The Escort

chapter 3

Tonio sat opposite Angelina in the dining car, watching her wolf down a big breakfast. Not that watching her was hard on the eyes. He could have stared at her all day. More like it was hard on the rest of him. He was still wondering what he was doing taking her to the mining country, why her appeal about dreams and hopes had convinced him to do this mad deed. He hadn't thought he had anything noble or chivalrous left in him. He generally regarded himself as a cynic and liked it that way. But back at the apartment, she'd been so pretty, so damned vulnerable and he owed Nonna Gia one.

Nonna was going to owe him one if he ever got back to New York. What was Nonna thinking saddling him with a woman he couldn't stop brooding about? He'd vowed to himself a long time ago that he would never again mess with a woman he couldn't have. And he couldn't have this one for reasons beyond her foolish proxy marriage. She wanted a husband who could give her a home, security, children. He had one goal and one only, to make the Jupiter mine pay off so that he and his partners would be rich. In the face of security, his dream didn't seem like much to offer a woman. And he didn't intend to anyway. A woman would complicate his life.

Angelina continued to shovel it in. For all her flirtatious ways, she made no pretense of being a dainty eater. Maybe being poor all her life had taught her to eat with gusto when she could.

"Decide American food isn't so bad after all?" Tonio asked. Speaking was better than letting his thoughts run with images of what he'd like to do with her.

They'd left the rain behind overnight, somewhere between Newark and Philadelphia. Weak sunlight seeped into the dining car through grease-filmed windows. They were nearly alone in the car. Most people traveled with their own supply of food, eliminating the need to frequent the diner. Tonio hadn't bothered with packing meals and Angelina had nibbled away the snacks Lucia had packed for her.

"I can live with it." She paused with a forkful of fried potatoes poised mid-air. "When hungry enough. I prefer a brioche and a cappuccino for a first meal of the day. Breakfast should not weigh a person down; that's what midday and evening meals are for."

Angelina intrigued him. She shouldn't know about brioches. "Where did you learn about coffee and fancy pastries? I thought the peasantry had plain bread for breakfast."

"When I lived in Signor Costagnola's household. I can live the good life as well as you. I spent a year under the roof of one of the richest men of the region." She didn't sound as proud of the fact as she should have.

"Oh? And just what did you do for Signor Costagnola?" He couldn't help asking the baited question. He knew too much about noblemen's appetites and the help.

"Less than he would have liked." Her tone was flat.

Tonio felt relieved. "That being?"

"You have a dirty mind. I was a pastry chef and baker in his kitchen. I lived in the servant's quarters, but I observed the gentry closely."

"But he wanted more?"

A blush crept up her cheeks. "Why else would I leave such a position?"

Tonio felt cantankerous. Sleeping next to her on a hard board hadn't allowed him much sleep. "Being a rich man's mistress didn't appeal to you?"

She plunked her fork down and pushed her chair back.

He reached across the table and grabbed her wrist before she could fully rise. "I'm sorry. Please sit. I was out of line." He'd overstepped and he knew it. She was an innocent girl with honor, something he'd almost forgotten existed. He smiled apologetically across at her. She looked leery, but relaxed her arm in his firm grip and he released his hold. She settled back into her chair and scooted to the table.

"The women in Wallace, where I live, are jaded, their innocence long since spent. I've forgotten about youth and protected virtue. I bet you haven't even been kissed, except perhaps at carnevale." Thoughts of carnevale made him smile.

"I can see your parents parading you down the piazza every Sunday after mass, hoping to attract the attention of some worthy suitor, yet keeping you cloistered in their midst. And I can see the young men salivating, lascivious thoughts tucked protectively under the surface, but there nonetheless. Not daring to speak to you openly for fear of violating the code of social conduct so prized by Italian society. But later, alone with their buddies, enumerating your virtues for all their worth."

She looked uncertain as to whether he complimented or made fun of her. He did neither. "Your lips are as full and red as a dozen roses. What young man wouldn't be tempted by them? Were you old enough to be allowed out at carnevale last year?"

"Old enough! I'm nineteen!"

He laughed softly. "Spoken with the pride of youth. Too many more years and you'll be hiding your age. You're dying to tell me, so go ahead. Did you collect many kisses?"

"You speak openly of intimate matters. But if you must know—more than any other girl!"

His mind traveled back to the annual celebration. Masked men paraded the streets, throwing confetti and candy coated almonds at women and children, their masks affording them the protection of anonymity, giving them boldness. Young men roamed the streets seeking the girls they favored, bestowing them with chaste kisses. Girls purposefully strayed from their parents and chaperones looked the other way but only for that day. Girls went home with pockets full of candy and a sense of romance heady with kisses.

