Page 68 of Letters From Victor

Edith crushed the remains of her cigarette against the bench’s metal armrest, sparks flying before dying in the breeze.“And you didn’t think to ask Frank where the money came from?”

“I didn’t want him to know that I knew. Besides, Victor was concerned for our safety. He thought Frank had borrowed from some dangerous loan shark.” I blew out a relieved sigh. “At least that’s one mystery solved.”

“The plot thickens.” Before I could respond, Edith continued, “We can get into that drama another day. But my point is that Mother might be more willing to help than you think.”

“After the tongue-lashing she gave me the other day? Not likely. And knowing that she gave Frank the money he needed to get me to quit working proves that she’d take Frank’s side, not mine.”

“Well, she’s got to find out some time or other. Might as well be now. On your terms.”

“On my terms,” I repeated. The words tasted foreign.

Edith stood and smoothed her skirt, the fabric rustling like dry leaves. “Babs, you know I love you and will back you up one hundred percent.” She paused, her gaze sharp enough to cut through me. “But you need to stop waiting for other people to determine your future. If you want to leave Frank, then leave him. If you want to be with Victor, then be with him. But decide for yourself.”

I bit my lip, weighing her words. Edith had always been the bold one, the brash trailblazer, the queen of the Jazz Age. She’d made choices—some brilliant, some disastrous—but they were always hers. And she didn’t give a fig about what people around her said. Could I really do the same?

“Mommy, look!” Frankie called. He’d dismounted his bike and was attempting to climb a low-hanging branch of the oak tree. I started to rise, but Edith put a hand on my shoulder.

“He’ll be fine.” She raised an eyebrow for emphasis. “With the other thing too.”

My heart ached in my chest. “I hope to God you’re right.”

“Kids are more resilient than we give them credit for. He’ll be just fine. Shoot, probably better than fine if Victor’s even half the man you make him out to be.”

Finally, an easy smile graced my lips. “I’d like you to meet him, Edie. When all this nonsense is over.”

She bent down and kissed my forehead. “I thought you’d never ask.”

27

VICTOR

May 1951

The damp, earthy scent of the basement seeped into my clothes as I descended the steps. The last time I was down here, Joey Rizzo was still breathing.

This was Phil’s domain.

A single bare bulb swayed slightly, casting long, wavering shadows on the rough concrete walls, which gave the space an eerie, subterranean glow. Phil stood at his usual post—a makeshift workbench cluttered with ledgers, an overflowing ashtray, and an old adding machine. The faint scratch of his pencil was the only sound in the otherwise oppressive silence.

I cleared my throat, and Phil straightened. He had a towering frame, broad shoulders, thick hands, but a mind sharp as a straight razor. His eyes met mine—cool, calculating—but always carrying that spark of loyalty I had come to rely on.

“Victor.” A nod. No more words were needed. He knew why I was here.

I walked over, my leather soles scuffing lightly against the concrete floor. I glanced at the ledger filled with meticulous columns of numbers, every figure carefully noted in Phil’s steady script. Detail work bored me to tears, but it was essential for keeping the machine running.

“How’s it looking?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Phil was nothing if not thorough.

“Solid,” he said. “The new establishments are paying out better than we expected.”

I allowed myself a small smile. “Good. We’ll need that cushion while I’m…away.”

At my words, Phil’s brows creased. He didn’t press, but the pause in our conversation was weighty. The distant hum of the furnace and the occasional drip of water from the pipes above made the lull in our discussion feel like the calm before a storm.

“You understand why I need to step back for a while,” I said finally. “Until my divorce is final, I need to be squeaky clean.”

Phil’s eyes never left mine. He didn’t need to say anything.

I continued, “Private investigators, depositions… If they find any of this, it could get messy.”

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