May 7, 1939
Jen woke with the sun. That was unusual. She wasn't naturally an early riser, and she tried to avoid waking up early when she could. But after the night she'd had, she didn't really mind waking up early.
Her mind was awake, and she felt comfortable. The world was soft and gentle and quiet in this exact moment. She kept her eyes closed for a little while longer, enjoying the moment as long as she could.
She had slept like the dead last night. Probably because she was so worn out from the horrific experiencing of watching a man be shot dead in front of her. She had never frozen like that before. Her heart raced but she couldn't breathe and she couldn't move. It might have saved her life, actually, the fact that she'd screamed and then frozen. The men who shot Charlie Riggs paid her no mind. And then after they'd left, having to focus to handle things with the police was rather difficult. She had wanted to collapse and cry or vomit. But she'd held herself together and played her part. She was Trish Claybourne and she knew what she had to do. The FBI better be damned grateful.
But all that was behind her right now. That had been last night. The panic and the overwhelming feeling of it all. She wasn't the little girl crying into her pillow in Hell's Kitchen while men and women brawled outside her door. She was far away from that, too. She was in Brooklyn, undercover with the FBI. She was making something of herself. And for right now, she was safe.
At last, Jennifer opened her eyes. She found herself exactly where she'd been when she fell asleep. She must have slept hard to not move at all during the night. But she had no reason to move. She was comfortable, lying on her side in the middle of the new double bed that Nick had fashioned. And Nick was right there with her.
In any other circumstance, she would have never allowed any man to sleep in a bed with her. To be honest, she wouldn't have been able to sleep at all with someone beside her. She wouldn't have felt safe. But she was safe with Nick, she knew. Nick who cared for her, Nick who worried if she was handling things alright, Nick who flew up the stairs when she'd screamed to make sure she wasn't in danger, Nick who pushed the beds together so she wouldn't have to be alone.
Jen raked her eyes over his sleeping form. They were still so close to each other that she couldn't see much without moving, and she didn't want to move yet, for fear of waking him. He looked so peaceful. Beautiful and peaceful. His hazel-green eyes were closed, and she found she missed seeing the color and sparkle of them. But his face was so relaxed, which was lovely to see. He was a little older than Jen, but not yet forty, she thought. Probably not much past thirty-five. Old enough to understand the world and be confident of his place in it. Young enough to be brave and strong and beautiful. There was a light dusting of stubble on his cheeks that Jen could barely resist reaching out to feel.
Just then, Nick's eyes fluttered open. He looked right at her, and she saw that sparkle in his gaze. His eyes were still a little foggy from sleep, but he woke up bare inches away from her, and he looked right at her. And his serious mouth twitched into the smallest hint of a smile.
His mouth was getting closer. But Nick was not moving. Without realizing it, Jennifer was leaning in closer to him. And as soon as she recognized what she was doing, she stopped.
She swallowed hard, trying to overcome how her heart was suddenly thumping in her chest. "Good morning," she whispered.
"Good morning," he answered. "How did you sleep?"
"Fine. You?" Banal small talk felt incongruent to being half an inch away from each other.
Nick's smile grew slightly. "I slept well."
"Good," she responded. "I've got to use the bathroom, if you don't mind."
"Go ahead."
"Thanks." And with that, Jen rolled away from him and practically scrambled out of bed and flew down the hall to the bathroom.
Good god, she had been about to kiss him. He was a man in bed with her, yes, but he was her partner! He was off limits. It didn't matter how kind and respectful and smart and handsome he was. They were here to do a job. They were pretending to be husband and wife. And she couldn't get things confused. She couldn't fall in love with him.
Even as the thoughts tumbled through her mind, Jen realized she was already in danger. But being in danger of falling in love did mean she was already in love. She couldn't be. Jennifer Mapplethorpe wasn't so stupid. And because she wasn't stupid, she wouldn't do anything about the fact that while her brain screamed at her to get a grip, her heart screamed at her to go back to bed and continue what she'd almost started.
Jen looked at herself in the mirror and gave a huff of determination. "Stop it," she whispered. She gave a firm nod. As if that would make her words any more effective. As if there were anything she could do.
