Chapter 2 - The Tailor of Mulberry Street
The rain began around noon, slicking the cobblestones of Mulberry Street into mirrors of charcoal and neon.
Giuseppe Falcone’s shop had stood between a bakery and an espresso bar since 1954. Its display window featured three headless mannequins draped in dark flannel, their shoulders padded in the traditional Neapolitan style that Giuseppe’s father had carried across the Atlantic in a canvas steamer trunk. Inside, the air smelled of wet wool, beeswax, steam, and peppermint lozenges.
Giuseppe, seventy-one years old, was sweeping trimmings from beneath the cutting board when the brass bell above the front door chimed.
He didn't look up immediately. "We are closed for lunch until two. Please, come back—"
The deadbolt turned with a heavy, metallic click.
Giuseppe straightened his spine, a spasm of arthritis seizing his lower vertebrae. Standing in the doorway was Dante Moretti. He wore no overcoat despite the downpour. His navy bespoke suit was immaculate, save for the dark droplets clinging to the shoulders. Behind him, filling the doorway like a slab of butcher’s beef, stood Marco Bellini, his hands folded across his midsection, his coat slightly unbuttoned.
Giuseppe's hand jerked, sending a scatter of black pins across the floorboards.
"Dante," the old tailor whispered, his voice dry as parchment. "I... I did not expect you. You were supposed to be at Mott Street."
"The meeting was postponed, Giuseppe," Dante said smoothly, walking into the shop with measured, unhurried steps. He ran a single finger along a bolt of charcoal herringbone resting on the counter. "My health turned poor. I spent the morning resting. And thinking."
Giuseppe swallowed. He reached for a glass of water on the cutting table, his liver-spotted hand trembling so badly the water sloshed against the rim. "It is an unpredictable winter. Many people are falling ill."
"Indeed," Dante agreed. He stopped three feet from the tailor. "Tell me, Giuseppe. When my father was shot outside the Ravenite in eighty-nine, who paid for his funeral?"
"Your... your family did, Dante."
"And when your shop caught fire in ninety-four after the Genovese boys tried to squeeze the block, who rebuilt it without charging you a single point of interest?"
"Antonio," the tailor breathed, tears suddenly filming his milky eyes. "Your father did. God rest his soul."
"My father," Dante said, nodding once. "He believed that an artisan was sacred. He believed that the man who shapes the cloth that covers your heart should be as trustworthy as the priest who hears your confession."
Dante reached into his inner jacket pocket. Giuseppe flinched, pulling his shoulders inward as if anticipating a snub-nosed revolver.
Instead, Dante withdrew a folded piece of coarse sketch paper. He placed it gently between two bolts of English wool and unfolded it with a flick of his wrist.
Giuseppe looked down.
Rendered in bold black crayon and delicate graphite was the back corner of his own shop. The iron, the steam, the shears. And standing beside the cutting table, the unmistakable likeness of Victor Romano, holding out a thick Manila envelope, his Rolex Submariner clearly detailed right down to the tiny chip in the crystal at the four o'clock position.
Giuseppe let out a broken, wheezing sob and dropped onto a wooden stool.
"Who was she?" Giuseppe cried, covering his face with his chalk-stained fingers. "The little girl with the yellow dress. I thought she was just a child... she was drawing cartoons. I didn't know, Dante. I swear to the Virgin Mary, I had no choice!"
"There is always a choice, old man," Marco growled from the door, his hand drifting toward his shoulder holster.
"Quiet, Marco," Dante commanded. He pulled a wooden chair out from against the wall, turned it around, and sat down facing the weeping tailor, his arms folded across the backrest. "Tell me what Victor said."
Giuseppe’s shoulders shook violently. "He came last Tuesday. He brought the device in a velvet pouch. He said... he said that times were changing. He said that the Moretti name was an old coat that didn't fit the city anymore. He told me that if I didn't stitch the transmitter into the black silk tie, he would send two men to my daughter’s apartment in Sunnyside."
"Maria," Dante noted calmly. "She's a teacher, isn't she? Two boys?"
"Yes! Yes, Dante, my grandchildren! He told me they would never make it to their school bus! What was I supposed to do? Tell me, Dante! What could an old tailor do against Victor Romano?"
Dante leaned in closer. "You could have come to me, Giuseppe. You could have walked straight up East 74th Street and told me that my underboss was wearing wolf's clothing."
