A/N: Sorry it's been a while! I had these chapters separate but decided to combine them—Enjoy!
Spot had enlisted Jack's help to protect Gabby. Whenever Spot was at work and Gabby had errands to run, Jack went along with her, and Sarah looked after Noah while they were out. She couldn't say she was surprised about Spot's act of chivalry, but considering they did not speak for the longest time, that is exactly what she was. Surprised, pleasantly, of course.
"Where we off to today, Gabs?" inquired Jack with a comforting smile.
"Food."
Gabby found it fairly difficult to be as enthusiastic as Jack once the information concerning Johnny Salvini had been brought to their attention. But she could not deny how Jack's pleasant encouragement eased her somewhat, even if it didn't seem so on the outside.
After receiving detailed instructions about watching Noah for the afternoon, Sarah ushered them out of the apartment, insisting Gabby needed to get away from the environment for just a few hours. Jack and Gabby strolled along the sidewalk toward the market in a not-so-hurried fashion, for it seemed to be a not-so-hurried type of day. At least for the time being. For the most part, Gabby was silent, alone in her thoughts. Jack did most of the talking.
"So I walked right in dere and looked 'im in the eye 'an said, 'If you don' gimme this job, Mr. Portman, you'se gonna regret fer the rest 'a your life!'"
"What'd he say?" responded Gabby in a tone she wished sounded more engaging.
Jack breathed on his fingernails and pretended to dust shine them on his chest. "Got the job!"
"Good for you. I bet Sarah's happy."
"Beats workin' in the factory, that's fer sure. But it's real nice, Gabby, 'cause since I got experience in sellin' papers, Portman thinks I should be real good in 'is store. 'Specially women's clothing, ya know how I got that charm, right? Dames can't seem to turn me down. I mean, look at me, I'm a charmer."
He nudged Gabby and added a wink. Gabby smile softly. She inhaled deeply and let out a stressful sigh. A habit she had picked up from Spot whenever he was stressed, she rubbed her temples and forehead to work out the pain. It was quiet for a while after their conversation.
"It'll be a'right," said Jack suddenly in a more serious tone, "ya know that, right?"
Gabby stopped walking and looked curiously at Jack. His empathetic eyes met hers and he rubbed her arm supportively.
"Spot's got himself into trouble before, Gabby. But he always seems to find a way to get himself out. I mean, he's from Brooklyn fer God's sake."
Gabby couldn't help but let out another grateful, modest smile. They continued walking and she linked her arm in between Jack's, saying to him, "What'd we do without you, Jack?"
The market was busy and full of activity, as usual. But it didn't seem to get to Gabby as much as normal; she had her own stress to handle. Jack followed her around carrying the groceries and crossing off items on a small notepad he had taken with him. Most men would think this doting, helpful act was the least of all things masculine; but as it seemed, Jack was not most men, and Gabby appreciated that. She could use the extra sets of hands.
"A'right, got the potatoes, got the cabbage, got the carrots…What else?" asked Jack, looking up from the shopping list with an anticipating expression.
"Rum. Lots of it."
He let out an exaggerated chuckle and wrapped his arm around Gabby in her dark sense of humor for the time, saying, "Fer that you'd go to Race or Skittery. I'm just the grocery guy."
Gabby searched around the vendors and spotted the bakery store in the short distance. She notified Jack that they still needed to get bread, and he was quick to follow her. As they made their way through the weaving crowds, Gabby glanced over at a boy no older than Spot and Jack. He stopped in the middle of the market and turned around, a worried look on his face. Gabby's eyebrows knitted as she paused for some reason to watch this boy.
Suddenly, within a split second, the crowd before the boy parted and three pistols resonated in the air. The boy, no older than Spot, fell dead to the ground with three bullet holes, seeping scarlet red blood, from his chest.
Hysteria ensued within the market and the customers fled the street faster than a bolt of lightning. The men carrying the pistols rushed over to the body and readily dragged it away from the scene. Gabby stood motionless in her tracks for brief moments, until Jack draped his arm across her body and rushed her out of the street.