"So girls compare notes. I always imagined they did."

"And you, I suppose you've kissed many girls?"

"Many more than I should have." He pushed his plate back, suddenly full. "Tell me, what's the difference between marrying your old toad for money and taking money for favors from your rich Signor Costagnola? Surely he was much wealthier."

"Marriage is honorable." She sounded sure of herself.

He wished he felt her conviction about anything outside of the Jupiter.

"Honor, what is that?" He laughed derisively. "So for honor's sake you find yourself banished to the United States." Her arranged married angered him. Although it was tradition in Italy for marriages to be arranged, he'd seen the damage they wrought. He preferred the American way of choosing one's own spouse. Soon enough Angelina's innocence would be betrayed when the realities of being married to a stranger twice her age became clear to her. She was a woman with such passion. She deserved more. As it was, he intended not to go far enough to witness her disappointment.

"Only for two years."

He stared at her until she felt compelled to continue. "In two years we will have enough money to return to Italy and live comfortably. Signor Allessandro has promised."

"In two years he'll have to drag you back kicking and screaming, believe me."

"How can you be so confident? You act as if you know me well."

"I do. You remind me of a younger version of myself. So damned free-spirited you tried to take off on me and go it on your own. Once you get a taste of walking down the streets unaccompanied, talking to whomever you please, conducting your own business, you'll forget your longing for the shackles of the medieval life you led in Italy. American women will soon have the vote and with that—"

"I won't stay. I miss Santa Croce already. When will you return?"

"Never," he said.

She gave him a look he was sure meant to pierce the truth out of him, but he didn't waver.

He set his napkin on the table. "Stop looking at me like an angry cat. What would you have me do? Go back and marry some Northern girl? They don't have the shortage of men there that they do in the South, so I feel no guilt in that regard. Speaking of which, why didn't your Mr. Allessandro wait two years to marry, when he could go back and collect a handsome dowry from some desperate rich girl? Why send for a poor one without a dowry?"

"Mr. Allessandro is forty-four years old. He doesn't want to wait any longer to start his family. Why don't you go back?"

"I told you, I'm not the marrying kind. And if I were, it would be to an American woman. I like their sense of independence. They don't want men to rule them."

"You've forgotten, sir, that the real ruler of the home is the Italian mama."

He smiled, genuinely amused. "I haven't forgotten. I had one myself. But the woman can only cajole the man. She has no real power of her own. It's a crime for a woman to show any intelligence or initiative. When it comes down to it, if the man is strong, the woman has no say. My poor mother learned that the hard way."

"What about your family?" she asked. "Don't you miss them?"

"What's left of my family disowned me years ago."

She stared at him questioningly. "You had an uncle."

"Yes, I did." He stared back at her. "And now he's dead."

"We should return to our seats." She rose, setting her napkin on the table and brushing a few inconspicuous crumbs from her skirt.

Tonio came around to her side of the table and pulled her chair out, then leaned close to speak into her ear. She might as well know what kind of man he was. If she kept her guard up, he might be able to stay away from her.

"I got a girl pregnant when I was nineteen, the same exalted, wise age you are now. I would have married her, but my father decided she was too far below our station to carry the Domani name. He sent me away. "

She colored, a deep obvious scarlet.

Her eyes were wide with surprise as he took her arm and guided her to the door. "After you."



The rails clattered on endlessly as the train shimmied along on its boundless route. Tonio sat beside Angelina, reading yellowed letters from a bundle he'd carried aboard in his traveling duffel. Angelina studied him from the corner of her eye. His face was a placid mask as he read, but his eyes were hard and angry.

She turned to look out the window but didn't process the scenery. Her mind was busy with other thoughts. She was more intrigued by Tonio than ever. Even as an uncomfortable silence settled between them, she wondered about him. Maybe it was true; women did prefer men with bad reputations. And his was more than a bad reputation. It was reality, spoken from his own mouth.

She sighed. All she really wanted out of life was a decent, intelligent man. One who worked hard. One who loved her beyond reason. One like her papa. There were no such men in Italy; there were hardly any men at all. And now she found herself headed to a husband she'd never met, seated beside a man who, despite her best defenses and all good sense, stirred in her strange and unsettling emotions. One whose compliments and attentions she craved when she should have berated herself for even thinking about him. The more she tried to remember that she was married to a good, kind-hearted man and must uphold the family honor, the more she was drawn to Tonio.