"I was terrified," Giuseppe whispered. "He said you were finished anyway. He said the Mott Street meeting was going to be the end of you. That Chicago and Philadelphia were already in his pocket. He said after today, there wouldn't be a Dante Moretti left to protect anyone."
Dante listened in absolute silence. The pieces were locking together with the chilling logic of an abacus. Victor hadn't just placed a listening device to gather intelligence; he had set up Dante to be humiliated or assassinated at the summit. The wire was intended to confirm Dante's exact location, monitor his private discussions with the out-of-town capos, and perhaps provide a federal strike team—or an unsanctioned hit squad—with real-time authorization to move in.
"Where is the second envelope, Giuseppe?" Dante asked.
"What second envelope?"
"Victor didn't just give you cash," Dante said, pointing to the drawing. "Look closely at what the child drew."
Giuseppe squinted through his spectacles. In the lower corner of the drawing, beneath the rendering of the oak table, Lily had sketched a small rectangular box with two switches and a glowing red dot.
"A receiver," Dante said. "Victor didn't trust that the wire would connect to his car's relay. He needed an intermediate booster within five hundred yards of the Mott Street restaurant. He had you hide the receiver in this shop, didn't he?"
Giuseppe closed his eyes and nodded slowly. "Behind the water heater in the basement. He told me not to touch it until he called me with a code word."
Dante stood up. He adjusted his cuffs, his demeanor as placid as if he were discussing the weather.
"Marco," Dante said.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Go downstairs. Find the booster. Do not turn it off. If Victor's technicians see the signal drop, they'll know the play is blown. Leave it pulsing."
"Understood." Marco disappeared through the curtain toward the cellar stairs.
Dante turned back to Giuseppe, who was shivering so hard his knees knocked together beneath his trousers.
"Pack a bag, Giuseppe," Dante said.
The tailor looked up with wide, terrified eyes. "You're going to put me in the ground?"
"If I wanted you in the ground, we wouldn't be talking about my father's suits," Dante replied, his tone devoid of cruelty. "You are an idiot, and your cowardice nearly cost me my life. But you are also the only man left who can cut a shoulder the way Antonio liked it. And more importantly, you are living proof of Victor's treason."
Dante reached into his pocket and placed a roll of hundred-dollar bills on the cutting board.
"There is a safehouse in Rhinebeck, up in Dutchess County," Dante told him. "Marco will drive you there tonight. You will stay inside, you will drink your tea, and you will make two new three-piece suits for a four-year-old girl and her mother. If you step outside the perimeter before I tell you to, Marco will not be the one who comes for you. Do you understand?"
Giuseppe nodded frantically, tears soaking his white collar. "Yes, Dante. God bless you, Dante."
Dante walked out into the Mulberry Street rain, his mind moving three steps ahead on a board only he could see. As he slid into the back of his armored Mercedes, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
The screen read: *Victor Romano.*
Dante let it ring four times before answering. He brought the phone to his ear, clearing his throat to inject just a touch of weakness into his vocal cords.
"Victor," Dante said, letting his voice rasp slightly.
"Dante! Jesus, kid, how are you feeling?" Victor’s voice boomed with hearty, paternal concern. "I just spoke with Frank Duca. He's at the Penn Club, spitting fire about the delay. I had to buy him two rounds of scotch just to keep him from getting back on the train to Philly."
"I appreciate it, Victor," Dante said softly. "The doctor said it’s an acute bronchial spasm. High fever. I'm taking antibiotics. By Thursday morning, I'll be clear."
"Good, good," Victor replied smoothly. "Listen, kid... don't worry about a thing. I have our boys patrolling the lower perimeter around the Mott Street venue. Everything is locked down tight. Just rest up. Wear that black silk tie again on Thursday, eh? Give them the old Antonio Moretti look. Remind those out-of-town bastards who runs this city."
Dante stared through the tinted window of the Mercedes as the rain drummed against the glass.
"I'll be sure to wear it, Victor," Dante said. "I'll see you Thursday."
He hung up, the silence inside the armored car returning instantly.
He didn't dial another lieutenant. Instead, he pulled out his leather-bound pocket notebook, opened it to a fresh page, and stared at the words he had written earlier that morning:
*Lily. Four. Scissors.*
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The empire his father had built was cracking along its oldest fault lines. And the only weapon Dante possessed that his enemies didn't understand was a little girl who saw everything and forgot nothing.
***
