The Escort

chapter 1

New York City

April 1899

Little Italy awoke with vigor as Angelina di Maria Allessandro cruised Mulberry Street on her way toward salvation and escape. Street vendors took up residence on the sidewalk and opened their carts for the day of business ahead. Shopkeepers unlocked their doors and drew up their shades to let the morning light stream in. Early customers milled about outside, waiting to be summoned in to do the day's shopping. The air was warm with the rich scent of baking bread from numerous panetteria scattered among the stores. The low-slung eastern sun cast long, thin shadows and lit the corner window of Perelli's Farmacia like a sparkling jewel. Single-minded of purpose, Angelina noticed none of it.

Almost by rote, she weaved her way around the growing number of pedestrians filling the street. Under the shade of store awnings, displays of every Italian delicacy imaginable beckoned. But she paid little attention to the now familiar sights. Above her, five and six-story brick buildings blocked the blue of the sky with their girth. Dishtowels hung out to dry on wrought iron balconies above street level where rows of apartments looked like so many prison cells of this great, confining place. What was it to her? Where was the beauty? She was a country girl. The smell of fresh grass in the field. The sounds of birds chirping. That was beauty. Not pigeons clucking in eaves.

Men perched on the backsides of wagons parked against the curb and swapped stories, hailed buddies, and eyed women. They whistled and hooted as Angelina walked by. She should have ignored them, as Mama had taught her. But she couldn't resist casting them a sidelong smile and adding a bit more sway to her walk as she hurried past.

Angelina was not a classic beauty. Not that she cared. She had a dark, exotic, Mediterranean look—full lips, a large mouth, and snapping, lively eyes that men told her distracted them from all rational thought. If her straight Roman nose was too long, they didn't seem to object. Here in New York, even a look meant to upbraid couldn't turn the men away.

As Angelina came to the next intersection, she scanned the street for Nonna Gia and the aging tables where she sold her homemade pasta. Nonna Gia should be in her usual space outside Villari's Fish Market, with her husband Papa Joe at her side. Nonna Gia's pasta was unarguably the best to be found on Mulberry Street, and she always undercut the prices of her competitors. Angelina never bought her pasta anywhere else, but today she sought the old woman out for another reason.

A gentle breeze kicked up from the direction of the waterfront, threatening to blow off the white scarf Mario had insisted Angelina wear for modesty's sake when she went out. She reached up and secured it as she looked quickly in each direction and crossed. On the other side, a short, heavy woman peddled her wares.

"Finocchio! Fresh finocchio!"

Angelina stepped around two heavy metal washtubs perched on wooden stools and filled with fennel bulbs. She had barely cleared the tubs when Nonna caught sight of her and called out.

"Angelina!" Nonna Gia hurried around to the front of the pasta table to greet her. Angelina set her shopping basket down and bent forward to let the tiny woman kiss both of her cheeks, catching the licorice scent of anise oil, Nonna's version of perfume.

"How is business this morning?" Angelina hid her excitement behind the mundane question. It was a game she and the old woman played, each putting on a poker face for the other's benefit.

"We've just opened, but it looks to be a good day. The weather is nice. It brings the people out." Nonna turned to her husband. "Papa Joe, tend to the table while I have a word with Angelina."

"Listen to this old woman!" Papa Joe threw up his hands. "She never has just a word with anyone. Don't keep her long. Look! The neighborhood women are already descending on us like pigeons. Here comes Signora Rubino." He gestured again to emphasize his point. "Nothing ever satisfies that one."

"We won't be long, Papa Joe. I promise," Angelina said.

He urged them off with a wave of his arm.

"Come. This way, Angelina. Perhaps we can have a word in private." Nonna Gia pulled her into an unused doorway a short distance from Papa Joe and the table. "So tell me, how's Mario doing these days?" The small talk was deliberate, part of their game. No good Italian conversation was complete without first inquiring about the family.

"Mario! He treats me as if I'm some small, defenseless child, one whose virtue could be snatched away by the mere glance of a strange man. Look at this scarf he makes me wear!"

Nonna Gia chuckled. "You would like to flirt with the young men perhaps?" She wagged her finger. "It's not for you. No word from your new groom, Signor Allessandro?"

