Russian Revival (Russian Love Book 5)

Holly Bargo
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/russian-revival-russian-love-book-5-holly-bargo/
RUSSIAN REVIVAL
HOLLY BARGO
To Matt and Brian.
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue

A Note from the Author

Also By Holly Bargo
About the Author
 CHAPTER ONE

H e looked at her, his expression hard and closed. She met his gaze for a second, perhaps two.
His mouth opened to ask one word: “Why?”
“You did wrong,” she replied, her voice hoarse. “You took what was mine to give.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Abigail Johnson blinked against the remnants of a recurring nightmare and reached to turn off the
alarm. She shook her head, sighed, and rubbed her eyes. Lying quietly, she reflected on the last time
she’d seen him. Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, he’d been flanked by armed officers with both wrists
and ankles shackled by chains to a belt around his waist. He was dangerous, and law enforcement
weren’t taking any chances.
Abigail’s words had sealed Carlos Farillo’s fate.
She wasn’t particularly sorry about it either.
With another yawn, she rose from her bed and began her day. An hour later she met up with Tomás
and Julio at their latest job site. They greeted her with unfailing cheer and broad smiles as they
unloaded her truck, donned their work gloves, and got to work on the corner rain garden. Coming Up
Roses had just landed its first corporate client, and Abigail was determined not to screw this up. Her
small business needed the income.

Three hours later and two thousand miles away, Carlos Farillo exited the West Coast prison without
giving the correctional institution where he’d spent the last eight years one last look. He headed
straight for the retired and refurbished police car in which his second cousin Jaime had arrived.
“A cop car? Really?” he grunted in Spanish as he slid into the front seat. “What are we, the
Mexican Blues Brothers?”
“Don’t knock it, Carlos,” Jaime replied in the same language. He grinned and added, “And you’re
no Joliet Jake.”
“Stupid movie.”
Jaime put the powerful Ford Crown Victoria in drive and peeled out of the parking lot. “It’s an
American classic.”
Carlos grunted. After a moment, he asked, “You got an address for me?”
“Yeah, we’ve been keeping tabs on her. You know, you ought to take it easy for a few days. Get
your feet under you. Breathe the air as a free man. I don’t know why you’re so hung up on this puta
anyway.”
 The small muscle at the base of Carlos’ jaw bulged as he ground his molars. Taking a breath to
compose himself, he said, “I owe her. And she’s mine.”
“Man, she’s just a woman. You can find another.” Jaime glanced at him and grinned. “Hell, with
the big muscles you got now, you’ll be drowning in pussy.”
There wasn’t much to occupy a man in prison, so many of the inmates worked out in the gym.
Carlos grunted again and leaned his head against the headrest. He closed his eyes. The first thing he
was going to do when he reached his cousin’s house was sleep. He’d slept with one eye and both ears
open for the last eight years. It would be good to sleep without worrying that someone bigger and
meaner than he would do to him what he’d done to the sweetest piece of ass he’d ever owned.
He’d claimed her and he was for damned sure going to make sure the pretty Russian remembered
who owned her. And then he was going to make her pay.

In Cleveland, Ohio, 500 miles from Cleveland, Tennessee, Inessa Maglione called her cousin,
Evelina, who answered on the third ring. Traffic noise mixed with birdsong in the background.
“On vyshel,” Inessa said in Russian, biting off each syllable. He’s out.
Leaning on a shovel, Abigail bit her lower lip and replied in English. “No, it’s too soon.”
“Giovanni’s contacts say he got out early, a combination of exemplary behavior and a new
governor who pledged to reduce the population of certain ethnic groups in overcrowded prisons for
more balanced representation of the population.”
“Fucking stupid California,” Abigail hissed under her breath in a rare display of vulgarity. “Do
you think he knows where I am?”
“I don’t know. The new identity WITSEC set up for you is good. But the Farillo cartel is well-
connected, powerful. And don’t you have a couple of Mexicans working for you?”
“Julio and Tomás are good guys,” Abigail defended her two hardworking employees. “Just
because they’re ethnic Mexicans doesn’t mean they’re gang members.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not,” Inessa replied, herself being a daughter of a Russian Bratva chief and
the wife of an Italian mafia capo di tutti i capi. A baby wailed in the background. “I’ve got to tend to
little Lorenzo.” She huffed. “Let me tell you, breastfeeding isn’t for wimps.”
Abigail clenched her jaws. It had taken her two years to shake a man’s hand in polite greeting
without flinching. The idea of letting a man touch her intimately still made her stomach churn. She
couldn’t even endure the idea of a pelvic exam, especially after the humiliating examination for the
rape kit. The trial afterward seemed like yet one more extended violation. “It’s not likely I’ll ever
find that out for myself.”
Inessa heard the bitterness and regret in her cousin’s tone and winced. “I’ll talk to Giovanni and
Papa.”
“Don’t get them involved, Inessa. You know I want nothing to do with that.”
Inessa knew. She also knew that sometimes what one wanted or didn’t want didn’t matter,
especially when survival was at stake.

Two hours later and twelve miles from the Maglione estate, Giovanni Maglione sat behind his
massive desk and met his underboss’ world-weary gaze. Ciro Mancini—no relation to the famous
composer—unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. Having recently given up smoking,
he warded off the nicotine cravings with spearmint or wintergreen.
“You know there’s no ‘out.’” Speaking in Italian, Giovanni denied the underboss’ request. “The
only way out is death, and I know you’re not ready to die. I’m not ready for you to die.”
Ciro closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. “I’m tired, Gio.”
Giovanni leaned back in his executive office chair and understood the subtext of what his best
man had not said. He was more than aware of Ciro’s lingering infatuation with Inessa, although the
man had scrupulously maintained his honor and treated Gio’s wife with nothing but respect and polite
friendship. He could, however, see that Ciro needed more than to admire his boss’ woman. He thought
quickly and came up with a solution.
“Ciro, you remember Inessa’s cousin, Evelina?”
Ciro nodded. “Sì. She was a guest at Giancarla’s wedding. Red hair, right?”
Giovanni nodded, a curt dip of his chin at the memory of his cousin Giancarla’s kidnapping by an
Hispanic gang known as the Culebras who sold drugs for the Farillo cartel. Oh, yes, Nonno had taken
care of those uncouth thugs, because no one disrespected la famiglia and lived. “Sì. She fell into the
hands of a Farillo.”
Ciro nodded in understanding, knowing what his boss hadn’t said. He raised an eyebrow and
asked, “Your grandfather annihilated the Culebras. El Farillo still lives? I thought the Farillos were in
competition with the Ochobella cartel.”
Giovanni nodded and said nothing about his father-in-law’s agreement with the Ochobella leader.
Ciro frowned, wondering why Maxim Andrupov hadn’t had Carlos Farillo killed for the assault on
his niece. One did not allow insult to la famiglia to go unpunished.
Giovanni answered the unspoken question, “He was in prison. Maxim doesn’t have quite the
reach in the American correctional system that he’d like.” Giovanni didn’t need to explain that he did;
however, his father-in-law hadn’t asked for his assistance, and he wouldn’t disrespect the man by
offering it. “Because of the involvement with the Farillo cartel, the government put Evelina in the
WITSEC program. Inessa kept in touch with her cousin. She says Evelina’s handler doesn’t know
about that.”
Ciro nodded again, understanding that Giovanni had worked directly with the FBI in exchange for
some grants of immunity. Politicians liked to pretend such deals weren’t made, but Ciro knew the
truth.
“What of it?” he asked.
“Carlos Farillo has been released.”
“How did that happen?”
“California’s new governor is making good on his promise to align the ethnic population in the
state’s prisons to more accurately reflect the state’s demographics. Because the prisons are
overcrowded, that means letting prisoners go free early based on ethnicity rather than good behavior
or type of crime.”
“That’s fucking stupid.”
Giovanni shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t release you. You know that. But I can relocate you.”
Ciro raised an eyebrow and waited in silence as he chewed on his gum. It was losing flavor
quickly.
“You’ll go to Cleveland, Tennessee to make sure Evelina is safe, then set up a branch.”
There’s another Cleveland? Ciro nodded. “How long?”
“Depends. I don’t have a satellite office in Tennessee, so I’m thinking you’re a good choice. You
can be my Cleveland capo.”
 “An offer I can’t refuse,” Ciro replied with a small, wry smile, knowing it was the best offer he’d
get because, as his boss had stated, there was no retirement from the mob, only death.
“No, you really can’t.” Giovanni rose from the chair and retrieved a bottle of prosecco from the
small refrigerator in his office. He deftly uncorked it, set out two wine goblets, and poured. He
handed one glass to Ciro and raised the other. “Scout things out in Cleveland and let me know what
you find while keeping Evelina safe.”
His eyes narrowed as he lifted the goblet to his lips. Before drinking he added, “And do not fuck
with her.”
“She’s too young for me,” Ciro snorted, trying to remember whether Evelina was older or younger
than Inessa who had yet to turn 30. “You’d never hear the end of it from Inessa if I did.”
Gio took a sip of the dry, fizzy wine and agreed. “You’re right. I’m counting on your honor.”
Ciro took a sip and replied, “You know you can.”
 CHAPTER TWO