When Jennifer got out of bed, Nick rolled over onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling and did his best not to think about her. It did him no good whatsoever to think about the fact that he'd slept beside her in bed and had one of the best nights sleep in his life. It did even less good to let the last two minutes play out over and over in his head. The way he'd opened his eyes to see her turquoise ones gazing at him so softly. The way her shapely lips were slightly parted. The way she'd slowly leaned in toward her.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight and pushed those thoughts aside. Nothing good could come of any of that.
Instead, Nick looked back up at the white painted ceiling of the bedroom of their Bushwick apartment and sighed, his mind going back to what he knew was going to plague him just as much as his thoughts about Jennifer.
Those men who killed Charlie Riggs. Nick didn't know them, but he needed to. They mentioned Moretti, who Nick knew was the New Jersey leader of the Luciano Family and right hand to the Prime Minister. And then, of course, that other man at the end of the night mentioned friends of the Luciano Family, too. That was important to the FBI, of course. Bringing down the various mafia families throughout the country was a major priority. And getting in with the toadies and the lower connections through the Claybournes was one way of getting to the bigger fish, Nick knew.
But the FBI's interest in the mafia wasn't what gave Nick pause. That mouthy little Jew mentioned the Shapiro Brothers. And threatened that they didn't have time to do to Charlie Riggs what they did to Willie Shapiro. It had been a long time since Nick had thought about the Shapiro Brothers. Meyer and Irving and Willie. Willie has been the youngest. Nick always thought of him as a kid. And apparently that kid was dead now. Dead in a brutal, terrible fashion, he assumed, based on the fact that his death was now used as a threat.
Nick had lost track of the Shapiros when he got out of Brooklyn. He'd left everything behind except his mother, and she liked to take the train into Midtown to visit him in Manhattan instead of him coming to visit her in Brooklyn. He knew why she'd done it, wanting to make sure to keep him out of trouble. Not that he was ever in danger of that. But she had been so proud that he'd been able to avoid it as much as he had as a kid, and now that he was a cop, everyone in the neighborhood probably knew it. Having a cop around would just cause trouble for everyone.
What had happened to Willie Shapiro? And Meyer and Irving? Were they still around? What kind of trouble had they gotten into? Trouble wasn't hard to find in Brooklyn, then or now.
But Nick's memories were filled with Irving at twelve years old, just starting to get tough. Nick had been ten and Meyer eight and Willie was only five. Willie would always cry when the boys went off, begging to come with them. More often than not, they'd stick to the corner of their street or even the stoop of the building so Willie wouldn't get upset. Irving was always wanting to get up to something. Nick never took him seriously, even if he was the oldest of the group. Meyer was their leader, even at eight years old. He was smart and measured, and Irving somehow always listened to him. Nick and the Shapiros were a little gang of their own. Being an only child without a father, Nick found a family with the Shapiros. And after his grandfather died, Nick clung to Meyer and Irving.
When he got a little older, the gang started having a little more fun. Skipping school and playing cards in the park. Sneaking into the billiard hall. Just kid's stuff. But then Nick's mother sat him down and told him that the way he was skipping school was breaking her heart and would kill his grandfather if he weren't already gone. And from that day on, Nick stayed in school and tried as hard as he could, and he started to leave the Shapiro Brothers behind. They'd left school long before they should have. So maybe it was Nick who got left behind. Either way, they lost touch about twenty years ago, now. Even living in the same building as kids. They went off elsewhere and didn't have many friendly visits to the childhood home they all shared.
Nick had gotten out of the old neighborhood, though much differently than the Shapiros had. He'd gotten out and become a cop. But what had happened to his old friends? Nick knew they were vaguely related to Gurrah Shapiro. He was a cousin or something from Odessa, he thought. And Gurrah, of course, was partners with Lepke Buchalter who had a stranglehold over the garment business of New York and all its unions. Lepke and Buchalter had been in hiding for more than a year. Everyone in the NYPD knew about them, rumored for being the founders and head honchos of Murder, Inc. Nick hoped like hell Meyer and Irving and Willie hadn't gotten mixed up in all of that.
Unfortunately, Nick knew of only one way to get answers to any of those questions. And he wanted those answers sooner rather than later. Today was Sunday. The shop would be closed. It had to be today.
With that thought, Nick hauled himself out of bed. He'd have to put the furniture back the way it was, once he was sure Jennifer was alright. And then he'd have to tell her what he needed to do. And he'd have to find a way to explain why.