Bloodline by Warren Murphy Page A

waved a drumstick around in one hand to punctuate his conversation—which seemed oddly to concern itself mostly with professional prizefighting—put him quickly at ease. Especially when he pulled Nilo up from the table and helped him arrange his fists in a boxing position, then demonstrated for his father, Nilo’s uncle Tony, a devastating left-right combination to Nilo’s stomach, which had apparently decked some hapless pugilist somewhere. Even though the priest pulled his punches and did not really hit him, Nilo was surprised and a little shocked at the display. He learned only later in the dinner that Father Mario, before taking the vows of priesthood, had been a boxer of some local renown, even winning eight professional prizefights. Apparently, at the nearby church where he was assigned, he had begun a boxing team for local boys.
    “Fighting? In church?” Nilo asked with surprise.
    “See, Papa?” Mario said. “That’s what the monsignor thinks, too. But I think if I can get the kids to fight inside a ring, maybe I can cut down the amount they’ll be fighting in the streets.”
    “Good luck,” the priest’s father said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Most of those mugs are Irishers. They’ll be fighting in the street anyway. Irishmen were born brawling in the streets.”
    “That’s the trouble with you, Papa. You’re stuck in the old ways of thinking. Wake up. In a couple of days, this’ll be the 1920s.” He looked back toward Nilo. “I might get you over there to the church, too,” the priest said. “You look to me like you might be able to handle yourself pretty well.”
    Nilo blushed. As he mumbled a response, Mario asked, “You ever fight?”
    Not unless you count the three men I killed before leaving home, Nilo thought, but answered instead with a simple shake of his head.
    “Well, plenty of time to learn,” Father Mario said. “I taught my brother Tommy; I can teach you.”
    “Will you all leave the boy alone?” Aunt Anna said. “All this talk of fighting. It’s like living with gladiators. Stop talking. Eat, eat.”
    After sitting with the family for a while, Nilo figured out the reason for their disappointment. Apparently, the Falcones’ other son, Tommy, who had been injured in the war, was expected home any day, and when they heard Nilo’s knock on the door they had hoped, although without real expectation, that Tommy had returned early in time for the holiday.
    For his part, surrounded by the warmth of a family for perhaps the first time in his life, Nilo spoke of his boyhood in Sicily. He was amused to learn that Justina’s command of Italian was spotty, and Father Mario and the Falcone parents served as translators so the two young people knew what each other was talking about.
    He did not tell them the real reason for his leaving home, commenting only that he thought it was time for him to get out into the world. When later in the dinner he found out that Tony Falcone was a New York policeman—which explained the gun hanging in the hallway—he knew he had acted wisely in keeping his secrets to himself.
    After they had eaten and drunk wine and dark Italian coffee and then more wine, they all went inside to the living room, where Tony Falcone lit even more candles on the ceiling-high Christmas tree that took up half the room. When Nilo sat on the sofa, Justina shyly approached him and handed him a gift-wrapped box.
    Her smile lit her face and his heart. “For you,” she said. “For Christmas. From all of us.”
    “But … I have nothing for any of you.”
    “You’re here. That’s gift enough for Italians. We’re big on family,” Father Mario said heartily.
    “Open it, open it,” Justina insisted.
    Nilo opened the box. Inside was a white shirt and a dark blue tie. It was the first dress shirt and tie he had ever owned.
    “I don’t know what to say. You did not even know I was coming.” He looked around at all of them. His uncle Tony said, “We really