Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [72]
Rocco didn’t say anything, but his motions became louder. He threw a sack of potatoes onto the counter.
“Didn’t I see you after the bombing of Paparo’s store? What a shame, and less than a block from here,” jeered the moled man.
Rocco slammed a crate to the floor.
“But for only fifty dollars a week, we’ll make sure you stay safe.”
“Disgraziato! Get out of here before I kill you with my own hands!” Rocco shouted.
“Signore,” the moled man tipped his hat, “I will return.”
It took only a week for the man with the moles to return. This time, he ignored Rocco and addressed Giovanna. “Signora, possibly you’re not aware that we offered your husband protection for a small fee. It is a wise business investment.”
“How dare you speak to my wife! Out!” Rocco’s face contorted in rage.
The man backed out of the store, but his demeanor changed. “Signore, remember that the hard heads of the Calabresi can be broken. Good day, signora.”
“Rocco, what was that about?”
“Niente.”
“Answer me, Rocco.”
“It’s a lazy mafioso who wants money to ‘protect’ us. Don’t you have to get home?”
“Mary won’t be home for another half hour, but I’m leaving,” said Giovanna indignantly, gathering up Angelina. “I want to know if he returns. This is our store, Rocco.”
As soon as they entered the apartment, Angelina began banging on the piano that was Giovanna’s only indulgence from the first payment of Nunzio’s money. Mary and Frances were both taking lessons, and although they played poorly, it still brought Giovanna great pleasure to hear music in her home. The dough that she had made that morning had risen, and she punched it down with more force than usual and formed it into two loaves, placing them on the stone marked SIENA.
“Angelina, why don’t you go upstairs and see if Carmela is home?”
“Sì, Mamma,” chirped Angelina, going out the door.
Giovanna leaned backwards out the open door, hands covered in dough, watching Angelina walk upstairs and knock on the neighbor’s door. Limonata opened the door in an apron. The past two years had changed her from a wisp of a girl into a weathered woman with dyed blond hair who copied American fashions. Limonata’s “husband” never materialized, and she survived on handouts from various boyfriends and from whatever Giovanna sent over.
“Limonata, can Angelina stay by you while I get dinner made?” Giovanna called.
“Of course! Come, Angelina.”
“I’ll have fresh bread later.”
“Grazie, Giovanna—you’re too kind,” Limonata said, going back into her apartment.
Without Angelina’s banging, Giovanna weighed the options. Later that night, she encouraged Rocco to pay them the money. “You saw Paparo’s store. Do you want that to be us?”
“Loro brutti puzzolenti mafiosi!”
“All the curses in the world won’t make them go away.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How? You can’t be there every hour! So don’t pay the fifty dollars, but pay him something.”
It was overcast. Giovanna scanned the skies on the short walk to the store, deciding how much produce to place outside in the early spring air. Angelina clung to her hand. At nearly three, Angelina walked everywhere, but had a hard time keeping up with her mother’s long strides.
Giovanna fished in her dress pocket for the store key. The bell clanged loudly when she opened the door.
Angelina ran to her favorite spot behind the counter and picked up a folded piece of paper that was on the floor. “Mamma, who made this drawing?”
Giovanna snatched it from her and looked.
“Beware. Give the money or everything will be destroyed. La Mano Nera.”
Beneath the words was the imprint of a thick hand in black ink.
“What does it say, Mamma?”
“Niente, niente.” The bottom few feet of Rocco’s horse and carriage were visible through the window. Giovanna panicked and stuffed the paper down her dress.
Looking into Angelina’s face, she instructed, “This is nothing. Go help your papa.”
Her heart pounding, she watched Rocco through the window lift the crates of fruit off the cart while Angelina picked