A fter taking pictures with her cell phone, Abigail wiped the sweat from her forehead with the
back of her forearm. That probably left a mud slick. She flipped up the spout of her ever-
present thermos and drank of the still cool water as she surveyed the day’s completed work.
Tomás and Julio had left for the day; she knew they’d be waiting for her early the next morning when
she arrived to start a new project.
The rain garden had come along well. With a mixture of native plants and clever use of spouting
and rain barrels, the rain garden worked like a sponge and as a natural filter for water in excess of
what the gutter system collected. That water could then be used for purposes other than washing
pollutants from the parking lot into the city’s sewer system. The next day’s work entailed building and
setting up raised beds for a vegetable garden in the back lot of a small private school. All charter
schools should be well-funded by wealthy philanthropists. Luckily for her, that philanthropist
believed in supporting small, locally owned businesses.
Abigail took another drink and flipped the spout closed. She hung the thermos from a belt loop
and checked to ensure that all her tools were properly returned to their places in the bed of her truck.
Satisfied that all was as it should be, she hopped into the truck and drove to her modest apartment.
Lucky for me, I enjoy gardening. Otherwise, giving up my career as a concert violinist would
have been even harder.
The WITSEC agents had strongly recommended she abandon her passion entirely, but Abigail
could not force herself to give up her violin. She remembered Agent Wilson warning her that
continuing to play music might tip off the cartel’s spies.
“I’m not the only violinist in the country,” she reminded him.
“There aren’t any other concert violinists in witness protection,” he countered without smiling.
But then, he never smiled, at least not that she ever saw. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him since
last year. Did he get a promotion or another job? Has WITSEC forgotten about me?
Heeding Agent Wilson’s warning, she exercised her own caution and focused on playing “fiddle
music.” No concert violinist worth their reputation would have been caught dead playing country
music or bluegrass, so that’s exactly what she did. She still listened to Vivaldi, Tchaikovsky, and the
other classical composers, but she seldom played their music. Instead, she learned to replicate the
intricate, exuberant fingering employed by Mark O’Connor, Charlie Daniels, and Alison Krauss. She
found beauty and joy in both the challenge and the music.
Stretching her fingers after releasing the steering wheel, she decided supper could wait. She
needed to play before she got down to the mundane business of housekeeping chores. The old truck
beeped twice as she locked it behind her.
 Rounding the corner, she stumbled to a halt, all anticipation of cozying up to her D Z Strad
dissolving at the sight of a man wearing what was obviously a bespoke suit waiting by her door. As
she neared him, she observed his swarthy good looks and cold, assessing gaze. A regular Valentino,
this one.
Keeping an assured clear distance, she asked, “Who are you?”
The man nodded and flashed her a quick, polite smile that held no warmth. He gestured toward
her door. “Let’s go in and talk where we will not be overheard.”
“No,” she said, backing away.
“My apologies. You are Evelina Lebedev, correct?”
She paused, every mental warning screaming at her to run. “No, my name is Abigail Johnson.”
He nodded. “My error. Please accept my apologies.”
Abigail resumed her retreat until she backed into her truck. The man who had yet to identify
himself merely stood at her door and watched her with dark, assessing eyes. She climbed in and
grasped the steering wheel tightly with both trembling hands, careful not to chirp the tires as she
drove away.
She drove to the nearest budget-minded department store and purchased a new pair of jeans, a tee
shirt, a charger for her phone, a comb, toothbrush, and travel-sized tube of toothpaste. Then she
headed for a cheap motel a few miles outside the town limits and booked a room for the night. She
made sure to park where her truck couldn’t be seen from the road. Unfortunately, the motel required
payment by credit card, so she couldn’t disguise herself further by paying in cash. She deeply
regretted having left her precious violin behind, but she dared not risk returning to her apartment.
Abigail carried her purchases into the cool room and was glad that the air conditioner worked,
even if the room smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and sweat beneath the lingering odor of
industrial-strength cleaners. She placed an order with DoorDash, since she wasn’t going to get the
relief of music that evening. The food delivery service dropped her meal off at the motel’s front desk
where she retrieved it. The sandwich and fries had gone lukewarm, but they filled her belly. After
eating, she stripped and took a shower. Wrapped in a towel, she used more of the motel’s shampoo to
launder her panties, bra, and socks which she draped over the shower curtain rod to dry overnight.
She spent an uneasy night drifting in and out of sleep punctuated by nightmares and bad memories;
however, morning arrived without any further disturbances other than a loud argument in one adjacent
room and a blaring television in the other adjacent room.
I should have asked for a corner room.
She checked out, picked up the necessary supplies, and returned to the job site, occasionally
squirming from the still damp undergarments and socks and looking nervously over her shoulder.
“Good morning, guys,” she greeted Julio and Tomás who, as expected, waited for her. She looked
up into the brilliant blue sky. “It’s gonna be a hot one today.”
“Sì,” Julio replied with a nod and a bright smile.
“We build the vegetable garden today, no?” Tomás asked.
“Yep,” Abigail replied and spread out the plans she’d had stashed in her truck for the last few
days. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Tomás and Julio handled building the raised beds, which she appreciated because she dreaded
bashing her thumb or fingers with a hammer, while she took care of amending the soil and planting the
seedlings. When they were finished, she took pictures of the job. Then, using the app on the phone,
she sent her client the final invoice for the completed job.
She rounded the corner of the former small office building that had been converted to serve as an
academic facility and again stumbled to a halt. The same man from the evening before leaned against
her truck. He wore another exquisitely tailored suit that fit him to perfection. She looked around
nervously. No one was around. Hoisting a pointed hoe like a spear, she approached, caution in every
step.
“Look, mister, I don’t know who you are, but get away from my truck,” she hissed, her tone low
and as dangerous sounding as she could manage.
He straightened and bowed with courtly grace. “Miss Johnson—”
“Get away from my truck, mister.”
“Miss Johnson, your Cousin Inessa sent me.”
She halted again and blinked. “What?”
He took a breath, his expression somewhat pained as though he were unused to being questioned.
“I am Ciro Mancini. I work for Giovanni Maglione, your cousin’s husband.”
Abigail’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’m not involved in that business.”
“No, but you were involved with Carlos Farillo, and he’s out of prison.”
“Señorita Abigail, are you all right?” Tomás inquired as he approached, a look of concern on his
face.
Following behind him with a spade in his hands, Julio called out, “Do you need us to help you,
señorita?”
She closed her eyes, just for a second, and quelled her panic. Opening them, she forced a smile
and replied, “Thanks, Tomás, Julio. I appreciate your concern. This man saw the work we did on the
rain garden and may be interested in hiring us.”
Tomás lifted his chin. “You call if you need us, boss.”
“Thanks, guys.” She flashed them another polite smile, removed her worn leather work gloves,
and waited until they walked away before speaking to her cousin’s husband’s henchman. How this
Ciro Mancini had found her wasn’t the question she needed to be answered, although she wanted to
know, because she’d not given her address or pseudonym to Inessa and WITSEC was supposed to be
protecting her. The more important question was, “So, Mr. Mancini, why are you here? Cleveland,
Ohio is a long way from Cleveland, Tennessee.”
“Your cousin worries about you and her husband worries about her. I’m here to protect you.”
“Protect me?” Abigail scoffed. She remembered the hoe in her hands and carefully set it in its
proper place among the other tools of her trade in the truck’s bed. She opened a cooler that had begun
the day filled with ice and beverages. She picked up her thermos, drank the last of its contents, and set
it in the cooler. Staying hydrated was important. She faced him and affected a confidence she did not
feel. “You’ve just blown my cover.”
He glanced around. “Miss Johnson, why don’t we get in the truck and go to your apartment where
we can speak without being overheard?”
With a sigh, she opened the cooler and reached for a clean rag. She dunked the rag into the cold
water that had bits of ice still floating in it and drew the wet cloth over her face, neck, and arms
before rinsing her hands with what was left of the water in the bottom of the cooler. The chill felt
refreshing against a day’s sweat and the southern summer heat. When she finished with tidying up, her
peacock blue eyes met his. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
His eyes glittered with approval of her distrust. He answered her question: “When you were
fifteen years old, Inessa gave you a rare silver ruble dated 1704 to remind you of your family’s
heritage. You keep it with you always.”
Her jaw dropped. She’d never told anyone about the coin. She never showed it to anyone. It was
a precious secret between her and Inessa and now, apparently, this handsome Italian man named Ciro
Mancini. Abigail’s shoulders sagged and she nodded.
“All right, you’re who you say you are,” she admitted. “That doesn’t explain why the mob is
interested in me.”
“The mob is not interested in you. We are, however, interested in the Farillo cartel and Carlos
Farillo is interested in you.” He sighed as she closed the cooler and dropped the filthy rag in the back
of her truck. “Miss Johnson, this is not a conversation we should be having where anyone could
overhear.”
“You’re right.” She headed around the vehicle to the driver’s side. The truck beeped as she
pressed the unlock button on the key fob. “Get in.”
He did as she ordered. She bit back a smile at his expression of mild surprise and assumed it was
because he expected a filthy interior. Au contraire, I keep my truck clean, you snob. The well-tuned
engine rumbled to life.
“So …” Abigail prompted as she shifted the truck into reverse and backed the vehicle.
“So?”
She shifted into drive and drove through the tight parking lot and into the city’s evening traffic.
“Does your being here mean that Carlos has found me?”
“I don’t know,” he replied with unexpected candor. “If he hasn’t, you can expect he will, and
quickly.”
“Just a big ball of sunshine you are,” she muttered under her breath as she navigated city traffic
and took the ramp to the highway. Inhaling deeply, she rolled her shoulders and asked, “How do you
expect him to find me? How soon?”
“The men who work for you—”
“Not again. Julio and Tomás are great guys. Yes, they’re Mexican, but that doesn’t mean they’re
with the cartel.” She glanced over her shoulder to ensure clear distance and switched lanes to get
around a slower vehicle.
“No, it doesn’t mean they are,” he agreed in a mild tone as she passed the car and returned to the
driving lane. “But it doesn’t mean they’re not, either. I’d rather we didn’t find out the hard way.”
“Hard way?”
“With you being dead.”
The highway narrowed from four to two lanes. She guided the truck behind a red Porsche that
suddenly zipped ahead, traveling on the shoulder from its position behind and cursed at the driver’s
rudeness. Ciro maintained his silence.
Does Carlos want me dead? Probably. It was my testimony that sent him to prison. She
swallowed a sudden lump of fear that clogged her throat, because the fate she knew Carlos had
planned for her was worse than death, much worse. If he found her, she’d beg for death long before he
gave her that release. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel. She tightened her grip, knuckles
whitening. Then she shook her head.
Finally, she said, “I can’t leave. I’m not leaving. I’ve moved five times in the last eight years.
Now I’ve finally built up my business and gained a good reputation over the past two years. I’ve got
clients. I can’t give that up again to start over from nothing.”
She turned off the two-lane highway and pulled into the apartment complex’s parking lot.
“You gave up a promising career as a musician,” he pointed out as she parked the vehicle.
“I did and I can never go back to it. I can’t even play the music I love for fear someone who went
to one of my concerts might recognize the way I play it.” Abigail snorted. “I’m not giving this up, too,
to subsist on minimum wage employment. Again.”
They got out of the vehicle. Abigail pulled out the cooler to carry it into the apartment to be
cleaned and restocked.
Ciro glanced at her hands, dirt ingrained under her fingernails and around the cuticles, as she
carried the cooler and thermos. No musician’s hand should look so rough. “Perhaps you won’t need
to.”
“What do you mean?”
They stopped in front of the door to her apartment and she flipped through her keys to select the
house key. She unlocked the door to her tiny apartment and entered. He followed. She set the cooler
on the counter then turned toward him as the door closed and latched. He gave her a sharp, quick
smile that made her blood run cold.
“We go on the offensive.”
 CHAPTER THREE