"Nothing. Not one word." Angelina sighed, frustrated. Nonna Gia knew of her worries. What if something had happened to Signor Allessandro? The mines were dangerous places. What if he was angry that Paolo had been sent back? What if he blamed her? What if he no longer wanted her?

"The winter has been hard," Angelina said, covering her fears with the story she had concocted to comfort herself. "The trains have not been running and the telegraph lines have been out of service. I am sure he's been busy in the mines. Still, I worry. I must go to him as soon as possible. I would have gone already, but Mario insists that I need an escort." She threw up her hands. "I cannot live on the charity of Papa's relatives forever."

"Your man should have come for you himself, no matter what was going on in that place called Idaho. He should not have trusted his bride to his brother." Nonna Gia wagged her finger as she talked.

Angelina sighed. They'd been over this subject before.

"Why don't you stay in New York? Catch a man here. You owe that man nothing!"

"Nonna! How can you suggest such a thing? I owe him my passage. I have made a vow of honor. And we are married!"

"Married? Bah! That is nothing! It can be annulled. You have not even met the man." Nonna turned and looked out at the crowds filling the marketplace, a tiny smile toying with her lips. "But if you insist on going, I may be able to help." Nonna spoke casually, almost noncommittally, shrugging her shoulders ever so slightly. Angelina recognized the ploy to draw emphasis away from her own excitement.

"You have found someone!" Angelina hugged the older woman before she had a chance to reply.

"Yes. But before you get too excited—" Nonna spoke as one who was hugged too tightly and enjoying the attention.

Angelina released the older woman and clutched her arm. "Who? Do I know them?"

"His name is Antonio Domani. I call him Tonio. Please, Angelina. You hurt the arm with your grip."

Angelina released her hold. "What about his wife? What is her name?"

Nonna Gia looked sheepish. "There is no wife, just him. Will Mario approve of you going West with a single man?"

Angelina's hopes fell. "I don't know." She feared not.

"We will find out." Nonna Gia chuckled softly and gestured with her hands. "My Tonio can convince anyone of anything. You turn him loose on Mario, there will be no problem with the convincing. Let us think on the good news—Tonio is from Idaho. The Silver Valley, he calls it. He plans to return at the end of the week. The railroads are running again."

Angelina's heart raced. She forgot the rules of their game of composure and blurted out her next question. "Which town is he going to?"

"Wallace. Tonio tells me it's not far from Harrison. The bigger question is—can you convince Mario to let you go?"

"This Tonio won't take advantage of me, will he?" Angelina put a tease in her voice. She liked baiting Nonna.

Nonna laughed. "I will personally vouch for Tonio. He has been a regular customer of ours off and on for years."

Angelina shook her head. "I'll bet you have a few scoundrels among your regulars."

"Tonio is a good man, Angelina." There was an undeniable note of pride in Nonna's suddenly solemn voice.

"Then I won't have any trouble convincing Mario to let me go with him, will I? Is Signor Domani willing to let me travel with him? You have asked him?"

Nonna's chuckle returned. "He wants to meet you first. He prefers to travel alone. He said something about not wanting to face a week-long train ride with a frivolous woman."

Angelina frowned. She didn't like this Tonio's attitude. "He sounds like a crotchety old man."

Nonna shrugged again, concealing a grin.

"As desperate as I am, I suppose I can put up with just about anyone. Did you tell him that I only need him to escort me onto the train? Once we're onboard, he's free to do whatever he pleases. Mario will never know the difference. I can take care of myself."

"If Tonio agrees to take you, he won't desert you. I have his word." Nonna handed her a scrap of paper with an address written in a bold masculine hand. "Here is his address. Go see him."



Angelina was breathing deeply as she reached the third-floor landing of Tonio Domani's apartment building, more from excitement than exertion. She reached into her apron pocket and retrieved the crumpled address she'd hastily stuffed there before leaving Nonna. Studying it, she walked down the hall, scanning doors for the correct address.