She'd never known a man who had affected her in any stirring way. She knew she possessed the ability to fluster them and turn their heads and she reveled in their attention, as much as was permissible under the tight constraints of the society she came from.

Life in her home village of Santa Croce had been simple, bound by tradition and social stature. Each day her father, Pasquale Di Maria, left when the sun rose to work in the fields of the rich landholders in the surrounding countryside, sometimes traveling for hours upon the family donkey to reach his destination. He was not a skilled worker, like the grafters who traveled the country carrying small black tool cases resembling doctors' bags. He was an ordinary field hand, poorly paid because of his lack of skills.

Angelina, her sisters, and mother attended to the domestic duties. Their house was a small one, located in the village with all the others packed tightly together like row houses. In front and in back of the house were narrow cobblestone streets. There were no yards, but each family had a garden plot located across the stone bridge just outside the boundaries of the village. Angelina and her sisters tended the garden where they raised lentils, peas, fava beans, tomatoes, and herbs. On a warm spring day, her sisters would walk through the streets inhaling the smells of clay, warm straw, and sweet herbs. If it rained they would splash in the puddles that pooled in the holes left by missing cobblestones.

It was down these same streets that her mother had walked her and the two sisters nearest her in age, the three considered old enough to marry, to the town square, the chiazza, as piazza was pronounced in dialect, to do the shopping or go to church on Sunday.

The church was located at the far end of the chiazza from her home. Simple by Italian standards, it was made of aged gray stone. Inside it had a domed ceiling, a huge statue of the Christ and the Virgin Mary, and crucifixes hung or were placed in every available nook. On the walls were paintings of the Stations of the Cross. She and her family attended mass every Sunday; not to do so was a sin and would subject one to social condemnation. Besides, it was the social event of the week.

She and her sisters dressed in their finest for these strolls to mass, hoping to attract the attention of the single young men. It was a tradition centuries old, this strolling along the streets and there were well-defined, though unwritten rules. Men walked with men, women with women, unless a man accompanied his wife. A man never spoke to a woman walking alone, or even stared at her, for she could uproot him with a glance. A woman was not greeted unless her husband was present. But the discreet, admiring sidelong glances Angelina received as she walked along behind Mama and Papa were not lost on her. And though that was as close as she was ever allowed to a single man not of her family, it had been a titillating experience. But it, and the stolen pecks on the cheek at carnevale last year, paled next to the maelstrom of emotion she felt as she sat next to the undeniably handsome Tonio.

He folded the letter he was reading and returned it to its faded envelope with unexpected reverence. The gentle crinkling of paper caught her attention and she turned to watch him as he replaced the bundle of letters in his duffel.

"You seemed entranced by the scenery," he said, "Anything interesting out there?"

"I wasn't really watching. I was thinking."

"About what?"

She considered for a moment before speaking. "What happened to the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one you almost married."

"She died."

His look gave nothing away. She couldn't tell whether he was sorry or not.

"The baby?"

"He died with her, in childbirth."

"Oh! I'm sorry." She felt herself color. Perhaps she'd been too bold in asking. She looked down and played nervously with the finely crafted gold cross that hung on its long chain over her bosom, glad to be out of the avaricious city and able to display it.

"It was a long time ago. I'm not even sure I'm sorry anymore. I'd never wish them dead, but I couldn't have changed what happened. The baby was too big for her. They would have died no matter what. That's what the midwife said."

"But you know it was a he?"

"Her mother was hysterical after she died. She insisted they take the baby. Her daughter didn't want to go to her grave pregnant and her mother had to know positively that the baby was dead and could not be saved. The baby was a boy."

"How sad." She considered the tragedy and the shame, both for the girl and the baby. Illegitimacy was not accepted. "And the poor baby went to his grave a…"

"Bastard. Are you too delicate to say it?" He seemed suddenly angry.

She'd probed too far. He stared at her as she toyed with her necklace. She dropped her hands into her lap.

"He wasn't. She married someone else. The baby was named after him and buried with his family. My father bought her a husband."

"Oh." She paused but couldn't stop herself from asking. She wanted to know everything about him. "And your father, did he disown you then?"

He saw the look on her face and frowned. "Don't get any romantic notions about me giving up my family for the love of a woman. It was rebellion on my part, pure and simple. To this day I have a hard time picturing her face. She was young and beautiful and innocent. Hell, we both were, if you can believe that." He laughed, but it was at himself and it had no humorous ring. "But to answer your question—yes, my father disowned me then. Actually, when he found out about her. But in reality, it had nothing to do with her."