“E xplain. I’m not going to start preemptively shooting people. I’m not a criminal.”
He chuckled at her feistiness, appreciating her fire. Damn, she’s gorgeous. His gaze ran
over her, taking in the curls dyed light brown and streaked by hours in the sun, the firm, trim figure
kept strong and slender by the manual labor of landscaping, the tanned skin that made her bright,
peacock colored eyes pop. Becoming aware of his perusal, the skin stretched over her high, sharp
cheekbones turned rosy as she crossed her arms in an unconsciously defensive maneuver. The
pressure of her arms against her chest only plumped the soft flesh of her breasts and made his mouth
water and his cock twitch with an interest that surprised him.
The physical reaction startled Ciro who thought his devotion to Inessa Maglione unassailable. His
deep and honest affection for his boss’ wife had not inured him to the beauty of the feminine form, but
he had not experienced such a visceral reaction to any woman since making Inessa’s acquaintance. He
took a breath as an idea coalesced in his mind. The deep hum of satisfaction it brought to his blood
vessels gave him an instinctual certainty that it was a good idea.
He blinked, realizing that his musing had lasted several silent seconds while Evelina—no,
Abigail—waited for him to respond. With a sharp exhale, he said, “I can help make you disappear
without losing everything again.”
She blinked and said nothing, having learned the art of expectant silence loosened tongues. He
nearly clamped his own jaw shut in retaliation, because two could play at that game. However, she
deserved an explanation. It was her life, after all.
“What do Tomás and Julio know about your private life?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise at the question. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”
He smiled, white teeth gleaming as the plan unfolded in his mind. “Do you speak of your personal
life to them, cara? Do you tell them of the men you date?”
“I … I … no. I don’t discuss my love life with them. They don’t talk about their love lives with
me, either.” She refused to admit she didn’t date. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”
“How would you like to change your name again?”
She grunted, turning away to dump the cooler’s contents into the sink then wash her hands with
soap and a scrub brush. “Been there, done that, got the tee shirt, wrote the guidebook. No thanks.”
“Not even to take your husband’s name?”
“Get out.” Discerning his meaning, her eyes flashed with outrage. She took several deep breaths
and Ciro’s gaze locked on the rise and fall of voluptuous flesh for a second before flying back to her
expressive face. “Tomás and Julio are good men; they won’t hurt me. You, on the other hand, I’m not
so sure about.”
 He coaxed her as she dried her hands, “Come, cara, I won’t hurt you. As the capo of Cleveland,
Tennessee, I’ll protect you. As my wife, you’ll lack for nothing and have the protection of all the men
who answer to me. I will let you keep your business and help you build it even further, if you wish.”
She shook her head and tugged off the elastic that bound her curly hair into a short ponytail, fluffy
when not soaked with sweat. “I got sucked into one criminal organization and lost everything. I lost
my career, my virginity, my self-respect, and my name. It’s taken me years to get a little of that back.”
Ciro’s attention latched onto that third item: self-respect. “What happened?”
The blood drained from her tanned skin, leaving it an unhealthy grayish color. She shook her head
again. “I’ve put that behind me. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What happened, cara?” he persisted, his tone turning soft, but no less adamant that she answer
him. “I cannot ensure retribution if you do not tell me.”
“He’s in prison. That has to be retribution enough,” she said bitterly before recalling that Carlos
had recently been released.
“What did he do?”
Tears welled in her eyes and she turned away. “Quit pushing! It’s none of your business.”
Unable to help himself, Ciro wrapped his arms around her, ignoring her sweat and dirt. He could
well imagine what might reduce a strong, resilient woman such as she to tears and that guess made
him vow to see Carlos Farillo dead. She accepted his comfort for a mere second before raising her
hands and pushing against his chest to put distance between them.
“Don’t touch me,” she muttered and turned away to wipe out the cooler with a handful of paper
towels.
He watched without comment. She stashed the two unopened plastic bottles of Gatorade in the
refrigerator for use the next day. Then she emptied her thermos and discarded the mushy remains of
the day’s lemon wedges.
“Try ginger,” he suggested.
“Ginger?” She squirted a tiny bit of dish detergent into the thermos.
“Do you have any ginger root?”
“No.” She scrubbed the thermos.
“Slice up some ginger root and use it instead of lemon,” he said. “It will prevent bellyaches and
give you some variety in your water.”
“Ginger.”
“Steep half a teaspoon of grated ginger in boiling water for ten minutes. It’s full of antioxidants
and helps control cholesterol and prevent diabetes.”
Pausing in her chore, Abigail ran a critical eye over his trim figure displayed to perfection in the
tailored suit he wore and scoffed, “Like you have to worry.”
“My mama swore by ginger water,” he said with a Gallic shrug.
“My mother swore by vodka and schnapps, but I don’t drink those,” came the acerbic retort.
“Besides, I don’t have any fresh ginger root.”
“Do you have powdered ginger?”
“What?” She rinsed the thermos and set it upside down on the dish rack to dry.
“Powdered ginger,” he repeated patiently. “Like you use for baking.”
She shook her head. “Look, mister—”
“Ciro. Call me Ciro.”
She sighed. “Look, Ciro, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’m going to take a shower, grab a bite to
eat, and then go to bed. I’m not going to cook anything tonight. I don’t cook on weekdays because I’m
too damned tired.”
She raised her eyes to meet his and held his gaze. He said nothing, just returned her gaze with
hard, patient silence. Finally, she said, “You may stay or leave. I don’t care. Just leave me the hell
alone.”
He nodded, deciding the better part of valor was not to push her boundaries just then.
“I’ll take the sofa,” he called out as she headed to the small apartment’s single bedroom.
She emerged a moment later carrying a pillow and a blanket, dumped them on the sofa, and again
disappeared into her room. A moment later he heard the rushing sound of water when she turned on
the shower. Resigned to an uncomfortable night, Ciro sat on the sofa and removed his shoes and
socks. Barefoot, he padded the short distance into the minuscule kitchen and rummaged through her
few cabinets and small refrigerator. The tiny freezer held three frozen TV dinners. His upper lip lifted
and his nose wrinkled in a silent sneer of disgust. No way in hell was he going to swallow that swill.
She hadn’t been kidding about not cooking. He noticed she had no powdered ginger, either, so
apparently she didn’t bake. His mama would be appalled.
He pulled out a carton of eggs to find six still nestled in the Styrofoam cups. He found some bell
peppers starting to wrinkle and a bag of pre-washed, fresh spinach and a container of grated
parmesan cheese. He wrinkled his nose at the powdered cheese which hardly deserved the
appellation “cheese,” much less the designation of “parmesan.” With a murmured plea for forgiveness
for using the atrocious substitute for real Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, he decided to make the best of
what was available.
His hands moving with sharp precision, he chopped the peppers and spinach. He found a skillet
and placed it on the stove. Turning on the fire—at least she had a gas range—he let the skillet heat for
a second, then dropped a dollop of butter into the pan. The butter melted and sizzled while he
whipped four eggs with a fork into a creamy froth. He poured the beaten eggs into the skillet, then
added the chopped spinach and bell peppers. He swirled the pan, not disturbing the layer of cooked
egg on the bottom and encouraging the upper layers to rise. After a bit, he folded over the egg and let
it cook for a moment longer. Then he slid the omelet onto a plate and cut it in half. He rummaged
through her cabinets again and found a tumbler which he filled with water. He transferred one of the
halves of the omelet onto another plate and carried it into the bedroom along with the tumbler of
water, a fork, and a paper towel.
Did the woman not have any proper napkins?
“Here, eat,” he said as he set the plate on her nightstand. Despite her shower, she looked bone-
tired.
She’d opened her mouth to demand he leave her room, but upon seeing the plate he offered,
swallowed the words and choked out a thank-you.
“I’ll collect your plate in the morning.”
When he’d left and closed the door behind him, Abigail nodded in delayed acquiescence and took
a bite of the omelet. She sighed with pleasure. It was nice having someone care for her, even if she
suspected his motives. Soon she contemplated licking the plate clean and decided against it, because
that was just too desperate. Sighing, she set the plate on the nightstand and pulled down the violin
case from the narrow shelf in her small closet. She smoothed her hand over the hard plastic case that
protected her most precious possession. When feeling fanciful, she often likened the instrument to the
physical manifestation of her soul.
Unlatching the lid, she raised it to reveal the violin’s dark gleaming wood and sinuous curves.
Smiling with deep pleasure, she lifted the bow from the case first and checked the bow hair.
Sufficiently sticky, she decided it did not need to be rosined just yet. She then lifted the instrument and
placed it in the crook of her neck, angling her chin so the instrument settled in its accustomed place.
With her left hand holding the neck, fingers positioned for the first bar of notes, she guided the bow
across the strings with her right hand. Abigail paused after the first long note to fine tune the strings.
Then she drew the bow across the string again and smiled in satisfaction.
Music flowed from the violin in a haunting ripple of notes as she launched into an Irish aisling. As
she played, she envisioned the centuries-old lyrics that spoke of a love long lost. The tune segued into
another mournful melody which then eased into another sweet, haunting solo that brought a smile to
her face even as the last notes died away.
She glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and realized half an hour had passed, more than
long enough to annoy her neighbors. They preferred hip hop. With a sigh Abigail put her violin away
and stashed it back in the closet.
 CHAPTER FOUR

