Page 15 of Letters From Victor

Phil’s voice was steady, filled with a quiet reverence. “You paid for everything, Boss.”

I turned back to Joey, letting the weight of Phil’s words sink in. Joey’s eyes were wide, his skin ashen under the flickering light.

“You see, Joey,” I said softly, “when one of my own needs help, I provide it. No questions asked. That’s what loyalty means to me. It’s a two-way street. I take care of my people, and they give me honesty and respect.”

Joey fell to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. Tears streamed down his face, leaving glistening trails on his pallid cheeks.

“Mr. Cardello, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he babbled, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I made a mistake, a terrible mistake. I see that now. I was weak and stupid, and I let my fear get the best of me. But I swear to you on my mother’s grave, it will never happen again.”

I crouched down, putting myself at eye level with him. “Considering that your mother’s alive and well, that’s not muchof a promise.” I patted his shoulder as I stood, looming over him. “And you’re right.”

He looked up at me, confusion and desperation splashed across his face.

“It will never happen again.”

I straightened my suit jacket and adjusted my cufflinks with deliberate, almost leisurely motions. A sad smile played at the corners of my mouth as I pulled a cigarette from my silver case and lit it with a steady hand. Drawing on the cigarette, the sweet, acrid clouds filled my chest, and I savored the brief moment of respite.

I turned to Phil and gave him a quick, silent nod. His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Without a word, I clapped his shoulder and crossed to the stairs.

Phil’s heavy footfalls and Joey’s desperate pleas faded into the background, drowned out by the steady drip of water from a leaky pipe overhead and the creaking of wooden stair treads underfoot.

9

BARBARA

Tract housing blueprints and property maps lay spread across the conference table. The developer, a balding man in his fifties, sat back in his chair, hands steepled under his chin as he watched Victor pore over the plans.

“As you can see, Mr. Cardello,” the developer said, his voice gritty from decades of smoking, “these new neighborhoods will be a goldmine. With the post-war boom, people are clamoring for a slice of the American dream. A house, a yard, a place to raise their kids away from the grime of the city.”

Victor nodded, his expression unreadable as he traced a finger along the proposed streets and cul-de-sacs.

“I don’t doubt that, Mr. Kowalski. Though I’d like to know what you specifically mean by ‘grime.’”

Mr. Kowalski shifted in his seat, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip. “Oh, you know,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The crowding, the pollution, the crime. People want a fresh start, a place where they can breathe easy.”

His eyes darted away from Victor’s as his stubby fingers clawed to loosen his tie and his jaw clenched a bit too tightly.

“As long as that’s all you mean,” Victor said, his voice low and even. “I own a lot of properties in the city. I would hate to think you consider them grimy.” He drained the last of his coffee and glanced at me.

I rose from my chair and smoothed the front of my dress. I retrieved the coffeepot from the sideboard and glided around the table to Victor’s side. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with Victor’s crisp cologne as I leaned in. Steam curled invitingly from the dark liquid as I tipped the carafe, pouring until his cup was full. Victor gave me an almost imperceptible nod of thanks, his eyes never leaving Mr. Kowalski’s face.

As I moved to refill Mr. Kowalski’s cup, I felt his gaze crawling over my figure, eyes lingering a bit too long in places they shouldn’t. I kept my expression neutral, focusing on my task even as discomfort prickled under my skin.

“Cream and sugar?” I asked politely, holding the sterling silver creamer poised over his cup.

Mr. Kowalski’s thin lips curled into a smirk. “Yes, doll face. And in my coffee too.” He winked and shifted his gaze down to my bust.

Victor stood. “He doesn’t need any, Mrs. Evans.” He walked around the table, straightening his tie.

“Well, actually…some cream would be nice.”

I looked at Victor for direction, and he shook his head. I pulled back the creamer.

Victor perched on the edge of the conference table next to the developer. “I suggest you apologize to the lady,” Victor said, his voice eerily calm. Too calm.

“Come again?”

Victor shot his hand out, his fingers clamping down on Mr. Kowalski’s wrist with a viselike grip. The developer let out a yelp of surprise and pain, his eyes wide as saucers. I jumped back, my heart pounding against my ribs.

---