It was not until they speedily rounded the corner and Gabby had come out of her gaze did she realize what fully happened. She shook violently and her knees buckled beneath her. Breathing rapid, short breaths, she felt her stomach become queasy. But she couldn't get anything out but a few choking gasps of sobs.
Jack crouched beside her and held her close in comfort, reassuring her it would be all right, that it wasn't Spot that just happened to. Spot was at work, breathing, alive. Yet he couldn't help but feel the same pain she had.
"Bring the kid in heah. I need ta speak with 'im."
The burly, subservient man obeyed and opened the door. Moments later, Johnny Salvini entered the doorway of Salvinelli's cloistered, suffocating office. The hanging lamp rocked back and forth with each step of the person on the floor above them. A map of New York City hung on the wall, and the room was filled with thick cigar smoke.
"'Aftanoon," greeted Johnny properly. He nodded and stood up straight, feet shoulder-width apart and wriggling secretively within his Italian boots.
Antonio Salvinelli looked at Johnny subordinately and took out his pocket watch. "Good evenin'. Get ya'self a watch that works."
Johnny looked at the ground briefly and swallowed his tongue.
"Have a seat, kid."
At the ready, Johnny did as he was told and laced his sweaty fingers between each other on the dust-covered, splintered table. Salvinelli puffed on his cigar a little more and exhaled the smoke into Johnny's face without looking. The boy reserved his coughs.
"As you know," started Salvinelli, "my family's been in New York since 1852. My father and his father started their own deli just a few blocks from heah."
"Yes, sir, I-I know a lot of our history."
"First of all, do not interrupt me when I'm tawkin' ta you. It's disrespectful," ordered Salvinelli. He knocked back a glass of whiskey and continued. "You may be family ta me—and it's a miracle you even figgered that out—but you gotta learn ta treat me with the utmost respect, ya got that straight?"
"Y-Yes, sir. Yes." Johnny gulped down his tongue once more, if possible, and stared into his second uncle's dark, menacing eyes. A thick finger, complete with the Salvinelli family ring, pointed straight at him.
Not long ago, perhaps five months back, Johnny had somehow figured out that the Salvinelli's were blood-linked to him. After hasty research, hardly credible sources, and damn good job of convincing, Johnny had approached the Salvinelli Deli to speak with the owner.
He explained that his mother, Graziella, had had a love affair with one of the several Salvinelli boys in Italy when half of the family had immigrated to America—one group stayed in Manhattan while the other settled in Brooklyn. The other half of the Salvinelli family remained in Italy, angered, since Graziella's lover was to wed someone else. In turn, the Graziella Buccini and Franco Salvinelli fled secretly to America, where, during the immigration process, got their names changed from "Salvinelli" to "Salvini." They settled in Harlem, where Johnny was born, but tragically soon after, Graziella fell ill and died. A year later, his father was killed by a group of gang members, leaving Johnny to assume his position in the streets, as well as his alternative name.
The story was well-told and had convinced Gio Salvinelli, the owner of the deli at the time, and the family welcomed Johnny with partially open arms, as the story of Graziella's boy was not one of happiness, not to mention fishy.
"My grandfather was a brilliant man," continued Antonio Salvinelli, "and so was my father. They faced this city with ev'rything they had, took the all the hits and misses that went along wit it. We're one-hundred percent Italian and our types ain't accepted as much still. They handled it without lashing out at the ones who harmed the family."
Salvinelli took another swig of whiskey and went on, "Kid, I'm not my father or my father's father. This city destroyed their spirits. I ain't allowin' that to escape my mind. They lived and breathed fer this country and what'd they get in return? A couple 'a break-ins each month and a murder every year. And do the government recognize this? You bettah believe they don't."
Johnny nodded carefully. He knew all of this. He could hear Antonio rehearse this very speech every night at the dinner table in the apartment next to his. He just couldn't figure out why he needed to reiterate this.
Salvinelli scooted back in his creaky chair, which was amazingly able to withstand his weight, so that the map was in full view for Johnny to see. His eyes scanned the map, though he had memorized the entire paper, and placed his finger on his intended borough—Brooklyn.
"What can ya tell me?" asked Salvinelli.
"I'm workin' on it," replied Johnny, who smiled to himself. "Don't you worry."