M using on the music he’d listened to the previous night, Ciro used the last of Abigail’s eggs and
what little milk she had to whip up some French toast, since she didn’t have flour or baking
soda to make pancakes. Really, the woman’s kitchen was an utter disgrace, although he could
almost understand how the dedication necessary to acquiring the skill to produce such deeply moving
music trumped the domestic skill of learning how to cook.
At least she had good quality blackberry jam in the refrigerator to spread over the French toast.
“You made breakfast,” she exclaimed, rubbing her eyes as she emerged from the bedroom. She
looked chagrined and added, “That’s really nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“A man needs more than coffee in the morning,” he replied with a small smile as he set plates on
the table.
“I wouldn’t know,” she murmured, her lips twisting into a bitter expression.
He didn’t pry, but sat down opposite her and spread a dollop of jam on his fried bread. His fork
hovering midway between plate and mouth, Ciro gave her a small smile and urged, “Mangia.”
“What does that mean?”
“Eat up.” He took a gulp of coffee then asked, “So, what’s on your agenda today?”
She glanced at him, still looking suave and impeccable in his tailored suit, sans the jacket
carefully folded on the sofa. “Administrative and marketing work followed by a trip to the grocery. I
need milk and a few other things. This week’s gig is finished and I’ve got to fill the pipeline. The next
project starts on Tuesday. That one’s mostly grunt work: clearing an overgrown garden so the
homeowners can use their yard again.” She flashed him an evil smile. “If you’re going to hang around,
I’m going to put you to work.”
Ciro glanced at her hands, roughened despite the gloves she wore to protect them, and shook his
head. “Hands that produce such beautiful music should be soft.”
Her expression sobered. “I don’t have that life anymore. I can never have that life again.”
“Ally yourself with me and accept my protection and you can have that life again.”
“Ally?” she echoed with a snort of incredulity. “What are we doing, negotiating a treaty?”
“If you like,” he said with a shrug. “After what Guiseppe Maglione did to the Culebras, his
alliance with your uncle, and their alliance with the Ochobella cartel, the Mexican cartels are
reluctant to run afoul of us, especially in our own territory.”
Abigail shook her head. “Cleveland, Tennessee isn’t your territory.”
“It will be.”
Abigail’s eyes widened with understanding. “You weren’t sent here to be my bodyguard; you
were sent here to expand the Maglione empire.” She shook her head. “No. No, I want no part of that.
After Papa died, Mama disassociated us from Uncle Maxim and the Bratva. She wanted no part of the
violence and criminal life and neither do I.”
“Yet you took a lover who was a highly ranked member of a Mexican cartel,” Ciro pointed out.
Her cheeks flushed with anger as she hissed, “He wasn’t my lover.”
Ciro raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “So, you remain a virgin?”
The blood drained from Abigail’s face and her eyes darkened, haunted by harsh memory and deep
regret for the innocence she’d lost. “No.” She swallowed and averted her gaze. “I didn’t give him
that.”
“Ah.” Black fury swelled in Ciro’s gut. A real man didn’t forcibly take what a woman wasn’t
willing to give.
Abigail took a deep breath, mustered her composure, then said, “Ah? That’s all you’ve got to
say?”
He fixed her gaze with his own iciness and said with words as cold as she’d ever heard, “What
else is there to say? I will kill him.”
Abigail could not help but enjoy the idea of lethal retribution against the man who’d refused to
take no for an answer, against the man who’d left her covered in blood and bruises and shame, against
the man who never thought she could dredge up the courage to face him in a courtroom and endure the
violation of examination and cross-examination during a criminal trial.
“That won’t erase what he did to me,” she finally said, setting down her fork because her appetite
had fled.
“No, but he won’t be able to do that to any other woman either,” Ciro pointed out. He fixed her
gaze again and said in a low, quiet tone, “A real man does not hurt innocent women or children.”
“Then what do you call what you do?” she challenged him. “Because I’m sure you don’t just scold
the people who cross Giovanni Maglione.”
“Of course not,” he replied. After patting his lips with a paper towel, he folded the makeshift
napkin and set it aside with almost clinical neatness. “I kill them … and I’m very, very good at it.”
“And you’re going to kill me, right?”
He sighed, his expression one of disappointment. “Haven’t I said that I won’t hurt you? Trust in
my word if you trust in nothing else, cara. I am not here to kill you.”
Abigail shook her head. “Be realistic. You can’t protect me from Carlos forever. If you kill him,
someone else will pop up in his place, probably one of his many cousins. And if I went on tour again
—like that could happen—then no one will be able to protect me, not really.”
He leaned forward, hands flattened against the tabletop. “Then we make the price of killing or
reclaiming you higher than they want to pay.”
“And how do you propose to do that? Wouldn’t they have to kill me to find that out? That rather
defeats the purpose.”
“You marry me, take my name, and accept the protection of the capo di tutti i capi of Cleveland. I
belong to the Magliones as you will belong to me.”
Abigail shook her head. “No. Thank you, but no. I can’t—won’t—do that. I can’t be that
vulnerable again.”
Ciro leaned back, his gaze cool and assessing. “This makes my job more difficult, but I will not
fail Giovanni or you.”
She blinked in surprise. “You’re not going to try to force me?”
Disgust twisted his lips. “I don’t force women in any sense of the word.”
She looked at him and realized the man sitting across from her had no need to force any woman
into his bed. His bespoke clothing betrayed his affluence. He was beautiful in the way Italian men
could be, and powerful in physique and in other ways. As the new capo of southern Tennessee for her
cousin’s husband—which meant that Giovanni trusted this man—Ciro Mancini would wield immense
authority. All he has to do is crook a finger and women will line up for the privilege of sleeping
with him. No, scratch that. He probably has to beat women away with a stick. Still, she could not
help the frisson of relief that eased the tension she hadn’t realized was knotting the muscles in her
shoulders.
“If you are finished eating, I will fetch my belongings,” he said as he rose to his feet, the words
and movement startling Abigail from her thoughts.
“Huh?”
“I’m moving in with you.”
“What? No. No! You can’t do that.”
“Until the threat against you is neutralized, I’m your bodyguard. That means I am wherever you
are.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard. Carlos doesn’t even know where I am. He doesn’t know what name
I’m using.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“If he did, do you think I’d even be worried about my business?”
“I think you’re being obstinate and don’t wish to admit to being in danger.”
Abigail ground her molars. “Look, Ciro, I appreciate the generous offer and all, but I’m fine.
WITSEC—”
“The government got what they wanted from you: your testimony and his incarceration,” he
interrupted her. “They don’t care about you now.”
She took a step back as though he’d slapped her with his hand instead of his words and thought
about the last time she’d heard from her handler. It was a long time ago, and no one had bothered to
inform her of Carlos’ early release from prison. She swallowed then took a breath. “No, no they
don’t. But Carlos has no reason to come after me.”
“Other than vengeance?” Ciro pointed out. “Don’t be foolish. It was your testimony that put him in
prison. You, a woman, humiliated him. He won’t have forgotten that and he’ll be here before you
know it to get his revenge. Do you have any concept of what he wants to do to you?”
“I know,” she hissed. “I know, all right? But I can’t function if all I concentrate on is what he did
to me and what he intends to do to me. I won’t cede my life or my sanity to him.”
“Pretending you’re safe from him is not the answer, Evelina.”
“Abigail,” she corrected him. “My name is Abigail.”
“No, you are pretending to be a woman named Abigail. Your name is Evelina. It’s a beautiful
name.”
“It’s a Russian name.”
“Where’s your phone?” he asked as though she hadn’t spoken.
Wordlessly, she retrieved it and handed it to him. He used it to send himself a message. Handing it
back to her, he said, “I have your number and you have mine now.”
He walked to the sofa and picked up his jacket, carefully handling it so she caught no glimpse of
the Walther CCP concealed within the folded fabric. “I’ll be back shortly. Do not answer the door. Do
not leave the apartment. Call me if you need me.”
Abigail buried her face in her hands as he let himself out. She sat there for several minutes,
shuddering with terror that no amount of denial or pretending could quell. Despite how she’d argued
and protested, she knew Carlos Farillo was coming after her. If he got his hands on her, she would
want to die long before he finally ended her misery.
Eventually, she rose from the table and poured herself a second cup of coffee before turning her
attention to her cheap laptop computer. Luckily, her rent covered basic internet access. She opened
her web browser, logged into her simple website, and opened her email messages.
“You are mine.”
Abigail blinked and read the single line again. She glanced at the sender and realized that the
sender identification had been anonymized. She checked the date and time of the message and realized
it had been sent a few hours ago. She began to tremble again, knowing she did not have the technical
skills to verify who had sent the message.
The next message in line popped up from another anonymous address. She gnawed on her bottom
lip as she opened it.
“I’m coming for you.”
Abigail’s breath sawed in and out of her lungs. Her fingertips tingled then turned numb. Black
dots swarmed her vision. She recognized the signs of an impending panic attack, but knew that
retreating to the comfort of her bed wouldn’t give her the safety she needed. With trembling hands, she
grabbed her phone and dialed.
“What is it, cara?”
Her jaw worked, unable to get the words out.
“Cara?”
“H-he’s coming.”
“Is your door locked?”
“Yes.”
“Barricade it. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Abigail lunged across the small apartment to engage the deadbolt on her door. She dragged her
sofa across the floor and put it in front of the door.
“Stay away from the windows,” came the next command.
A whimper escaped her lips as she realized that the large windows, the apartment’s one attractive
feature, were a weakness she could ill afford.
“Go into your bedroom. Close the door. Lock it if you can. Barricade it if you can. Hide.”
She scrambled to the bedroom, dragging a kitchen chair with her to wedge beneath the doorknob,
because the door had no lock. Then she scuttled into her small closet, closed the door behind her, and
cowered in a corner, hoping her clothes would do an adequate job of hiding her and knowing they
wouldn’t.
Minutes later her phone vibrated. She glanced at the glowing screen.
“I’m here. Stay put.”
 CHAPTER FIVE

