Nino's Heart (Nino #1) Read online

  Nino’s Heart

  Book One

  J. D. Keene

  To my parents, Andrew, and Marjorie Keene,

  who are always with me.

  And as always, to my wife Katie who is a constant source of wisdom and encouragement.

  Contents

  Map & Cast of Characters

  Cast of Characters

  1934

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  1937

  Chapter 6

  1938

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  1939

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  1940

  Chapter 19

  1941

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Other Novels in the ‘Nino’ Series

  Also by J.D. Keene

  Acknowledgments

  Future Readers Wanted!

  About the Author

  Map & Cast of Characters

  Cast of Characters

  DiVincenzo Family

  Alfonso, Capo di tutti capi (Godfather) of Sicily

  Salvador, Alfonso’s son, New York City crime boss

  Maria, Salvador’s wife

  Angelo, eldest son

  Nino, youngest son

  Roseman Family

  Solomon, father, owner of the Roseman Cameo Company

  Beulah, wife

  Manuel, eldest son

  Olivia, Manuel’s wife

  Camillo, youngest son

  Hannah, Camillo’s wife

  Leone Family

  Bruno, grandfather, and patriarch of the Leone citrus dynasty

  Lorenzo, Bruno’s son

  Aldo, Lorenzo’s son

  Isabella, Lorenzo’s daughter

  Other Characters

  Mr. Giovanni, pharmacist, owner of Giovanni’s Drugstore

  Fredo Romano, employee (lieutenant) of Salvador DiVincenzo

  Monsignor Nunzio, the Church of Our Lady of Mercy

  Father Russo, the Abbey of Santa Maria

  Father Doyle, Saint Michael’s Home for Orphaned Boys

  Omar, employee (lieutenant) of Alfonso DiVincenzo

  Vito Bianchi, student at the University of Rome

  Rosa Zerilli, Vito’s girlfriend

  Cecilia Zerilli, Rosa’s mother

  Father De Carlo, the Basilica of San Marino

  Lilia, orphan

  Zita Stein, elderly Jewish refugee

  1934

  Chapter 1

  Bronx, NY

  He sat in the back of the classroom because that’s what his father had instructed him to do. His older brother, Angelo, who attended a different school, did the same.

  “Watch your back, and never let anyone behind you,” their father would say.

  They obeyed because the consequences of doing otherwise were severe.

  Even though he was in his second year at Saint Francis Preparatory School for boys, he barely knew any of the other students. They kept their distance from him, and he knew why.

  “We’re sorry, Nino, but our parents told us to stay away from you,” they would say.

  This led to a lonely existence for the fourteen-year-old Nino DiVincenzo, who was also self-conscious of his small size.

  The details of his father’s companies were unknown to Nino—that was intentional. There were many men who worked for him. Some of them came by the apartment once per week and dropped off large sums of cash.

  Frequently out all night, Nino’s father would come home and sleep for a few hours, then leave again for several days. During his long absences, Nino’s mother would sometimes sit and stare out the window. On rare occasions, she would get angry and swear in Italian.

  “Salvador DiVincenzo, sei un maiale e anche le tue puttane sono maiali,” she would say. You are a pig and your whores are pigs, too.

  Why she switched to Italian when swearing, Nino never knew. By order of their father, she had taught her sons to speak Italian as well as any Sicilian. After her outbursts, she would pray the Rosary and apologize to Nino and Angelo for her coarse language.

  After being dismissed from his final class of the day, Nino grabbed his books, pulled his flat cap over his thick, black hair, and sprinted down the stairs. Once free of the building, he slowed his pace to a walk. The early September air had an unusual chill, but Nino’s blue blazer, which displayed his school’s red emblem, kept him warm.

  His family lived in Hoffman Towers, one of the most prestigious apartment buildings in the Bronx. Although it was out of the way, Nino would take East 188th Street home. He liked to stop at Giovanni’s Drugstore. Mr. Giovanni was kind to Nino. He was kind to everyone, always addressing each of his customers by name. He was popular with the local children because he handed out free candy and had been doing so for two generations of neighborhood kids.

  “Good afternoon, Nino. How was school today?” Mr. Giovanni said as a bell over the door rang when Nino entered.

  Mr. Giovanni had a thick Italian accent he’d never been able to shake, even after three decades in America.

  “It was fine, Mr. Giovanni.”

  Wearing his white pharmacist coat, Mr. Giovanni turned to the icebox behind the counter.

  “Do you want the vanilla or do I mix the strawberries in your ice cream today?”

  “I’ll stick with vanilla,” Nino said as he set his books and cap on the soda fountain counter and climbed up on the stool.

  Mr. Giovanni said, “I have seen no Angelo, how is your brother?”