"Is that why you came to the United States? To get away?"

"I came because my father cut me off without a penny and I had no way to support myself. Seems we have a common enemy in poverty, don't we?" He was looking straight ahead. His voice was bitter. "My uncle was here and he sponsored me to come over."

"Is your family very wealthy?"

"Extremely." Then he laughed, but his mood had turned and his laugh was lighter. He looked her in the eye and for a brief moment they connected.

What she saw there made her feel as if her breath had been taken from her. For an insane moment she had the strong desire to lean up and kiss him, kiss away all past hurts, make him aware of only her. It was madness. She looked down, trying to collect herself, but she couldn't completely stifle her natural urge.

"You like money?" he asked suddenly.

"I'd like to have it."

"So would I." He motioned with his head toward a group of men huddled around a pair of dice at the front of the car. "I can play craps with the best of them. What I win we'll use to travel first class from Chicago. Deal?"

The breathless feeling returned as his eyes bore into her. "Yes," she said, but she felt she would have said anything to hold his look and the marvelous trembling feeling.

He rose and stepped into the aisle. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck, Tonio." It was barely a whisper, but his name sounded good on her tongue.

She watched Tonio as he went to join the game. He stood outside the circle until the shooter passed and all bets were settled. The circle of men opened to welcome him into their midst. It was a mottled group that sat at the front of the coach near the vestibule, placing bets and tossing dice in the largest area of clear floor space available. They were immigrants mostly, like her, from all over Europe, yet they spoke a common language—English. She listened carefully from her seat only a few rows back from them. Each man had his own accent, some so heavy that at times it was a wonder that they understood each other at all.

Only Tonio spoke like an American. Even as she listened for his deep voice as he called out his bets, she marveled at his ability to wash all trace of the lilting, romantic Italian out of his words. His r's were suddenly hard, not lightly trilled and rolling like when he spoke Italian. He pronounced his a's in the harsh, flat way of the Americans. She wished she spoke English better, and she envied his casual composure as he sat well at ease among the varied crowd of men.

Tonio sat at profile to her, his left side toward her. One small, errant curl looped over his left eye giving a boyish appeal to his otherwise strong, masculine face. He sat off to the side with one long leg straight and one bent, leaning on the bent one with one elbow, using his free hand to set out his wagers in a pile in front of him. He rolled his shirtsleeves up as the shooter to his right passed him the dice, exposing powerful forearms with strong veins that stood out in a purely masculine fashion.

She marveled at the strong physical appeal of him. Everything, from the way his shirtsleeves tugged at his muscled upper arms to the way his shirt tapered into his jeans against a flat stomach, hinting of a narrow waist, spoke of masculinity. Tonio tossed the dice, rolling seven, a natural. The other players who'd faded him groaned as they tossed him their bets.

The game interested her little. She'd watched hours of it beneath the hull on the Brezza Marina. The only way to win consistently was to bet with the odds, but fools frequently gambled recklessly in hopes of big payoffs. She stared transfixed at Tonio until he turned and caught her at it, then she made a point of concentrating on the other players.

As the game picked up and the men were rapidly wagering and paying off, she noticed that one player skimmed coins off the top of his pile before he paid off. The game was becoming so heated that none of the others seemed to notice. He called and set out one wager, but paid another. The men were laughing and spirits seemed high. A few drank beers they'd evidently bought in the dining car. In light of the mood, no one suspected a cheat.

She watched another round to confirm her suspicions then made her way past the game to the vestibule that connected their car to the coach in front of it. She stood looking out the tiny vestibule window pretending to take in the scenery and stretch her legs. But she watched the man in question in his reflection in the glass. She stood watching the cheat, unsure how to warn Tonio, until the conductor came through and said something to her.

"He asked you to move out of the vestibule. If we have to stop suddenly you'd be crushed in the folds between cars," Tonio said in Italian without looking up from his game.

She looked at him, surprised he'd noticed her presence. Pleased he was aware of her when his attention seemed elsewhere. It gave her the opportunity she sought. She stepped back into the car and leaned down to speak to him in an intentionally warm, hushed lover-like tone.

"Thank you so much for your concern. The man with the blond mustache cheats. He holds back part of his wager. I've watched him enough to be sure."

"What does she say?" one of the players asked.

"She wants to know how to play."

"I'd say she wants something else. And it ain't dice. I know looking at her makes me want something else." The men laughed. "She going to make you quit?"

