The morning sun gilded the piers of New York Harbor, and a salty breeze carried the distant horns of cargo ships and ferries.
Shanelingered in the shadow of a lumberyard, completing the final handover with Thomas.
Thomas tapped a medium-sized shipping crate beside him. The crate bore a prominent emblem—two crossed keys of Saint Peter—which caught the sunlight on its matte tin surface.
With a small knife, Thomas pried open a hidden latch at the bottom, revealing six bottles of brandy resting snugly on a velvet lining.
"Safely delivered," he grinned, yellowed teeth glinting in the light. "Customs didn't even notice."
Shane nodded, pulling a roll of bills from a hidden pocket and handing it over. Thomas counted them quickly, satisfied, and tucked them into his jacket. With a nod, he disappeared into the bustling pier crowd.
Shane's day wasn't finished. He threaded through the crowds to a quieter corner near the loading zone. Giovanni, short and lean, leaned against a rusted fence, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sunlight filtered through the smoke, casting shifting shadows on the ground.
"Hey, Shane!" Giovanni called in his usual exaggerated tone, then handed over two bottles of whiskey from a battered leather case. The amber liquid glowed in the sunlight.
Shane traced the labels with his thumb, ensuring the seals were intact. His tense shoulders eased slightly.
He pulled another roll of bills from his pocket. "Thanks, Giovanni." His voice was low, serious.
Giovanni's grin faltered. "Shane, I don't want it."
"Take it," Shane insisted. "It's for little Angelo and the others." Giovanni's Adam's apple bobbed, and after a long pause, he took the money. There were no playful remarks, just a lingering, solemn look and a heavy pat on Shane's shoulder.
"If…" Giovanni's voice dropped, almost a whisper, "…if you ever get into trouble, go to the Venice Café on Metropolitan Avenue in Brooklyn. Ask for Old Joe."
He straightened suddenly, resuming his casual grin, whistling off-key as he walked away.
Shane quickly made his way to the agreed meeting spot. He found the Parker family and Mary, and together they entered the subway station, their gateway into the city's hidden underworld.
Mary first said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Parker, standing on tiptoe to receive a kiss from Mrs. Parker and shaking hands with Old Parker. Shane embraced both in turn, Old Parker's broad hands patting his back firmly, Mrs. Parker leaning in with a gentle, lavender-scented cheek brushing his own.
Just as they were about to leave, Old Parker's son, Jason, slipped a stiff card into Shane's hand.
"Looking for a place to stay? My friend just moved out of this spot in the Lower East Side. Cheaper than Manhattan rates."
Shane studied the card, poor printing blurring the text, but the price was reasonable. "Thank you, Jason," he said, tucking the card into his inner pocket.
The rumble of an approaching subway echoed through the station. Shane held Mary's hand firmly, feeling her tiny fingers tremble.
They boarded the IRT Lexington Avenue Line, a crowded mix of smells—bitter coffee, sweat, and the metallic tang of the tracks.
Mary pressed close, curious eyes peering into the tunnel darkness.
After five minutes, the train slowed, and the driver shouted from the cab, "Fulton Street Station! Transfer to BMT and IRT lines! Hurry up!"
The cast-iron doors clanged open. Shane guided Mary through the surging crowd. Fulton Street Station was a labyrinth of old and new: cast-iron beams from the 1880s mottled with rust, white tiles added in the 1920s reflecting the glow of electric lights.
Signposts in enamel hung overhead, pointing passengers to Brooklyn, Manhattan, and connections beyond. The air was thick with coal dust, sweat, and the acrid smoke of cheap tobacco. Crowds surged past in a cacophony of English, Yiddish, and Italian.
Shane shielded Mary as the noise pressed in. A walrus-mustached attendant banged a truncheon against a notice board. "Manhattan? Use the right archway!"
Following him, Shane squeezed Mary through a dim archway to the eastbound IRT Ninth Avenue Elevated Line. The iron staircase gleamed faintly; the worn anti-slip ridges had been smoothed by decades of shoes.
At the top, the city opened before them. Streets bustled with a mix of horse-drawn wagons and early automobiles, sunlight spilling over the crowded avenues. Mary gasped. "Wow."
The elevated train rumbled in, steel clanging against steel. Shane guided Mary aboard as it started above the city, offering a panorama of dense skyscrapers, fire escapes, neon signs, and vibrant immigrant neighborhoods.
Below, pedestrians scurried along narrow sidewalks, their diverse clothes and skin tones reflecting New York's melting pot. Buildings of every height and age coexisted, from sleek glass-fronted towers to weathered brick tenements.
The train continued east toward Chatham Square, the Lower East Side's working-class heart. Brick buildings grew smaller, streets tighter, signs of commerce and livelihood hanging from walls: tailors, grocers, pawnshops, and small taverns.
Through the gaps, a glimmer of the East River appeared. The steam locomotive's roar subsided as the driver's voice announced:
"Chatham Square Station! Chatham Square Station!"