Number 325 looked like all the other doors lining the hall. But its innocuous appearance did nothing to quiet her nerves as she stood before it. He must take me with him. She willed the butterflies winging wildly in her stomach to quiet, drew in a deep breath, whispered a prayer, raised her arm, and knocked.

Silence.

She waited a decent length of time. Nothing.

This was a fine mess. When would she have time to come this way next? When could she escape from Mario's protective eye again? She quickly crossed herself, amended her prayer to add that Signor Domani be home, and knocked again.

Still, no answer.

Frustrated, she searched for something to scribble a note on. She could tear off a piece of the address, but she had no pencil—

Either her ears deceived her or she heard something. She stopped her frantic searching and stepped closer to the door. A deep, masculine voice hummed a tune, she was certain of it. But in this apartment or the next one over? She leaned with her ear cupped against the door, straining to hear.

Without warning the door swung open, throwing her off balance, headlong into the warm, bare arms of a stranger. She stared into a naked, well-muscled chest covered with curly black hair, held close by a man who smelled pleasantly of fresh soap and shaving cream. She pulled away slowly, afraid she'd topple over again, steadying herself on the doorjamb, shaken by more than her tumble. Much more.

"I'm so sorry." She mumbled, stumbling over her words and peering cautiously up at him.

The man before her was easily over six feet tall and handsome in a way that took her breath away. Quite possibly, no, certainly, the most handsome Italian man she'd ever seen. And she'd seen many. The sight of him made her warm all over, almost overheated. She clenched her hand, resisting the urge to cross herself again. Surely such feelings in a married woman were a sin of the most mortal kind.

Eyes the color of coal stared down at her, bold with curiosity as he lounged in the doorway, legs posed in a casual, wide stance. Her eyes met his for the barest second. Embarrassed, she averted her gaze from his dark, piercing one. She felt the flush of her skin under his obviously appraising scrutiny and amused grin.

He seemed to enjoy her discomposure. Little bits of shaving cream dotted his face. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as he swiped at them with his towel, still staring at her, waiting for her to speak again. But her tongue froze.

"Can I help you?" he asked at last.

"I...I'm afraid I have the wrong address. I'm looking for Antonio Domani. Do you know him? Which apartment is his, if you please?"

"You found him. I'm Domani."

She stared in disbelief. This couldn't be Tonio Domani. Nonna wouldn't be foolish enough to believe Mario would allow her to travel alone with this man.

"Nonna Gia sent me," she began uncertainly, "I am here to talk to…you?" She couldn't keep the question from her voice. "About a trip west to Idaho. But there must be some mistake. Is there another Antonio Domani here? Your father perhaps?"

Tonio tipped his head back slightly and laughed a deep, hearty, amused laugh. "There is no other Tonio. I am the one and only. Some would say fortunately. What other misinformation did Nonna give you about me?"

"She said you were a good customer."

He seemed to like her answer. "True enough. Come on in." He stepped aside to let her pass.

The room in front of her displayed the carnage of someone in the process of moving. A stack of fully packed crates lined one wall and partially packed boxes sat everywhere. Wads of newspaper littered the room.

"Excuse me a minute while I make myself more presentable. I was just finishing my shave when you knocked." He walked to the small bedroom that adjoined the main room, pausing to call back over his shoulder. "Make yourself at home."

As Angelina walked to one of the few remaining pieces of furniture in the room, an old worn chair, a photograph in a silver frame drew her attention. It seemed strangely at odds with the disarray of the room, set carefully on a starched white doily atop a well-crafted cherry end table. A young woman smiled out of the gilded frame.

Angelina picked it up to get a closer look. The photograph had obviously been taken some years ago, but the old-fashioned style of dress did not diminish the beauty of the woman. Her thick, black hair coiled neatly on her head so as not to obscure the full view of her classic face. Large dark eyes danced above delicate high cheekbones. Her jaw was strong and firm, but surprisingly feminine, the dress she wore obviously expensive. A heavy gold cross hung against her well-shaped bosom.

The cross caught Angelina's attention. It looked similar to the one that she wore secretly tucked beneath her own high-buttoned blouse. She absently traced the outline of her own necklace with the forefinger of her free hand. The woman in the picture bore a striking resemblance to—

"My mother."

Angelina started.