"No woman tells me what to do," Tonio said. Then he spoke to her in English, for the men's benefit. "You can't play, honey. This is a man's game." He switched to Italian. "I suspected, but we don't want to cause a scene."

"Demand payment, then scare him off with your knife."

He laughed.

"You are wearing it?"

"I always wear it. This is penny stuff, not worth the trouble. Go back to your seat."

"No."

The men laughed again. No was no in almost any language.

She stood up again, positioning herself directly opposite the cheater.

Tonio sighed. "She wants to watch."

The game picked up again. Angelina made no pretense about it. She watched the cheater like a hawk watches a field for mice. Under her surveillance he lost his nerve and quit, mumbling an excuse about needing a bite to eat. The game broke up quickly. She sauntered back to her seat with Tonio on her heels.

"You ruined the game."

"I watched. That's all."

"I was winning."

She shrugged. "You were letting a cheater fleece all of you."

"I was cheating, too."

She turned on him, eyes blazing, but he didn't cower.

"I had you in the background to rattle their nerves."

She flushed. It was a compliment of sorts. "You weren't really cheating?"

"On my honor." He crossed his heart. "I've never met anyone with such high morals!" He laughed loudly and fully.

"Then you must not associate with very nice people."

"The best in the Silver Valley."

"If that is true, then perhaps I should be worried." She turned from the aisle into her seat.

"Yes, definitely. You should be worried."



"I want to play dice tomorrow."

They'd just finished making their bed for the night. Angelina sat on her side of the chumming board, next to the window, brushing out her long hair with smooth even strokes.

"You can't. It's a man's game." Tonio watched her with interest, holding down the urge to grab the brush and attend to the task himself. He wondered what was so damned enticing about her, other than the obvious.

Her eyes flashed fury. "You won ten dollars. I can win at least that much."

"If you are going to insist on relying on a man and believing that you must have one to take care of you, then you are going to have to allow us our games, unhindered with your company." He smiled at her. He liked seeing her temper up. "Besides, everyone knows that betting is highly mathematical, based on odds, and women don't understand such things." He waited, anticipating her response.

"Porco cane!"

She'd insulted him by calling him a pig dog. He probably deserved it.

"I have a head for math that puts yours to shame!" She shook her brush at him.

He believed it. He'd seen her add the prices for their meals in her head, calculating the bill ahead of time and tossing in her share before the cash register was done chiming.

"It takes nerve."

"I have nerve."

"It takes money."

He had her there. He knew she had none to waste. He saw the disappointment register. His eyes traveled down from her face to where her gold necklace lay in the pillow of her bosom. It was a good excuse to stare. Her hand flew to it immediately.

"Lend me the money. I'll pay you back with my winnings."

"No."

"You aren't being fair. Part of the money you won today is mine."

"I'm being incredibly fair. That money is for train fare."

"You're afraid I'll do better than you."

"I tell you what, to prove how fair I am, we'll play a practice game to see how it goes. If you win, I'll back you with a few dollars. If the men will let you play. If I win, I get the necklace."

"No!" She shook her head emphatically. "This necklace for a few dollars? You're crazy. Name something else."

His eyes traveled to her pouting lips. "All right. A kiss." He played a dangerous game, but he had no intention of winning. She wanted to play. He'd let her, with dignity.

Her triumphant smile was not lost on him.

"I'd as soon kiss a donkey." She paused coyly, for effect, he was certain. "But I accept your deal."

"I'll stake you two dollars. The loser is the first one to go broke." He pulled two dice from his duffel. "Shall we begin?"

The game wasn't much fun with only two playing. He had a supreme run of luck, which even he had to admit to himself. Since there were only two playing the one had to fade the shooter every time. He naturaled, against all odds, five times running, bankrupting her inside of ten minutes, even though he'd meant to lose.

"That showed no skill! That was merely luck," she complained.

"Poor loser. Luck is part of the game."

"I suppose you want your kiss now." Her tone held less disgust than it should have.

From her flushed cheeks and pursed lips he could tell the idea excited her, though she tried to feign indifference.

"No, I think not. That was for effect," he said.

Her face fell, but was quickly followed by a scowl.

"When I kiss a woman, it's because she wants it as badly as I do. I don't do it on a whim of luck."

"Then you admit you were lucky tonight!"

"Maybe."

"You'll let me play tomorrow?"

She was quick on the uptake.

"Maybe." The way she stared at him made him want that kiss after all. "We'll talk about it in the morning. Sleep tight." He lay down and turned over. He felt her fuming behind him. She wasn't going to give up. He was certain of that.