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I heard a faint creak, a hinge in need of oil, as Gaetano opened the door slowly. He froze as a voice from inside the house called out a name. He flung the door wide open and Carlo charged inside. Two explosive sounds followed as Carlo let go with both barrels. Light flashed bright in the hallway. Nick charged in with his Sten, then Gaetano with a pistol.

Harry and I ran to the house, taking up positions with our backs to each side of the wall, in case a surprise showed up from the back or the street. A murmur arose among the women, the first sound I'd heard from them. They looked at us as if we were from another planet. They'd taken a drunken kid slitting the guard's throat in stride, but my American uniform was a shock.

Another shotgun blast came from the rear of the house, followed by shouts, pistol shots, and a scream. Glass broke somewhere, then another shot, then silence. Harry and I looked at each other. Then a sound erupted at the side of the house. I swung my Sten around and waited, not sure if it was one of ours, theirs, or a neighborhood cat. A face showed itself, blood dripping down a cheek. He'd probably jumped out of a window, preferring jagged glass to shotgun slugs. He pulled back, then stepped forward again, a revolver aiming straight at my chest, but I was ready with the Sten. I fired a long burst, shell casings spitting out and pinging against the stone wall as bullets hit him. He collapsed onto his knees, the pistol firing once into the dirt as a spasm gripped his hand. I kicked the pistol away, but he wasn't going to be firing it again anyway.

A yell, sounding like a warning, echoed in the hallway, and caught me by surprise. I heard one shotgun blast and then saw a broad back retreating through the front door, a lupara aimed into the house. It was Muschetto, bleeding from one shoulder. He fired again, emptying the second barrel, then stumbled as he turned to run. Harry and I both had our Stens on him, but trying to escape down the street he careened into the clutch of women. He swung the short lupara like a club, trying to clear a path through them, but they closed in around him and he fell, roaring his anger as the silent women kicked at him, striking his face and wounded shoulder. He howled in pain and then in fear as kitchen knives appeared from within the folds of their skirts. They slashed at him as he curled up, hands protecting his neck. The women kept at him, knife blades turning red. A last gurgling howl rose up from the ground as one of them found his throat. The frenzy ended and they stepped back from the widening pool of blood, watching Muschetto twitch one last time.

"Jesus," Harry said quietly. Nick appeared in the doorway, lowering his Sten as he took in the scene in the street.

"He was hiding in a closet," Nick said. "Got the jump on us."

"But not on them," I said, watching the women clean their knives. They did not seem to have a problem with revenge.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It was quite a party. Muschetto stiffened out on the street as Nick's relatives kissed us on both cheeks. They hadn't known why their menfolk had been held hostage and seemed to care less about that than being visited by an American relative and his pals. Bottles of wine were opened as glass was swept and blood mopped up from the kitchen floor. Carlo was a favorite of the women, who pinched his cheek after they kissed him. He blushed: a shy killer. One of Gaetano's men had brought Sciafani in, and he sat across from me, polite to the family but subdued. Family reunions were probably not high on his list right now.

"Ask if they've seen Legs or Vito," I said to Nick, as one of the gray-haired women put bread and olives in front of us.

From his seat of honor at the head of the table, Nick said, "That's my great-aunt Lucia! And this is my great-uncle Andrea!" He slapped the shoulder of the man sitting to his right.

"That's great, Nick. I'm glad to meet him. Now ask about Legs and Vito."

He leaned over to Andrea and started talking, gesturing with his hands, pointing to us, his relatives, Carlo and Gaetano, and everyone else. Between the gestures and the names sprinkled throughout the conversation, I could almost understand him. We had been sent by Don Calo to rescue them. Muschetto was a bandit, recruited by Vito Genovese to do something Don Calo had no part of. There was arguing back and forth between the men, disagreement about some detail or other. Great-Aunt Lucia cut in on that exchange and everyone nodded. "This is Lucia and Andrea's home. Vito came here once," Nick said. "Vito told them Don Calo had a favor to ask of the family, and he needed to speak with all the men. When they gathered here, Legs and Muschetto showed up and took them prisoner: Andrea, his two brothers, and four nephews. They kicked Lucia out. She went and got the other women and they stood in the street for three days, watching the house."

"They underestimated the women," Harry said. "I have made the same mistake."

Nick translated and the men laughed while the women nodded knowingly.

"So Vito hasn't been here since? What about Legs?" I asked.

"Right,"Nick said. "Legs came by every day except today. Yesterday, actually."

"That could mean they're making their move on the payroll."

"But remember Vito needs me, to crack the safes," Nick said. "That can't be it, unless he was planning to pick us up at Don Calo's today."

"You may not be needed yet," I said. "If they're pulling the safes up from the bottom of the bay, the occupation scrip will be soaking wet. The paymaster might have to open up the safes and dry the paper first."

"Right," Harry said. "There will be guards everywhere with the money loose like that. Vito would want to wait until it was locked up again so the paymaster would relax his guard."

"Do you think they would have let my family go?" Nick asked.

Sciafani said. "The threat to your family would keep you from informing on them after the robbery as well."

Nick looked into his wineglass, lost in his thoughts again.

"We've got to get back to Gela," I said. "And stop them."

"That's not all I want to do to them," Nick said.

He spoke some more with his uncle and the other relatives gathered in the kitchen. He slammed his fist into his palm twice as he named Vito and Legs. He outlined a plan, and everyone seemed to approve.

It was after two in the morning. We were to wait until first light, not wanting to take a chance on dark roads with fully armed Germans, Italians, and Americans between us and our destination. Lucia gave us blankets and we tried to sleep in the other room as Nick's relatives kept up the celebration in the kitchen. But the sound of laughter and the clink of glasses and plates carried through the house. I liked it. It filled my mind with thoughts of home, Dad and Uncle Dan and a few buddies in the kitchen, Mom fussing over everyone, while my kid brother Danny and I tried to behave ourselves so no one would kick us out when the men started telling their stories. Funny stories about comic crooks and crooked politicians, sad stories about men they knew who had died-cops, soldiers, IRA men. It was all the same, I thought at first. When I was too young to understand, I thought we Irish were always at war with someone. The English landlords, the Protestants up north, the Kaiser and his soldiers, the criminals in Boston-in my child's mind they were all ranked against us, but I wasn't scared because between Dad and Uncle Dan, they'd fought them all and came home every day to sit at the kitchen table, Mom laughing with them or frowning at their curses.

And here I was, at war with Fascists and bandits. What kind of stories would I have to tell?

I tried to settle in and get some shut-eye. I should have felt satisfied with myself. Hell, I had regained my memory, completed my mission, found Harry and Nick, and now we were about to head back to the American lines. Something felt wrong, though. When I finally slept, I dreamed I was in Algiers, searching for Diana in the Hotel St. George. But I couldn't find her anywhere. The girl of my dreams was gone.