  “His school suspended him two weeks ago for fighting. They won’t let him return until next year. Papa isn’t happy and is making him work loading trucks at the docks.”

  “Work is good for a young man. It will help him grow up.”

  “That’s what Papa says, too.”

  As Mr. Giovanni turned to set the porcelain bowl on the counter, it slipped from his hand. When it hit the wooden floor, it shattered, splattering ice cream in all directions.

  “Sarò dannato, Mamma mia,” Mr. Giovanni said. “I’m so sorry, Nino. After I clean this up, I will make you more.”

  “I’ll help you, Mr. Giovanni. I’ll go get a bucket and a mop from the storage room. I know where they are. You keep them next to the big sink near the toilet.”

  “Thank you, Nino. While you do that, I’ll make you another ice cream.”

  Nino jumped down from the stool and stepped behind the curtain separating the front of the store and the storage room. He made his way to the rear and placed the bucket in the deep sink. While he was filling it, he heard the bell at the front door.

  Another customer, Nino thought.

  He shut off the water and heard what sounded like pleading from Mr. Giovanni. He was begging for something.

  “Please, please, I will pay you I promise,” Mr. Giovanni said from the other side of the curtain. “Business has been slow. I don’t have the money right now. Please, give me more time.”

  “I don’t want excuses,” said the other man in a deep, gruff tone. “I have given you plenty of time. Too many in this neighborhood have fallen behind on their payments. I need to make an example of someone and today is your unlucky day.”

  “No, n
o please, I beg you,” shouted Mr. Giovanni before his words turned into a series of gurgles and gasps.

  Nino left the bucket in the sink and ducked behind a row of shelves, caution in each step. Crashing and banging echoed throughout the building. It sounded as though everything was being knocked over and thrown about the store.

  When the clanging stopped, Nino crawled toward the front on his hands and knees. The store was quiet now. He pulled the curtain back just enough to see past it. He saw Mr. Giovanni lying on the floor behind the counter. His blood flowed like a small river before mixing with the melting ice cream.

  Bent at the waist and standing over Mr. Giovanni’s body, a large man wiped a bloody knife on the white coat of the corpse. Nino couldn’t see his face. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a trench coat. Nino let loose of the curtain and ran to the back door. The swaying cloth drew the man’s attention toward the storage room entrance. When Nino arrived at the door, his hope of escape vanished when he found the rear exit locked.

  I’m trapped.

  Moving swiftly for a man his size, the pursuer was at Nino in an instant.

  Nino turned and saw the massive killer glaring at him. Evil reflected in his eyes. He held the knife in his right hand. The remnants of Mr. Giovanni’s blood clung to the blade that was as long as Nino’s forearm.

  I’ve seen him. He works for Papa. He has been to our apartment.

  Nino stood with his back pressed against the door. His stomach tightened. His mind raced as he fought the urge to vomit.

  The man paused and tilted his head to the side, squinted his eyes, and stared at Nino as though he was studying him.

  He recognizes me. He knows who I am. He knows where I live. He will kill me.

  Without saying a word, the man slipped the knife in a pouch sewn into the inside of his trench coat. He then turned and casually walked to the front of the store. The hard leather soles of his shoes scraped over the floor. Nino heard the bell at the entrance ring as the man exited Mr. Giovanni’s drugstore.

  The apartment occupied the entire seventh floor of Hoffman Towers. The doors of the elevator opened in front of two large oak doors that led into a foyer of marble floors, walls accented with cherry wood, and a gold chandelier imported from South America.

  With the live-in maid out of town visiting family, Maria DiVincenzo was in the apartment by herself. She stood at a cast-iron stove preparing dinner.

  One of the large double doors of their apartment swung open, then slammed.

  “Mama! Mama! Where are you?”

  “I’m here, Nino. I’m in the kitchen. What’s wrong?”

  As he approached her, he wiped the tears from his cheeks.

  “Mr. Giovanni has been killed. I was there. I saw it. Mr. Giovanni is lying on the floor of his drugstore. He is behind the counter. I saw the man who killed him, and he saw me. He is one of the men who works for Papa. We need to tell him. Papa needs to tell the police.”

  Maria knelt next to her son. “Are you sure, Nino? Are you sure this is what you saw?”

  “Yes, Mama.” The words spewed out of him like a firehose. “I was in the back room of the drugstore filling a bucket with water. First, I heard Mr. Giovanni talking to the man. Then, I heard Mr. Giovanni begging for his life. After that, I looked through the curtain and saw Mr. Giovanni on the floor. Blood was flowing out of him. That big man who works for Papa was standing over him. I tried to get away, but the back door was locked. He had me trapped in the storage room. I thought he would kill me, too, but then when he looked at my face, he just stood there. Then he turned and left the store. He has been here before. He knows where I live. He will come after me.”