S teering the Aston Martin DB10 into the apartment complex’s parking lot, Ciro noticed several
vehicles that had not been there the evening before. He surmised that several belonged to
workers who were home for the weekend, but he could not distinguish which belonged to
Evelina’s neighbors and which were being used by the Farillos. Driving slowly past the cars, he saw
no out of state license plates. He sighed, disappointed that detecting their presence couldn’t be so
easy.
He parked his car in a visitor’s spot and sat there for a moment, scanning the area. As though he
were a prospective tenant, he entered the manager’s lobby, decorated in red, white, and blue bunting.
It was deserted, the office staff being off for the Independence Day holiday weekend.
He waited a moment, then returned to his car and resumed the slow prowl through the complex,
keen eyes alert for anything that appeared out of place. He saw nothing until he spied a flicker of
movement in the bushes of the next building.
Ciro turned the corner and parked out of sight of those bushes. He pulled up his pant leg and drew
the blade he kept sheathed there. After tapping a quick text to inform Evelina that he had arrived and
not to move, he exited the car and crept around the building, holding the KA-BAR tactical knife flat
along his thigh. With all the stealth he’d learned as a young man in the U.S. Marines and three tours of
combat duty, he approached the man rummaging about in the bushes.
Nearing forty years old, Ciro no longer felt young.
The man creeping through the bushes did not notice he had been followed until Ciro laid the flat
of the knife against the man’s neck and hissed, “What are you doing?”
The smell of urine answered his question as the sweating man began babbling in Spanish.
“Turn around and hold your hands up,” Ciro ordered.
The man reached for the gun concealed in the front of his pants. Ciro took no chances. He turned
the knife and drove it into the flesh of the man’s neck, severing the carotid artery. He drew back on the
blade, making sure to draw it at an angle that would slice through another major vein or two. Blood
spurted as Ciro shoved the man away. The man clutched the wound, his lifeblood pouring out, but he
did not cry out. He could not. Ciro wiped the blade on the man’s sweat-damped shirt and walked
swiftly behind Evelina’s apartment.
Seeing there was no lock on the bedroom window, he pried out the screen and raised it. The
opening wasn’t large enough for him to squirm through, so he leaned in and hissed, “Evelina, come
out. I’m here.”
The closet door eased open a crack.
“Evelina, it’s Ciro. We need to get out now.”
 The closet door opened and Evelina crawled out onto the bedroom floor, dragging her violin case
in one hand. She darted frightened glances at the bedroom door which remained closed. She froze
when a lilting voice called from the front of her apartment. “I’m here for you, gatita.”
“Run!” Ciro hissed.
With a muted whimper, Abigail bolted for the window, violin case in hand. She leaped onto the
bed and reached for Ciro. He grabbed her wrists and hauled her and the violin through the opening.
“Let’s go,” he murmured when her feet hit the ground.
He took her free hand and led the way.
“My purse!” she cried softly. “It’s got my ID in it and everything!”
“It can be replaced,” he said as he tugged on her hand, forcing her to keep pace as he made a
beeline for his car. “Get in.”
She opened the door and slid inside. She set the violin in the footwell. Looking at him as he
settled into the driver’s seat, she said, “You didn’t lock the car?”
He didn’t answer, but started the engine and carefully backed out.
“Get down so no one can see you,” he ordered.
She slid down in the seat.
Ciro drove out of the complex and headed for the open highway. She remained crouched out of
sight until he indicated it was safe to sit up. Evelina did so and fastened the seat belt.
“Where are we going?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Vegas? Why?”
“Because you need to change your name again.” He pressed a button on the steering wheel and
said, “Call Giovanni.”
On the second ring, Giovanni answered, “Ciro? What is it?”
Speaking in rapid Italian, Ciro replied, “The Farillos found Evelina. She’s unharmed. I have her
with me. We’re headed to Vegas.”
“That was fast,” Giovanni murmured in the same language. “Do what you need to do, Ciro, to
keep my wife’s cousin safe. Then get your ass back to Cleveland and set up my branch office.”
“Yes, boss. I’m gonna need a crew.”
“You have five days.”
Ciro paused, then quickly explained his plan while the woman sitting shotgun pierced him with a
suspicious glare. “Evelina will need a new ID.”
“Done. Go to the Bellagio. I’ll have a room reserved for you.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Keep her safe, Ciro.”
 CHAPTER SIX

E velina wasn’t sure how he managed it, but Ciro got them on an airplane. Sure, they bypassed
commercial airlines for a chartered jet, but … she shook her head and looked out the porthole.
One hand rubbed the smooth leather upholstery.
“Why Vegas?” she finally asked, her voice trembling.
“Because Scotland no longer allows last-minute marriages with anvil priests,” Ciro replied.
“Marriage?” she echoed with a squeak.
He shrugged. “You need a change of identity, and marriage is one sure way to do that.”
Abigail frowned. “This isn’t the good old days when a woman automatically has to take her
husband’s name and cease being a distinct legal entity separate from a man.”
Ciro gave her a smirk that made her palms itch to slap his face, then said, “My wife will take my
name as well as my protection.”
“I don’t even like you. What makes you think I’ll marry you?” she retorted.
“Because you’d rather live than die,” he replied.
“I don’t want to do this,” she muttered and averted her gaze to hide the moisture that threatened to
spill over. With a sigh, she tried to reason with him. “I was raised Russian Orthodox. When I entered
WITSEC, I wasn’t allowed that faith. I started going to the local Catholic church as the closest
substitute. Divorce isn’t an option for me. If we’re going to use this marriage of convenience as a ruse
to conceal me, then we’ll be stuck in that marriage. It’s not sufficient grounds for divorce.”
“I’m Catholic. Divorce isn’t an option for me, either.” He nodded, although she wasn’t sure
whether he accepted her reluctance to marry him or merely acknowledged it. “Why do you think it
will only be a marriage of convenience?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you think I’ll allow it to be anything but?”
Without moving a muscle, his expression shifted, became heated and intense. It made her shiver
and tingle. Mustering her courage, she whispered, “We don’t love each other.”
His smile spread, slow and wide and devastatingly handsome. “We will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I won’t argue with you, Evelina.”
“Abigail,” she said. “My name is Abigail now.”
“No. Abigail is the name assigned to you by the government. Your name is Evelina Lebedev.” He
glanced at his watch which she guessed was a Rolex of some sort. “In a few hours, you will be
Evelina Mancini.”
“And if I don’t want to be Evelina Mancini?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
 The color drained from her face, and Ciro immediately regretted his words. He extended a hand
toward hers and grasped it.
“Look at me, Evelina.”
Trembling with fear, she looked at him.
“I am sorry, cara. I can guess what happened to you and I am sorry for it.”
She withdrew her hand from his and settled it in her lap. She looked again out the porthole.
“Evelina.”
She did not respond.
“Evelina, I will not force intimacy upon you if you truly do not want it.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re going to take no for an answer,” she muttered.
He made an inarticulate sound that could have expressed dismay, anger, or frustration. Or perhaps
all of the above. “Evelina, we may sleep in the same bed so I can keep you safe, but I won’t force
myself upon you. I don’t force women.”
No, she thought, that gorgeous man sitting beside her didn’t have to. Keeping her gaze focused
outside, she ignored him, although her every sense was aware of his proximity.
The aircraft landed slightly ahead of schedule due to favorable winds. A car and driver picked
them up at the airport and drove them to the Bellagio where Ciro checked in. He ran his gaze over
her, taking note of her casual clothing. That would never do. Taking her hand, he said, “Come. We’re
going shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“We left Tennessee without any luggage,” he explained.
“Oh, right.” She lifted the violin case. “Do you think this will be safe in the hotel room?”
“Sì.”
They headed to the elevator bank and stepped into the car. They got out on the twentieth floor and
proceeded down a nearly silent, thickly carpeted hallway. Ciro fished the key card from a pocket and
unlocked the door to their room. Abigail didn’t know whether to be impressed or disappointed. The
room was well appointed with luxurious finishes and touches, but it was a room, not a suite as she’d
expected. She snorted, realizing that she’d allowed too many of those billionaire romances she’d read
to influence her expectations. Ciro had money, but not that much money.
I’m a moron.
“Is something wrong, cara?”
She gave him a small smile that could have been either apologetic or embarrassed and replied,
“No, this is a lovely room.” Her smile dimmed. “And you’re right, we do need at least a change of
clothes.”
She set down the violin case and clasped her hands.
“Come, cara, let’s go.”
She glanced at his outstretched hand and obediently took it. The touch of their palms ignited
sparks in her blood and made her inhale sharply. Ciro drew her in close to his body and released her
hand to place his at the small of her back. Even though his warmth seeped through the fabric of her
shirt, that small barrier allowed her to exhale. As they left the room behind them, he said, “We’ll get
the necessary toiletries, a few days’ worth of clothing, and a suitcase.”
“Why a few days’ worth?”
“Because we’re not going straight back to Cleveland.”
“Then where are we going?”
“I thought we’d stay here for a bit.”
 “And then?” she prompted.
“And then,” he said slowly as a plan unfolded in his mind, “Evelina Mancini returns to the stage
after an eight-year hiatus.”
She gasped. “I can’t! WITSEC—”
“As of a few hours ago, you are no longer in WITSEC,” he reminded her. “They failed you. I will
not.”
“How can you protect me when I’m on stage or on the road touring?”
“Because I or one of my crew will be with you at all times.”
“One of your crew?”
“Sì.”
“You have a crew.”
He grinned at her. “Not yet, but I will very soon. You’re looking at the new capo of southern
Tennessee, remember?”
“Oh, God,” she groaned.
“And from here on out, you will be known by the name your parents gave you. You are Evelina.”
She could not deny that it felt good to hear her real name on his lips.
Reaching the ground level, Ciro first guided her into a restaurant where she felt terribly under-
dressed. However, the hostess smiled at them and led them to a table. A small basket of artisanal
breads was placed on the table by a smiling server who took their drink orders and left menus for
them. Momentarily, the server returned with their beverages, sparkling water with lemon for Ciro and
a sweetened iced tea for Evelina, and took their meal orders. Their meals arrived shortly, both having
ordered light entrees.
Music began to play.
“Look out the window,” Ciro said, gesturing with his fork.
Evelina looked out at the Bellagio’s famous fountains and watched in delight as the water danced
to the music. Glancing occasionally outside and around the restaurant, Ciro mainly watched her and
enjoyed her unguarded expressions.
When they finished eating, he led her into one high-end shop after another in the property’s on-site
shopping gallery. Without leaving the massive building, Evelina found herself in possession of the
most luxurious underclothing she could have imagined, designer clothes off the rack that fit as well as
if they had been tailored for her, shoes to go with each outfit, and an array of cosmetics. She tried to
refuse the cosmetics, because she’d grown out of the habit of wearing makeup. Foundation melted
under the sweat of physical exertion and the heat of a Tennessee summer.
“You’ll need it for the stage,” Ciro insisted.
“It’s not like I’ll be playing here,” she retorted. “And what am I going to do with that evening
gown?”
He shrugged and handed a black credit card to the cashier.
“This won’t all fit in one suitcase, you know,” she pointed out with a wave of her hand to indicate
the items he’d purchased for her as well as for himself.
“I know,” he said. “I bought two suitcases while you were in the changing room.”
Evelina shook her head. “This is too much, Ciro.”
He grinned at her. “If I wish to spoil my bride, then who’s to deny me?”
She sighed and shook her head, because arguing with him was pointless.
They returned to their room where the various shops had delivered their purchases.
“You take the shower first,” Ciro said as he pulled out a small pocket knife and flipped open the
short blade. “I’ll put our things away.”
Evelina’s eyes widened at the sight of the small knife in his hands.
“It’s a tool, a useful one at that,” he explained as he pulled a garment from the bag and sliced
through the thin plastic cord from which the shop tags dangled. “It’s not a good weapon. I’ll set out
some clothes for you.”
She shook her head and went into the bathroom.
The hotel’s luxurious brand of soap, shampoo, and conditioner beat anything she’d purchased
from the local drug store back in Cleveland. Not wanting to appear spoiled or inconsiderate, she
didn’t linger in the shower. The hotel had provided toothbrushes, toothpaste, comb, and blow dryer,
which she also used. Feeling fresh with her curly hair once again clean and her body wrapped in a
big, fluffy towel, she emerged from the bathroom.
“Wear what I’ve set out for you, please,” Ciro said as he disappeared into the bathroom.
She looked at the elegant ivory silk dress, the high-heeled, strappy gold sandals, and the lacy
undergarments he wanted her to wear and pursed her lips as thoughts of mutiny tempted her. She
glanced around for her well-worn jeans and tee shirt and comfortable panties and bra and didn’t see
them anywhere. The water in the bathroom ran, so she took the opportunity to rummage through the
drawers of the dresser and nightstands. She found nothing but a Gideon’s Bible and their new
purchases. She looked in the closet which now held more of their new clothes, but nothing else.
“Damn it,” she muttered, realizing he had mostly likely disposed of her old clothing. “I should
have known he’d do something like that.”
A knock on the door startled her.
“Delivery for Ciro Mancini,” a voice called through the door.
She peered through the peephole to see a young man in hotel livery and a bored expression
standing outside the door. Keeping the safety chain in place, she cracked open the door.
“Yes?”
“Delivery for Ciro Mancini,” the bellhop said. “It’s from Giovanni Maglione.”
“All right,” she replied. “Can you slide it through?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the bellhop said and slid the slender package through the narrow opening. “I’ll
need your signature, please.”
“Of course,” Evelina replied.
The bellhop slid an electronic notepad through the opening. She took it, used the stylus to scrawl
her signature, and handed it back.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the young man said and departed.
She closed the door and carried the package to the small desk in the room. As she did so, she
realized the water had stopped running. An electronic buzz alerted her to an electric shaver being
used.
“Damn it,” she muttered, realizing that she needed to get dressed quickly unless she wanted to
give Ciro a show. Rushing, she dropped the towel, put on the panties and bra and slip, finally sliding
the ivory silk dress over her body. The long, closely fitted lace sleeves and modest neckline
concealed her farmer’s tan.
As she struggled to finish fasten the buttons running up the back of the dress, Ciro emerged from
the bathroom clothed from the waist down, except for socks and shoes.
“Allow me, cara,” he murmured as he came up behind her.
She went still. With deft fingers, he finished fastening the buttons and placed a light kiss on the
side of her neck.
 “Lovely,” he complimented, then released her and turned away to finish dressing. Evelina forced
herself not to watch him, giving him the privacy he granted her, although she could not help but sneak
a quick glance at the fascinating play of hard muscle as he moved.
He is truly a gorgeous specimen of masculinity. She wondered what he thought of her, then
dismissed the thought from her mind. It doesn’t matter. We won’t really be married. When all this is
over, we’ll get an annulment.
“There was a delivery while you were in the shower,” she blurted and pointed to the small desk.
His gaze sharpened. “Do not answer the door alone, Evelina. It isn’t safe.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a package from Giovanni Maglione.”
“Did you open it?”
“No. I don’t make a habit of opening other people’s mail.”
He picked up the envelope and used his pocket knife to slice it open. With a small smile, he said,
“The boss came through for us again: your new ID.”
He held out a new driver’s license and Social Security card. With a murmur of thanks, Evelina
took them from his hand and quelled an unwarranted feeling of disappointment that there wasn’t a cell
phone, too.
“Ready, cara?”
Evelina exhaled. “I suppose so.”
Once again, Ciro took her hand and led her from the hotel room.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Figure 51. William Sellers

