, and that’s enough for you.

He took another step, picked up his hat, and lowered himself beside her, close enough she could lean against him if she scooted over an inch. A few months ago, she’d have done just that.

I thought it would be, but it’s not. He glanced at her. I thought I could throw myself into the work and forget, but I can’t. And I don’t want to.

If only she could pack her things, go home, and marry him in a couple of months. But she couldn’t.

She pushed to her feet, putting distance between them. You need to go. What was between us is over, and neither of us can go back. She hung her head. I’ve made my decision.

For Hazel. Only for Hazel.

She hurried to the door and opened it.

Wait. Mae, wait.

Her vision blurred, and she stepped inside, slammed the door. This time, she’d made herself so clear he couldn’t misunderstand.

She’d made her choice three months ago, and she wouldn’t stop until she found Hazel.

No matter the cost.

THE CITY STREAMED BENEATH Davis Everleigh, always changing, always moving, alive even close to two hours after midnight.

The wrought iron railing beneath his hands held the chill of night, and a breeze brushed cool and humid against his face.

Nothing stayed the same. Even Mae’s devotion to him had fled. All because of a girl long dead.

He lowered his hands from the railing, opened the door, and strode into the darkness of the hotel room. He sank onto the edge of the bed and clicked on the lamp. The harsh light of electricity flooded the room, so different from the warmth of the kerosene lamps that lit the house back home.

The faint growl of engines and the blare of horns filtered into the room, joined by the heavy footsteps of another hotel guest making his way to his room. Drunk more than likely, if the uneven tread of his steps told the truth.

This was no place for Mae.

Whatever had led her here—whatever she’d discovered that had made her believe Hazel would be found here—was a false hope. Hope that would leave her shattered.

Hazel.

Even in death, she’d destroyed too many lives. He couldn’t let her take Mae’s as well.

If Mae wouldn’t go home with him, he’d wait for her. Just as she’d waited for the war to lose its grip on him.

He pushed to his feet, set his traveling case on the bed, and released the buckles holding it shut. Light glinted off the black surface of his .45, and he lifted the gun from the case.

He set the .45 on the bedside table and refastened the case. A nice hotel could still hold unexpected dangers.

A sharp volley of raps sounded on his door, and he palmed and cocked the .45.

Mr. Everleigh. The gravelly voice pierced the door, somehow both soft and commanding. Please open the door.

He slipped the .45 into his belt, buttoned his suit coat over the weapon, and opened the door.

A man in hotel livery stood a step away from the door, hands clasped behind his back. I apologize for the interruption, but there’s a lady to see you in the lobby. I urged her to wait until morning, but she insisted.

The man raised a single eyebrow.

Thanks. Davis drew a couple of coins from his pocket and extended them to the man.

The lady had to be Mae.

The man pocketed the change and hurried down the hall.

Davis locked the door behind him and strode through the quiet corridor toward the steps. The flights of stairs blended into one, then poured into the lobby.

She stood beside a cluster of chairs, her gray cardigan pulled tight around her, wisps of brown hair framing her face. Darkness smudged beneath her brown eyes.

He closed the distance between them. To pull her into his arms or stand as if he were a stranger? He settled for the awkward middle ground, took her arm, and guided her away from the front desk clerk’s prying eyes.

He led her through an open door. Tables draped in white and set for breakfast occupied the deserted restaurant, each lit by a golden chandelier.

He released her arm and pulled a chair away from one of the tables. She sagged into it. He eased away another chair and sat beside her.

She looked down.

What’s wrong? A simple question that held too many possible answers.

She glanced up, and a tinge of red stole over her cheeks. I should’ve at least waited until morning. But I remembered you telling me you and your father stayed at this hotel every time you came here on business, and I—I had to talk to you.

He rested his hands on his knees. I wasn’t asleep. Did you walk here alone? Even though she could shoot well, she was no match for the evil that roamed these streets at night. And during the day.

Her face washed of color. I took a taxicab.

Who had scared her? Whoever it was needed to meet with his fists.

I couldn’t not come. I kept thinking about how I argued with Hazel before she disappeared, and I was afraid that ...

He touched her arm. Nothing’s going to happen to me.

Her eyes widened. You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about what’s going on.

Because she’d left him with nothing more than a pitiful note. It’s time you told me.

Her gaze dipped to her hands, then rose to meet his. I’ve been followed for two weeks—well, it was two weeks yesterday. Yesterday, I confronted him, and he threatened me.