  She embraced him. “No, Nino. He will never come here again, I promise. I will speak to your father, he’ll make certain of that.”

  He pushed her away. “I don’t understand. How can Papa do that? I walk to school by myself. If the man wants to kill me, how can Papa stop him? We need to call the police.”

  She grabbed his hands and looked into his eyes. “Listen to me, Nino. Everything will be fine. Your father will take care of this. Now, let me ask you something, and this is important: Was there anyone else there? Did anyone see you leave Mr. Giovanni’s drugstore?”

  “Nobody else was in the store. When I ran out, I passed a few people on the sidewalk. Some of them looked at me, but I just kept running until I got home.”

  “Did you know any of those people? Would they know you if they saw you again?”

  Nino paused and said nothing while he stared into his mother’s eyes.

  Why was she not concerned about Mr. Giovanni?

  Pulling away from her grip a second time, his voice crackled with emotion. “I don’t understand, Mama. Why are you asking me these questions? Why aren’t we going to the police station to tell them what happened?”

  Maria noticed the look of confusion in her son’s eyes. “Nino, we need to wait for your father to come home before we do anything. He will know what to do. But in the meantime, you mustn’t tell anyone what you saw. Not your teachers. Not your classmates at school. No one. Do you understand, Nino? Will you promise me you will tell only me?”

  Nino stood speechless as he weighed his mother’s response to the bloodshed he had witnessed. Confused, he turned, ran into his bedroom, and slammed the door.

  Chicago, IL

  The Roseman Cameo Shop

  As Hannah Roseman stepped onto the bus, the eyes of other passengers locked on to her as if she were an actress stepping on stage. They studied her every movement, watching as she paid the fare. While they gazed at her, she brushed her long sandy-blond hair from her face, her brown eyes searching the rows for an open seat. The experience of being gawked at was neither unusual nor significant for Hannah. It’s simply how it was. It had always been that way. Several men stood, offering their seats to her. She refused their generosity, yet thanked them, as she made her way to the rear. Halfway down, a little girl in an aisle seat dropped her doll. Hannah bent down and retrieved it. “Here you are, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome. Your doll is very pretty, just like you.”

  The little girl looked up at her and smiled.

  Upon finding an open seat, Hannah removed one of her white gloves and brushed dirt from the wooden surface. She didn’t want to soil her new blue skirt and matching waistcoat. After sitting, she took several deep breaths. Motion sickness overcame her even though the bus had barely left the curb. She was in the twelfth week of her second pregnancy, having lost her first child shortly after conceiving.

  Following her exit from the bus at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Lakeshore Drive, she walked half a block to the Roseman Cameo Shop.

  “Good morning, Clara,” Hannah said, entering the showroom.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Roseman. I trust your doctor’s visit went well.”

  “Dr. Jacobs said the baby appears to be healthy.”

  “I say my prayers for you, Camillo, and the baby. I know you will make wonderful parents.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “When is Camillo due back from Italy?”

  “Not for two more weeks. I wish it were sooner. I miss him terribly.”

  “I was wondering if you could help me with something, Mrs. Roseman?”

  “What’s that?”

  “At Camillo’s request, I sent several cameos to a customer in Kansas City. Yesterday, we received a telegram from the man, and he said he never received them. He demands an immediate refund. What should I do?”

  “I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t help you. The customer will need to remain patient until Camillo returns. I don’t get involved in his business affairs.”

  The door opened and two elderly women walked in. As Clara waited on them, Hannah made her way to the door. “I’m going home to rest, Clara. I’ll bring you lunch today since you’re here by yourself. Do you like navy bean soup? I just prepared it yesterday.”

  “That sounds del
ightful, Mrs. Roseman. You’re always so very thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “I’m happy to do it.”

  After Hannah left, one of the customers said, “That young woman was strikingly beautiful. Is she the owner of the store?”

  “Her husband is. He comes from a wealthy Italian family. They own other stores in Italy. He is there now on business.”

  Manhattan, NY

  The Meatpacking District

  Fourteen men wearing fedoras and three-piece suits in varying shades of dark paced the floor of the warehouse. They smoked cigarettes and discussed the murder of Giovanni the druggist.

  Fredo Romano stared at his watch in thirty second intervals as he stood in the back waiting for Salvador DiVincenzo to arrive. It was early Friday evening, and he was late. He was always late. Although never verbalized, each of the men standing in the dank, dusty building knew the purpose of his delay. It was a statement of power. A tactic Salvador had learned from his father—Alfonso DiVincenzo, the Capo di tutti capi of Sicily. Salvador’s lieutenants were to be there at 6:00 p.m., but Salvador arrived when he arrived. Usually around 6:20 p.m., but often later—much later when he was pissed off, and Fredo Romano’s last glance at his wrist read 7:06 p.m.