This paper had as great influence in America as Whitworth’s paper

of 1841 had in England. A committee was appointed to investigate
the question and recommend a standard. On this committee, among
others, were William B. Bement, C. T. Parry of the Baldwin
Locomotive Works, S. V. Merrick, J. H. Towne, and Coleman Sellers.
Early in the next year the committee reported in favor of the Sellers
standard, the Franklin Institute communicated their findings to other
societies, and recommended the general adoption of the system
throughout the country. The Sellers’ thread was adopted by the
United States Government for all government work in 1868, by the
Pennsylvania Railroad in 1869, the Master Car Builders’ Association
in 1872, and soon became practically universal. After exhaustive
investigation the Sellers’ form of thread was adopted in 1898 by the
International Congress for the standardization of screw threads, at
Zurich, and is now in general use on the continent of Europe.[209]
[209] For the discussion of the Sellers’ screw thread and the
circumstances surrounding its adoption, see: Journal of the Franklin
Institute, Vol. LXXVII, p. 344; Vol. LXXIX, pp. 53, 111; Vol. CXXIII, p. 261;
Vol. CXXV, p. 185.

In 1868 William Sellers organized the Edgemoor Iron Company

which furnished the iron work for the principal Centennial buildings
and all the structural work of the Brooklyn Bridge. In the
development of this business, he led the way in the distinctly
American methods and machinery by which the building of bridges
has been, to a great extent, put upon a manufacturing basis. This
involved the design and introduction of hydraulic machinery, large
multiple punches, riveters, cranes, boring machines, etc.
The excellence of his machinery soon brought him into contact
with government engineers and throughout his life his influence in
the War and Navy Departments was great. In 1890 the Navy
Department called for bids on an eight-foot lathe, with a total length
of over 128 feet, to bore and turn sixteen-inch cannon for the Naval
Gun Factory at Washington. Sellers disapproved of the design and
refused to bid on it. He proposed an alternative one of his own,
argued its merits in person before the Board of Engineers, and
secured its adoption and a contract for it. This great lathe, weighing
over 500,000 pounds, has attracted the attention of engineers from
all parts of the world. In 1873 Mr. Sellers reorganized the William
Butcher Steel Works as the Midvale Steel Company and became its
president. Under his management the company grew rapidly, and
later became a leader in production of heavy ordnance.
It was here that Frederick W. Taylor began in 1880 his work on the
art of cutting metals, which resulted in modern high-speed tool steels
and a general re-design of machine tools. These experiments,
covering a period of twenty-six years, cost upwards of $200,000. Mr.
Taylor has frequently acknowledged his indebtedness in this work to
the patience and courage of Mr. Sellers, who was then an old man
and might have been expected to oppose radical change. It was he
who made the work possible, however, and he supported Taylor
unwaveringly in the face of constant protests.[210] Mr. Sellers was a
man of commanding presence, direct but gracious in manner, who
won and held the respect and loyalty of all about him. His judgment
was almost unerring and he dominated each of the great
establishments he built up.
[210] F. W. Taylor: Paper on the “Art of Cutting Metals,” Trans. A. S. M. E.,
Vol. XXVIII, p. 34.

The firm of William Sellers & Company had another master mind
in that of Dr. Coleman Sellers, a second cousin of William
Sellers.[211] He was born in Philadelphia in 1827, his father, Coleman
Sellers, being also an inventor and mechanic. Like Nasmyth he
spent his school holidays in his father’s shop, which was at
Cardington. In 1846, when he was nineteen years old, he went to
Cincinnati and worked in the Globe Rolling Mill, operated by his elder
brothers, where the first locomotives for the Panama Railroad were
built; and in two years he became superintendent. In 1851 he
became foreman of the works of James and Jonathan Niles, who
were then in Cincinnati and building locomotives. Six years later he
returned to Philadelphia, became chief engineer of William Sellers &
Company, and remained with them for over thirty years, becoming a
partner in 1873. During these years he designed a wide range of
machinery, which naturally covered much the same field as that of
William Sellers, but his familiarity with locomotive work especially
fitted him for the design of railway tools. His designs were original,
correct and refined. The Sellers coupling was his invention and he
did much to introduce the modern systems of power transmission.
[211] See Trans. A. S. M. E., Vol. XXIX, p. 1163; Cassier’s Magazine,
August, 1903, p. 352; Journal of the Franklin Institute, Vol. CXLIX, p. 5.

Doctor Sellers was a good physicist, an expert photographer,

telegrapher, microscopist, and a professor in the Franklin Institute,
his lectures always drawing large audiences. Like William Sellers, he
was a member of most of the great engineering and scientific
societies, here and abroad; and he was president of the American
Society of Mechanical Engineers, of which he was a charter
member. He was received with the greatest distinction in his visits to
Europe. In 1886 impaired health compelled his relinquishing regular
work and he resigned his position of engineer for William Sellers &
Company, being succeeded by his son, the present president of the
company. His last great work was in connection with the power
development of Niagara Falls. He was engineer for the Cataract
Construction Company and served on the commission which
determined the types of turbines and generators and the methods of
power transmission finally adopted. Among the others on this
commission were Lord Kelvin, Colonel Turretini, the great Swiss
engineer, and Professor Unwin, and its report forms the foundation
of modern large hydro-electric work. William Sellers & Company has
a unique distinction among the builders of machine tools in having
had the leadership of two such men as William and Coleman Sellers.
William B. Bement, the son of a Connecticut farmer and
blacksmith, was born at Bradford, N. H., in 1817. His education was
obtained in the district schools and in his father’s blacksmith shop.
His mechanical aptitude was so clear that he was apprenticed to
Moore & Colby, manufacturers of woolen and cotton machinery at
Peterboro, N. H. His progress at first was rapid. Within two years he
became foreman, and on the withdrawal of one of the partners, was
admitted into the firm. He continued there three years, already giving
much thought to machine tools, for which he saw the rising need. In
1840 he went to Manchester and entered the Amoskeag shop when
it was just finished, remaining there two years as a foreman and
contractor under William A. Burke, to whom we have referred
elsewhere. From there Bement went to take charge of a shop for
manufacturing woolen machinery at Mishawaka, Ind. Unfortunately it
was burned to the ground while Bement had gone back to New
Hampshire for his family, so that when he returned with them he
found himself without employment and with only ten dollars in hand.
For the time being he worked as a blacksmith and gunsmith, and
made an engine lathe for himself in the shop of the St. Joseph Iron
Company, which gave him permission to use their tools in return for
the use of his patterns to make a similar machine for themselves.
Much of the work in making this lathe was done by hand as there
was no planer within many hundred miles. The St. Joseph Iron
Company, seeing his work, offered him the charge of their shop, to
which he agreed, provided the plant were enlarged and equipped
with proper tools. This was done, but just as everything was
completed this plant also was burned down. Bement had plans for
another shop ready the following day, went into the woods with
others, cut the necessary timber, and a new shop was soon
completed. He remained there for three years, constructing a variety
of machine tools, one of which was a gear cutter said to have been
the first one built in the West, or used beyond Cleveland.
Figure 52. Coleman Sellers
 Figure 53. William B. Bement