Tonio reached from behind her and pulled the picture out of her hands. A little too roughly, Angelina thought. He set it back down, face to the wall.

"She's a beautiful woman." Angelina turned to face him.

"Yes, she was. Please, sit down." Tonio had donned a fresh white shirt, but had not tucked it in. As she sat, he shoved the shirttails down between his skin and the soft denim of his pants, his movements natural and unabashed. The way he dressed in front of her was too casual, too sensual. She squirmed.

"You are in the process of moving, Signor Domani?"

"Me? No. This apartment belonged to my uncle. He passed away last week. His illness and subsequent death drew me here from the mining country. I am in the process of closing up his estate, if you can call it that. As soon as I'm finished I'll be headed back."

It was the first string of more than a few words Angelina had heard him speak. It put her immediately on guard. He spoke cultured, classic Italian—the language imposed on the united Italy by the North not more than forty years ago—not dialect. Most southerners still did not speak it, either out of ignorance or rebellion or both.

"I am sorry about your uncle."

"No need to be." His voice held an unexpectedly hard edge. "I seem to have forgotten my few manners. Shall we introduce ourselves? I believe we've established that I'm Antonio Domani. Please, call me Tonio. And you are?"

"Angelina Allessandro. Pleased to meet you."

"I assure you, the pleasure is mine." He extended his hand.

Angelina stared at him, not at all sure what he expected.

"You're supposed to shake my hand." He took her right hand in his warm, strong one, holding hers firmly, confidently, in a way that made her pulse race. "Americans aren't like Italians. They are uncomfortable kissing each other in greeting. Uncivilized of them, isn't it? A peck on each cheek is nothing."

She pulled her hand from his as if scorched and shifted to the corner of her chair without answering. The man made her feel too warm, too vulnerable.

He laughed, seemingly enjoying the effect he had on her. "Would you like a cup of coffee before we get down to business?" Before she could answer, Tonio stepped to the stove, poured two cups and returned to hand one to her. He pulled up a crate and sat down, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug as he stared at her intently.

His scrutiny heated the room. To mask her self-consciousness, Angelina adjusted her skirt and smoothed her apron before taking a sip of the brew.

"Tell me something, Miss Allessandro…"

"Mrs."

His eyebrows shot up. "You are already married?"

She nodded. She'd surprised him. Good. She was glad to have an advantage, even a small one.

"Ah. Foolish me. I thought you were on your way to meet your fiancé, not your husband. If you don't mind my asking, why doesn't the lucky bridegroom come get you himself? Most men would beat a quick path to New York to claim a bride as beautiful as you are. There are so few women in the mining country, and even fewer attractive ones. He must be a man with a great deal of self-restraint."

His easy flattery distracted her.

"He's never seen me." It just popped out. Her hand flew to her mouth as if trying to stuff the words back in. Franco had written to her that she must never tell.

Tonio's brow furrowed, followed almost instantly by a look of near amusement. "Ah, an infamous proxy wedding then. That explains it. The good man doesn't know what he's missing." He spoke softly, almost as if to himself.

Angelina remained mute, horrified she'd spilled her secret so easily.

Tonio filled the silence easily. "Who stood in for the groom?"

She didn't trust herself to speak.

Tonio answered his own question. "Some relative, no doubt. He signed his x on the dotted line for your husband, did he? You were hoping the validation of a marriage license would speed you through immigration? Fend off the licentious officials?"

She nodded. There was no sense denying it.

He studied her again, looking both sympathetic and incensed at the indignity of the immigration process at the same time. "Your husband should have gone to Italy to get you. He should never have let you travel alone. I would never let my sister—" He cut himself off. "Ah, but it's not my business."

Angelina still felt the need to defend her husband. "I wasn't alone. My escort, my husband's brother, was denied entry here in New York. Didn't Nonna tell you?"

"Ah, yes. The brother. Nonna did mention something." He paused. "So you want me to escort you to your husband so the two of you can go to the local priest and make the whole marriage right before God? You will make the marriage legal, won't you?"

Angelina couldn't decide what the correct answer was. Whether Tonio was mocking her or worried about the sanctity of her marriage. She didn't reply.