Heat filled his chest and flamed up his neck. Who threatened you?

I don’t know. All I know is that he might’ve seen you with me and think to hurt you. I couldn’t stand for anything to happen to you.

Too much silence descended on the room. His skin prickled, and he unbuttoned his coat to allow easy access to the .45.

Her eyes followed his hand.

You’d better start at the beginning. What led you here, what you’ve been doing these last three months, who you’ve talked to. Everything.

She slipped her hand into the pocket of her cardigan, drew out a picture, and set it on the table.

He lifted it and angled it to reduce the glare of the light. The kind of man most women swooned over stared at him, dark, dangerous, and with a hard glint of pride in his eyes.

I found it in the very back of one of Hazel’s drawers. Turn it over.

He flipped the picture over. Two lines of ink scrawled over the back. Vincenzo Rossi. Rossi Shipping. I’ve never heard of him. You think he’s the one who ...?

She caught the edges of her cardigan and tugged the garment close to her body. For weeks before she disappeared, she was ... unstable. You know her. How she’d get caught up in things.

He nodded.

She acted like a girl in love. Up one hour and down the next. I tried to get her to tell me. She squeezed her eyes shut. Every day, I wish I’d tried harder, forced it out of her. Maybe if I had, she’d still be home. Maybe Pa wouldn’t have started drinking. Maybe ... maybe ...

He could do nothing to bring her sister back, nothing to repair the damage done to her family. You couldn’t have changed anything.

She opened her eyes. That’s what Ma told me, but I can’t make myself believe it. I have to find her.

He set the picture on the table and tapped his index finger on Rossi’s face. If the man were standing before him, he’d drive his fist into his face instead. Tell me why you thought it was him?

She frowned. I can’t explain it in a way you’d understand. It ... it wasn’t logic. It was more like a knowing, a certain knowing that he has something to do with her—just like I know she’s alive. And I knew if I didn’t try to find her, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

He lifted the picture from the table and turned it over. This was her last thread of hope. Did you find him?

I got a job in his shipping company as a typist. I started asking vague questions, but nothing came of it.

Nothing would come of it. She couldn’t bring the dead back to life.

Two weeks ago from yesterday, I showed a picture of Hazel and me to my boss and several coworkers and said I was looking for her. Her features tightened. Everyone said they didn’t know anything, but that night was the first time that man followed me.

He tensed. You can’t put yourself at risk like that.

She smoothed her hair. Rossi knows something about her. He has to. If he didn’t, that man wouldn’t have followed me. I’m close, so close, to finding something.

Mae, I ... No. Better not to even speak such things.

You were about to say something. Tell me. Don’t keep it from me.

You don’t want to know.

She leaned forward. I need to know. I can’t keep wondering. Each day, I think of where she is. What she’s doing. If she’s happy. Her shoulders rose and fell. Whatever you’re going to say, I’m sure I have imagined worse.

The chandelier above the table flickered. This was the girl he’d told of the war. This was the girl who’d cried for him, who’d cried in his place.

He set the picture on the table. Rossi might know something about her. His voice echoed through the empty room, and Mae’s shoulders slumped, as if she already knew what he would say. He might’ve killed her and is trying to cover it up.

She pressed her hand to her lips. Seconds inched by, silent save for the whisper of their breaths.

She lowered her hand to her lap. I can’t believe that. I can’t. I—I know she’s alive. But if she’s not, if he’s killed her, then he has to be brought to justice. And I’m not going to stop until I know one way or another. I’m not giving up on her.

DANCERS GLIDED THROUGH the cavernous room, carried by the rhythm of the band.

Alberto Moretti leaned against the wall and swirled the amber liquor in his glass. Not that he’d have more than a couple of swallows. No, his job was to stay as far removed from the revelry as possible. And to watch. Always to watch.

Clouds of smoke drifted through the room, and the roar of conversation, music, and laughter pulsed through the wood paneling against his shoulders in a rhythm all its own.

The door to his right cracked open, and Lillian slipped out, her green, sequined dress shimmering in the dim light. She glanced toward him, and a smile parted her reddened lips. Alberto, you look much too tired for so early a night.

He forced the barest upturn of his lips. Not a man among them would treat Vincenzo’s wife with anything but respect. Long day.

She laughed, and the feathers dangling from her headband brushed her cheek. You must be getting old.

