Chapter One
Great Jones Street
New York City, 1893
The hairs on the back of Justine’s neck suddenly stood up.
This was one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city and she had come here this afternoon, alone, on an errand. Not unusual, considering her volunteer work, but she’d never had trouble before.
Then it happened. The point of a knife dug into her corseted ribs as hot breath hit her ear, and the blood froze in her veins.
She didn’t think about what to do next. Instead, instinct took over. She leaned away from the knife and threw out an arm, knocking the large hand away. Spinning, she made a fist and punched the attacker’s throat. Hard. The knife clattered to the walk.
It was over in the blink of an eye.
A young man, probably fifteen or sixteen years of age, began staggering backward, clutching his throat, and she rushed forward to help. “Breathe,” she said and guided him toward a barrel under a store awning. His face the color of a ripe tomato, he gasped for air and slumped against the oak top. Justine waited, hopeful she hadn’t really injured him.
He was thin, much too thin for his age. Clothes hung on his body and his face was gaunt. Streaks of dirt hugged his exposed skin. Sadly, this was not all that uncommon downtown, and hunger had ways of causing desperation. She’d spent enough time south of Houston Street to learn as much. And desperate people deserved aid, not condemnation—something many in this city had forgotten in a rush of greed and corruption.
Seconds passed as the man recovered. Before he could speak, she beat him to it. “Why did you hold a knife to my ribs?”
His eyes narrowed, lips curling into a sneer. “To rob you. Ain’t it obvious? Look at how you’re dressed.”
Her dress, though faded, was of good quality. It wouldn’t fool anyone as to her wealthy roots. Yet she wasn’t trying to fool anyone. She was down here to help, as she was more and more often of late. The legal aid society was overwhelmed with tasks and Justine was eager to assist in whatever ways possible.
Reaching into the small purse at her waist, she withdrew a gold dollar piece. “Here you go.”
He stared at it before snatching the shiny coin. “Why would you help me?”
“Because everyone deserves kindness, no matter his or her past misdeeds. Sometimes we forget that.”
“What are you, some kind of zealot?”
“No. I work with the Lower East Side Legal Aid Society.” Her sister, Mamie, ran the aid society with her husband, Frank Tripp. While they focused mostly on legal cases, Justine took on other troubles brought to the society. Hence her visit to Great Jones Street today. “Now, if you’d like a free meal, the church at—”
The young man darted off down the street, the mere mention of religion sending him scurrying like a frightened rabbit. Justine sighed. Most churches had good intentions but not everyone wished to hear a sermon over dinner.
She turned toward her destination. Men were clustered in front of the New Belfast Athletic Club, staring at her, their jaws open as if they were catching flies. Had they witnessed her interaction with the young man? She didn’t like attention in general, and she knew the type of men who frequented that particular establishment. She definitely didn’t want their attention.
Unfortunately, she was headed directly into their domain.
She pushed her shoulders back and started across the street, not stopping until she reached the steps. Two men guarded the door and their expressions quickly went from stupefaction to suspicion.
She cleared her throat. “Good afternoon. I am here to see Mr. Mulligan.” A man behind her chuckled, but she ignored him and kept focused on the guards.
“Ma’am—” one of them said, his mouth quirking.
“Miss,” she corrected. “Miss Justine Greene.”
The mood changed instantly. Both guards sobered. One even removed his hat. “Miss Greene.”
Oh, excellent. They’d heard of her. She wasn’t famous, like an actress or a singer, but when a Knickerbocker’s daughter spent as much time as she did downtown, people remembered.
The recognition also meant she would be safe here. Probably. Only a fool would take on her father, Duncan Greene.
“Miss Greene,” the other man said. “Please, come inside. I’ll see if Mulligan is available.” He opened the door for her.
Swallowing her trepidation, she followed him inside to the club’s front room. Once there, he quickly excused himself and disappeared up a set of stairs, leaving her alone. She had no choice but to wait. So, she stuck close to the wall and tried to breathe deeply.
A boxing match was underway in the main room, the noise nearly deafening as men crowded around the ring, cheering and shouting. Thankfully, no one paid her a bit of attention. Her muscles relaxed ever so slightly and she took a long look at the surroundings.
Most saloons she’d visited stank from sweat, smoke and blood. Yet this club was new and obviously cared for. Impeccably clean. The men filling the room surprised her, as well. These were no street toughs covered in grime and dirt. Mulligan’s crew was well-dressed, clean-shaven. Hair oiled and styled perfectly. She would even call many of them dapper.
These were criminals?
“Miss?” The guard had returned. “Follow me. I’ll take you upstairs.”
Nerves bubbled in Justine’s stomach as she climbed the steps. Which was ridiculous. She had no reason to fear Mr. Mulligan. Yes, he was dangerous—he ran the biggest criminal empire in the state, for goodness’ sake—but he had a reputation as being fair and not tolerating any violence against women whatsoever.
Indeed then, why were her palms sweating? Why was she so jumpy?
He’s just a man. You deal with them every day. Gather your nerve.
Besides, this visit was important. She couldn’t lose sight of her purpose. A family was counting on her.
For six weeks she’d tracked her quarry. Former places of employment, known hangouts. Interviewing friends and associates. She’d spent more than forty days trailing a man’s metaphorical breadcrumbs, a man who had deserted his wife and five children. Justine was determined to find him, no matter where it led her.
Even a criminal kingpin’s headquarters.
They arrived at an ornate wooden door. The guard knocked then threw open the heavy wood. Her eyes went wide at what was revealed on the other side. It was like stepping into an uptown salon. Crystal and gold fixtures abounded, along with patterned wallpaper and thick Eastern rugs. The armchairs were clearly French antiques—Second Empire if she wasn’t mistaken—and a large Gainsborough hung on the wall. A marble statue of Diana resided in one corner, a piece so old it might seem more at home in the British Museum.
Crime, it appeared, paid quite well.
A door stood ajar on the far side of the room. Before she could wander over to peek inside, a man appeared in the doorway.
The afternoon light through the windows hit him just so, highlighting impossibly perfect features, and Justine blinked, taken aback at the sight of such handsomeness. Most men in this neighborhood were rough looking, rugged, with crooked noses and scars here and there. Souvenirs of a hard life earned by many on a daily basis.
He was different. This man had a strong jaw and sculpted cheekbones, sharp blue eyes, and full lips that brought to mind thoughts of the wicked variety. Smooth skin with the hint of an evening beard that somehow only made him more appealing. He was dressed in a navy suit, sans coat, with his shirtsleeves rolled up over muscular forearms.