He returned to New England as a contractor in the Lowell Machine

Shop under Burke, who had gone there from the Amoskeag Mills in
1845. On account of Bement’s resourcefulness and skill in
designing, Burke induced him to relinquish his contracts and take
charge of their designing, which he did for three years, his residence
at Lowell covering in all about six years.
In 1851 Elijah D. Marshall, who had established a business of
engraving rolls for printing calicos in 1848 and had a small shop at
Twentieth and Callowhill Streets in Philadelphia, offered Bement a
partnership. He moved to Philadelphia in September of that year,
and with Marshall and Gilbert A. Colby, a nephew, he began the
manufacture of machine tools under the name of Marshall, Bement &
Colby, thus starting only a year or so after Sellers. Marshall was a
large man, dignified and deliberate in speech. Bement was strong,
vigorous, a born designer, a remarkably rapid draftsman, and had a
capacity for work rarely equalled. Colby was also a man of
considerable mechanical ability, with advanced business ideas. Their
shop consisted of a single three-storied, stone, whitewashed
building, 40 by 90 feet. Their entire machine shop was on the first
floor, with a 10- by 12-foot room for an office. The engine, boiler and
blacksmith shop were in small outbuildings. Part of the second floor
was rented to another factory and the rest was sometimes used for
religious meetings, while the third floor was used for engraving
printing rolls. Their tools were few and crude; among them were a
36-inch lathe with a wooden bed and iron straps for ways, and a 48-
inch by 14-foot planer with ornate Doric uprights. Marshall and Colby
soon retired, the latter going to Niles, Mich., where he was very
successful. James Dougherty, an expert foundryman, and George C.
Thomas entered the firm, which became Bement & Dougherty, the
plant being known as the “Industrial Works.” Mr. Thomas contributed
considerable capital, and a new shop and a foundry were built. At
the same time they installed a planer 10 feet wide by 8 feet high, to
plane work 45 feet long, a notable tool for that day.
After a few years of struggle, the plant began to grow rapidly and
at one time was the largest of its kind in the country. Bement and
Sellers were among the first to concentrate wholly on tool building.
They confined themselves to work of the highest quality. Both made
much heavier tools, as we have said, than the New England
builders, their only competitors, and in a short time had established
great reputations. Bement relied little on patent protection, trusting to
quality and constant improvement. Thomas retired from the
partnership in 1856 and Dougherty in 1870; and Clarence S. Bement
joined the firm, which became William B. Bement & Son. John M.
Shrigley became a partner in 1875, William P. Bement in 1879, and
Frank Bement in 1888.
Frederick B. Miles was an employee of Bement & Dougherty who
established a tool business under the name of Ferris & Miles, which
afterward became the Machine Tool Works. While head of these
works, Miles greatly improved the steam hammer, particularly its
valve mechanism, and many details of what is known as the Bement
hammer were invented by Miles. In 1885 the Machine Tool Works
consolidated with William Bement & Son, forming Bement, Miles &
Company. Mr. Miles was an accomplished engineer and designer,
with the unusual equipment of six languages at his command, an
asset of value in the firm’s foreign business. William Bement, Senior,
died in 1897, and in 1900 the business became a part of the Niles-
Bement-Pond Company. Mr. Miles retired at that time and has not
since been active in the tool business.[212]
[212] Most of the foregoing details in regard to the Bement & Miles Works
have been obtained from Mr. Clarence S. Bement and Mr. W. T. Hagman,
their present general manager.

Although Bement and Sellers contributed more to the art of tool

building than any of the other Philadelphia mechanics, some of these
others ought to be mentioned. Matthias W. Baldwin, a native of New
Jersey, began as a jeweler’s apprentice. In partnership with David H.
Mason he began making bookbinders’ tools, to which he added in
1822 the engraving of rolls for printing cotton goods and later of bank
notes. From the invention and manufacture of a variety of tools used
in that business they were led gradually into the machine tool
business, the building of hydraulic presses, calender rolls, steam
engines, and finally locomotives. In 1830 Baldwin built a model
locomotive for the Peale Museum which led to an order from the
Philadelphia & Germantown Railroad for an engine which was
completed in 1832 and placed on the road in January, 1833. An
advertisement of that time says: “The locomotive engine built by Mr.
M. W. Baldwin of this city will depart daily, when the weather is fair,
with a train of passenger cars. On rainy days horses will be attached
in the place of the locomotive.”
From this beginning has sprung the Baldwin Locomotive Works,
which employs approximately 20,000 men. In 1834 they built five
locomotives; in 1835, fourteen; in 1836, forty. Their one thousandth
locomotive was built in 1861; the five thousandth in 1880 and the
forty thousandth in 1913. These works have naturally greatly
influenced the neighboring tool makers. From the beginning, both
Bement and Sellers specialized on railway machinery and they have
always built a class of tools larger than those manufactured in New
England.
The Southwark Foundry was established in 1836, first as a
foundry only, but a large machine shop was soon added. The owners
were S. V. Merrick, who became the first president of the
Pennsylvania Railroad Company, and John Henry Towne, who was
the engineering partner. The firm designed and built steam engines
and other heavy machinery and introduced the steam hammer into
the United States under arrangement with James Nasmyth. From the
designs of Capt. John Ericsson they built the engines for the
“Princeton,” the first American man-of-war propelled by a screw, and
later were identified with the Porter-Allen steam engine. Mr. Towne
withdrew from the firm about 1848, and the firm name became
successively Merrick & Son, Merrick & Sons, Henry G. Morris, and
finally the Southwark Foundry & Machine Company.
I. P. Morris & Company came from Levi Morris & Company,
founded in 1828, and for many years were engaged in a similar
work. In 1862 Mr. J. H. Towne, above referred to, was admitted to
the firm as the engineering partner, and the firm name then became
I. P. Morris, Towne & Company, until about 1869 when Mr. Towne
withdrew. At his withdrawal the firm name was restored to its original
form, I. P. Morris & Company. It is now a department of the Cramp
Ship Building Company. During the Civil War the works were
occupied largely in building engines and boilers for government
vessels, and blast furnace and sugar mill machinery. During this
period Henry R. Towne, son of J. H. Towne, entered the works as an
apprentice, served in the drawing room and shops, and finally was
placed in charge of the erection at the navy yards of Boston and
Kittery of the engines, boilers, etc., built for two of the double-
turreted monitors. Returning to Philadelphia, he was made assistant
superintendent of the works.
J. H. Towne was a mechanical engineer of eminence in his day,
whose work as a designer showed unusual thoroughness and finish.
He was a warm friend and admirer of both William and Coleman
Sellers, and through his influence, Henry R. Towne was at one time
a student apprentice in the shops of William Sellers & Company,
acquiring there an experience which had a marked influence on his
future work. Both of the firms with which J. H. Towne was connected
built machine tools for themselves and for others, especially of the
heavier and larger kinds, and thus were among the early tool
builders. I. P. Morris & Company, about 1860, designed and built for
their own use what was then the largest vertical boring mill in this
country.[213]
[213] From correspondence with Mr. Henry R. Towne.

It may surprise some to learn that the well-known New England

firm, the Yale & Towne Manufacturing Company in Stamford, Conn.,
is a descendant of these Philadelphia companies. It was organized
in October, 1868, by Linus Yale, Jr., and Henry R. Towne, who were
brought together by William Sellers. Mr. Yale died in the following
December. This company, under the direction and control of Mr.
Towne, has had a wide influence on the lock and hardware industry
in this country. While the products of the Yale & Towne
Manufacturing Company have always consisted chiefly of locks and
related articles, they have added since 1876 the manufacture of
chain blocks, electric hoists, and, during a considerable period, two
lines allied to tool building, namely, cranes and testing machines.
This company was the pioneer crane builder of this country,
organizing a department for this purpose as early as 1878, and
developing a large business in this field, which was sold in 1894 to
the Brown Hoisting Machine Company of Cleveland, Ohio. The
building of testing machines was undertaken in 1882, to utilize the
inventions of Mr. A. H. Emery, and was continued until 1887, when
this business was sold to William Sellers & Company, for the same
reason that the crane business was sold; namely, that both were
incongruous with the other and principal products of the company.
In recent years the Bilgram Machine Works, under the leadership
of Hugo Bilgram, an expert Philadelphia mechanic, has made
valuable contributions to the art of accurate gear cutting.
In the cities between New York and Philadelphia, and here and
there in the smaller towns of Pennsylvania, are several tool builders
of influence. Gould & Eberhardt in Newark is one of the oldest firms
in the business, having been established in 1833. Ezra Gould, its
founder, learned his trade at Paterson, and started in for himself at
Newark in a single room, 16 feet square. Within a few years the
Gould Machine Company was organized, the business moved to its
present location, and a line of lathes, planers and drill presses was
manufactured. To these they added fire engines. Ulrich Eberhardt
started as an apprentice in 1858 and became a partner in 1877, the
firm name becoming E. Gould & Eberhardt, and later Gould &
Eberhardt. Mr. Gould retired in 1891, and died in 1901. Mr. Eberhardt
also died in 1901; the business has since been incorporated and is
now under the management of his three sons. They employ about
400 men in the manufacture of gear and rack cutting machinery and
shapers.
The Pond Machine Tool Company, which moved from Worcester
to Plainfield, N. J., in 1888, was founded by Lucius W. Pond.[214] It is
a large and influential shop and one of the four plants of the Niles-
Bement-Pond Company. Their output is chiefly planers, boring mills
and large lathes.
[214] See p. 222.

The Landis Tool Company, of Waynesboro, Pa., builders of

grinding machinery, springs from the firm of Landis Brothers,
established in 1890 by F. F. and A. B. Landis. One was
superintendent and the other a tool maker in a small plant building
portable engines and agricultural machinery. A small Brown &
Sharpe grinding machine was purchased for use in these works. Mr.
A. B. Landis became interested in the design of a machine more
suited to their particular work, and from this has developed the
Landis grinder.
 CHAPTER XX
THE WESTERN TOOL BUILDERS
Prior to 1880 practically all of the tool building in the United States
was done east of the Alleghenies. The few tools built here and there
in Ohio and Indiana were mostly copies of eastern ones and their
quality was not high. In fact, there were few shops in the West
equipped to do accurate work. “Chordal’s Letters,” published first in
the American Machinist and later in book form,[215] give an excellent
picture of the western machine shop in the transition stage from
pioneer conditions to those of the present day.
[215] Henry W. See: “Extracts from Chordal’s Letters”; McGraw-Hill Book
Co., N. Y. 12th Edition. 1909.