Tonio didn't press the matter. "What's your husband's name?"

"Franco Allessandro." She bit her lip. This wasn't going well, not at all as she expected. She was usually able to bend men to her will. But this man…

"Mr. Domani, Tonio, I have not heard from my husband since arriving in America and I am worried. Whatever you may think, it is not like him not to look after me. He is an old, dear friend of my papa. He would not leave me at the mercy of distant relatives if something was not wrong. I must get to him. Soon."

"Don't know him," Tonio continued as if he hadn't heard her. "You're Napolitane, aren't you?"

Angelina nodded, uncertain where he was heading with the question, but afraid he would not like her answer. He was obviously a northern Italian, and she, a southern girl. The animosity between the northern and southern Italians was very much like that between the Yankees and Southerners that she had heard about here in America.

"I thought so." He spoke slowly, as if weighing his thoughts in an unseen balance. "My grandmother came from Calabria, which explains my black hair and southern features. I can't tell you what a disability they posed growing up in Turin as I did. You must have noticed my King Emmanuel's Italian. I've never been able to effect a southern dialect worth a—" He stopped himself from using the obvious epithet.

The Northern Italians were responsible for the poverty of her southern Italian homeland. Because of the North's economic stronghold over the South, they held all the power and wielded it fiercely, taxing the poor beyond the humane. Crops had failed in the largely agricultural economy of the South for as many years as Angelina had been alive. There were no jobs, so the young men left to find work. No jobs, no men, and therefore, no husband for a poor girl like her with no dowry.

"Mrs. Allessandro, I have my reservations about taking you with me to—"

"Please. Don't let my being from the South influence you. I will be no trouble. None at all. As soon as we are on the train, I release you of any responsibility—"

He was shaking his head and laughing. "Would Nonna have sent you to me if she'd thought I was that prejudiced? Class or being from the North or South matters less than fool's gold to me."

"Then why?"

He turned solemn. "Your husband, whatever his motive for his silence, has good reason not to want you in the Valley. At the best of times, it's a rough and tumble place. But with the labor tensions between mine owners and miners being what they are, things could explode at any time." There was a hint of humor in his tone. "It's no place for a lady."

Angelina set down her coffee with trembling hands, willing to beg this handsome man. "Please, sir, you must take me with you. Have you never been poor and wanting? In my whole life, I have had nothing but dreams of something better than poverty—land, a home of my own, a husband and children. All my hope for that is in Idaho.

"If I stay here, I have nothing but the loss of my dignity and the charity of distant relatives. Please."

Although his face remained inscrutable, his eyes flickered with sympathy. And a touch of wariness. She couldn't blame him for that. She was guarded herself. And grateful, more grateful than she liked to admit, that he didn't pity her. But on what grounds could he possibly sympathize with her? A man like him from an obviously high-class background? She held her breath. Finally, he sighed.

She knew she'd won him over even before he spoke. Her plea had not been elegant, but miraculously, she'd changed his mind.

"I won't be doing you any favors. You'll curse me in the end." He stood, indicating the interview was over. "The train leaves early on Friday. I'll pick you up at four a.m. Sharp."

Relief made her almost weak. "Thank you. So much." She stood and touched his sleeve. Which was a mistake. Her heart pattered out of control and she flushed. She would have to keep her distance from this one. "Nonna says you prefer to travel alone. I won't be a frivolous female. I promise."

He said something in English too fast for her to catch. Then his laughter filled the room. "Nonna talks too damned much."

"There is just one more thing, Signor Domani. Another favor." The natural flirt came out in her. She used the tone and seductive little smile she put on as second nature when she was trying to get a man to do her bidding. "Nonna Gia brags you have a silver tongue. That you could convince the devil himself he needs a furnace. I'll need your help convincing my cousin Mario that you are a respectable, reliable escort for me." She clasped her hands in front of her. "That you will protect my virtue with your life. He will insist on meeting you, of course."

Again, the rapid English and the laughter. "I'm hardly respectable. But I'll talk to him."

Mario would be a fool to believe Tonio Domani was anything but a threat to her virtue. But all the same, nothing would stop her from going with him. Nothing.