Thirty years was a lifetime when twenty of those years had been spent in service to the Rossi family.

He lifted the glass to his lips and allowed a thin stream of whiskey to burn down his throat. Nothing a little of this won’t fix.

Where’s Vin anyway?

He tilted his head to the door behind the bar. Business. He should be finished soon.

She cocked her head, and a smile stole over her lips. Then I suppose he can be finished up a little sooner. I’m tired of waiting for him.

She spun away, one hand smoothing her dress, the other fingering her feathers.

He raised the glass but didn’t drink. She didn’t resemble in any way the woman he’d followed. Lillian’s sister, younger by a year.

Vincenzo would soon give the order to kill the sister, and this would all be over.

The door behind the bar opened, and two men walked out, followed by Vincenzo and Lillian.

Vincenzo placed Lillian’s hand on his arm and guided her from behind the bar.

Now was as good of a time as any to talk to him.

Alberto pushed from the wall and set his half-empty glass on the bar. Vincenzo. Never Mr. Rossi. That name had belonged to Vincenzo’s father, Matteo Rossi. A man whose shoes Vincenzo would never fill.

We need to talk. Vincenzo tipped his head toward Lillian, and tenderness smoothed his features. Darling, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Why don’t you get a drink?

She smiled up at him with too much trust.

Nausea stirred in Alberto’s stomach. Loyalty to Vincenzo was expected. Never trust.

She eased her hand from his arm. Don’t be long. With quick steps, she made her way to the other end of the bar.

Vincenzo jerked his head to the entrance. Are others guarding this place?

Two at the door. Three others moving through the room. One at your exit.

Vincenzo smiled. Good. He strode behind the bar, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Alberto followed him in and closed the door behind him. Muted elegance replaced the clamor of the main room, and only a tinge of smoke hung in the air.

Vincenzo sat on the leather sofa. Well?

Alberto paced from one side of the room to the other, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. She demanded I stop following her.

Vincenzo raised a single eyebrow. And how did she see you?

Heat built under his coat and crept up his neck. This has gone on long enough. If you think the woman’s dangerous enough to have me follow her around, then she’s dangerous enough to get rid of.

Vincenzo leaned into the leather and crossed his arms. You underestimated her. If she’s anything like Lillian, she’s intelligent and observant.

She’s not like Lillian. Mae had none of her sister’s confidence and worldly ways. She was nothing but a farm girl. It’d be easy to make her disappear. She’s got no one here. But if you won’t do that, fire her. The way I see it, you’re paying her to ask those questions.

Vincenzo’s eyes hardened. A little full of yourself tonight?

That didn’t deserve a reply. Gone were the days when he’d been able to speak freely to the man, when he’d considered him a friend. Matteo Rossi’s death had changed everything, and the power that now rested on Vincenzo’s shoulders had gone to his head.

Alberto crossed the room once again. Vincenzo would speak when he was ready. Not a minute before.

I’m not firing her. Not yet. With her working there, it’s easy enough to keep an eye on her. Keep following her. I want to see what she does. Like you said, I don’t think she’s much of a threat, but you never can tell. Vincenzo tapped the armrest. But be ready. We might have to do things your way after all.

THE CHANDELIER FLICKERED, and shadows danced over the china dishes and white tablecloth. She smoothed her hand over the cloth, and her palm rasped against the embroidery. Another reminder she’d never belong in this place.

Davis leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes glazed with exhaustion or thought.

She should’ve waited until morning to come see him, even if that meant missing a couple of hours of work. Or better yet, she shouldn’t have stormed inside her boardinghouse like a fool.

She shivered and tugged her cardigan closer.

You have to go home. Before that man hurt or killed Davis because he meant something to her.

He blinked, and his forehead wrinkled. I don’t suppose that means you’re going with me?

I can’t. Not until I find her.

Because she had to be alive. That woman the sheriff had pulled from the river hadn’t been Hazel.

Yet what if she’d forced herself to believe a lie for two years? What if the woman they’d buried in that hillside graveyard was her sister?

She pressed her fingers to her right temple to calm the pounding that had settled there hours ago. Please. You’ve got to leave. I can’t let you be hurt.

Tension etched his face. If you won’t come back with me, I’m staying here.

To have him fighting for her, protecting her, loving her ...

No. She lifted Rossi’s picture. The man’s cold eyes glimmered in the light, and she slipped the picture