Good tool building appeared in Ohio in the early eighties, and

within ten years its competition was felt by the eastern tool builders.
The first western centers were Cleveland, Cincinnati and Hamilton.
Of these, Cleveland seems to have been the first to build tools of the
highest grade.
We have already noted that the Pratt & Whitney shop in Hartford
furnished Cleveland with a number of its foremost tool builders. The
oldest of these and perhaps the best known is the Warner & Swasey
Company. This company has the distinction, shared with only one
other, of having furnished two presidents of the American Society of
Mechanical Engineers. Oddly enough the other company is also a
Cleveland firm, the Wellman, Seaver, Morgan Company, builders of
coal- and ore-handling machinery, and of steel mill equipment.
Worcester E. Warner, of the Warner & Swasey Company, was
born at Cummington, Mass., in 1846. Although a farmer’s son and
denied a college education, he had access in his own home to an
admirable library, which he used to great advantage. When nineteen
years old he went to Boston and learned mechanical drawing in the
office of George B. Brayton. Shortly afterwards he was transferred to
the shop at Exeter, N. H., where he first met Ambrose Swasey. Mr.
Swasey was born at Exeter, also in 1846, went to the traditional “little
red schoolhouse,” and learned his trade as a machinist in the shop
to which Warner came. In 1870 they went together to Hartford,
entered the Pratt & Whitney shop as journeymen mechanics, and in
a short time had become foremen and contractors. Mr. Swasey soon
gained a reputation for accurate workmanship and rare ability in the
solution of complex mechanical problems. He had charge of the gear
department, and invented and developed a new process of
generating spur gear teeth, which was given in a paper before the
American Society of Mechanical Engineers.[216] Mr. Warner, also,
became one of the company’s most trusted mechanics, was head of
the planing department, and had charge of the Pratt & Whitney
exhibit at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia.
[216] Trans. A. S. M. E., Vol. XII, p. 265.

In 1881 they left Hartford and went first to Chicago, intending to

build engine lathes, each putting $5000 into the venture; but finding
difficulty in obtaining good workmen there, they moved in about a
year to Cleveland, where they have remained. Their first order was
for twelve turret lathes, and they have built this type of machine ever
since. At various times they have built speed lathes, die-sinking
machines, horizontal boring mills, and hand gear-cutters, but they
now confine their tool building to hand-operated turret lathes. They
have never built automatics.
Figure 54. Worcester R. Warner
Figure 55. Ambrose Swasey
 The building of astronomical instruments was not in their original
scheme, but Mr. Warner’s taste for astronomy and Mr. Swasey’s skill
in intricate and delicate mechanical problems, led them to take up
this work. These instruments, usually designed by astronomers and
instrument makers, were in general much too light; at least the large
ones were. From their long experience as tool builders, Warner and
Swasey realized that strength and rigidity are quite as essential as
accuracy of workmanship where great precision is required. The
design of a large telescope carrying a lens weighing over 500
pounds at the end of a steel tube forty or sixty feet long, and
weighing five or six tons, which must be practically free from flexure
and vibration and under intricate and accurate control, becomes
distinctly an engineering problem. To this problem both Mr. Warner
and Mr. Swasey brought engineering skill and experience of the
highest order.
When the trustees of the Lick Observatory called in 1886 for
designs for the great 36-inch telescope, Warner & Swasey submitted
one which provided for much heavier mountings than had ever been
used before, and heavier construction throughout. They were
awarded the contract and the instrument was built and installed
under Mr. Swasey’s personal supervision. It is located on the very
top of Mount Hamilton in California, 4200 feet above sea-level; and
to give room for the observatory 42,000 tons of rock had to be
removed. The great instrument, weighing with its mountings more
than forty tons, “was transported in sections, over a newly made
mountain road, sometimes in a driving snowstorm, with the wind
blowing from sixty to eighty miles an hour.”[217]
[217] Cassier’s Magazine, March, 1897, p. 403.

As is well known, the instrument was a brilliant success. The

Warner & Swasey Company has since designed and built the
mountings for the United States Naval Observatory telescope, the
40-inch Yerkes telescope, the 72-inch reflecting telescope for the
Canadian Government, and the 60-inch reflecting telescope for the
National Observatory at Cordoba, Argentina, the largest in use in the
southern hemisphere. In addition to this large work, the firm has built
meridian circles, transits and other instruments for astronomical
work, range finders for the United States Government, and
introduced the prismatic binocular into this country.
In connection with this astronomical work Mr. Swasey designed
and built a dividing engine capable of dividing circles of 40 inches in
diameter with an error of less than one second of arc. A second of
arc subtends about one-third of an inch at the distance of one mile.
Although the graduations on the inlaid silver band of this machine
are so fine that they can scarcely be seen with the naked eye, the
width of each line is twelve times the maximum error in the automatic
graduations which the machine produces.
Although their reputation as telescope builders is international,
Warner & Swasey are, and always have been, primarily tool builders.
They were not the first to build tools in the Middle West, but they
were the first to turn out work comparable in quality with that of the
best shops in the East.
The Warner & Swasey shop has had the advantage of other good
mechanics besides its proprietors. Walter Allen, an expert tool
designer, did his entire work with them, rising from apprentice to
works manager. Frank Kempsmith, originally a Brown & Sharpe
man, was at one time their superintendent. Lucas, of the Lucas
Machine Tool Company, was a foreman. George Bardons, who
served his apprenticeship with Pratt & Whitney, went west with
Warner and Swasey when they started in business and was their
superintendent; and John Oliver, a graduate of Worcester
Polytechnic, was their chief draftsman. The last two left Warner &
Swasey in 1891 and established the firm of Bardons & Oliver for
building lathes.
Another old Pratt & Whitney workman is A. W. Foote of the Foote-
Burt Company, builders of drilling machines. Unlike the others,
however, Foote did not work for Warner & Swasey.
The first multi-spindle automatic screw machines were
manufactured in Cleveland. The Cleveland automatic was developed
in the plant of the White Sewing Machine Company for their own
work, and its success led to the establishment of a separate
company for its manufacture. The Acme automatic was invented by
Reinholdt Hakewessel and E. C. Henn in Hartford. Mr. Hakewessel
was a Pratt & Whitney man and Mr. Henn a New Britain boy, who
had worked first in Lorain and Cincinnati and then for twelve years in
Hartford with Pratt & Cady, the valve manufactures. In 1895 Henn
and Hakewessel began manufacturing bicycle parts in a little
Hartford attic, developing for this work a five-spindle automatic.
Seven years later the business was moved to Cleveland, where it
became the National-Acme Manufacturing Company, organized by
E. C. and A. W. Henn and W. D. B. Alexander, who came from the
Union Steel Screw Works. Their business of manufacturing
automatic screw machinery and screw machine products has grown
rapidly and is now one of the largest industries in Cleveland.
The White Sewing Machine Company and the Union Steel Screw
Works were among the first in Cleveland to use accurate methods
and to produce interchangeable work. It was at the Union Steel
Screw Works that James Hartness, of the Jones & Lamson Machine
Company, got his first training in accurate work. Their shop practice
was good and was due to Jason A. Bidwell, who came from the
American Tool Company of Providence.
The Standard Tool Company is an offspring of Bingham &
Company, Cleveland, and of the Morse Twist Drill Company of New
Bedford, Mass. From the Standard Tool Company has come the
Whitman-Barnes Company of Akron, and from that the Michigan
Twist Drill and Machine Company.
Newton & Cox was established in 1876, and built planers and
milling machines. Mr. Newton sold his share in the business to F. F.
Prentiss in 1880, went to Philadelphia, and started the Newton
Machine Tool Works. Cox & Prentiss later became the Cleveland
Twist Drill Company. They drifted into the drill business through not
being able to buy such drills as they required. They began making
drills first for themselves, then for their friends, and gradually took up
their manufacture, giving up the business in machine tools.
Cincinnati is said to have upwards of 15,000 men engaged in the
tool building industry, and to be the largest tool building center in the
world. There are approximately forty firms there engaged in this
work, many of them large and widely known.
This development, which has taken place within the past thirty-five
years, may possibly have sprung indirectly from the old river traffic.
Seventy years ago this traffic was large, and Cincinnati did the
greater part of the engine and boat building and repair work. When
the river trade vanished, the mechanics engaged in this work were
compelled to turn their attention to something else, and there may be
some significance in the coincidence of the rise of tool building with
the decline of the older industry.
There had been more or less manufacturing in Cincinnati for many
years, but little of it could be described as tool building. Miles
Greenwood established the Eagle Iron Works in 1832 on the site
now occupied by the Ohio Mechanics Institute. It comprised a
general machine shop, an iron foundry, brass foundries, and a
hardware factory which rivaled those of New England, employing in
all over 500 men. The hardware factory was important enough to
attract the special attention of the English commissioners who visited
this country in 1853.
In the fifties and early sixties, Niles & Company built steamboat
and stationary engines, locomotives and sugar machinery, and
employed from 200 to 300 men. This company was the forerunner of
the present Niles Tool Works in Hamilton. Lane & Bodley were
building woodworking machinery about the same time, and J. A. Fay
& Company, another firm building woodworking machinery, which
started in Keene, N. H., began work in Cincinnati in the early sixties.
The first builder of metal-working tools in Cincinnati was John
Steptoe; in fact, he is said to have been for many years the only tool
builder west of the Alleghenies. Steptoe came to this country from
Oldham, England, some time in the forties. It is said that he was a
foundling and that his name came from his having been left on a
doorstep. He was married before he came to Cincinnati, and had
served an apprenticeship of seven years, although he was so young
in appearance that no one would believe it. After working some time
for Greenwood, he started in business for himself, making a foot
power mortising machine and later a line of woodworking tools. The
first metal-working tool which he built was a copy of the Putnam
lathe. With Thomas McFarlan, another Englishman, he formed the
firm of Steptoe & McFarlan, and his shop, called the Western
Machine Works, employed by 1870 about 300 men. Their old
payrolls contain the names of William E. Gang of the William E.