CHICAGO, Ill., Sept. 14, 1892—Alessandra Di Stasio dodged three well-dressed gentlemen, two bickering ladies, and one startled cat before she ducked into the first alley that opened to her right. Around debris, over refuse, and under metal fire escapes …

Digging in a trash bin should not cause cops to chase her.

Whistles and shouts followed, but Ali’s short stature allowed her to slip between narrow alleyways and weave through the crowded streets of her city until she dashed up the steps of St. Mark’s.

She hurried down the aisle under the narrowed gaze of Padre Leo, who stood before the altar readying for the evening mass. His deep Italian voice flowed over her like the warmth of a cozy fire. “Did you find proof, my child?”

Ali dropped to a knee and made the sign of the cross. “I ran out of time.” Her jaw clenched as her ears noted the nearing of the cops. If only they’d do their jobs instead of chasing the likes of her.

“Go on with you.” Padre Leo nodded his head toward his alcove, which had a rear exit. “Tell Suor Filomena I’ll arrive early to visit Maria.”

Ali jerked her chin in comprehension and scrambled to her feet. Maria was the most recent addition to the girls’ orphanage behind St. Mark’s. She was a child no more than seven with skin as darkly olive as Ali’s, which only made the dark purple bruising she sported clash against her little face.

Oh yes. Ali would find the shopkeeper who did that to her and expose his sins in black and white … as long as she had proof to present to her contact at the Chicago Tribune.

Ali dashed across the courtyard, through the kitchen door of the orphanage, then dodged the cook’s rolling pin as she skidded toward the stairs.

“Rallentare!” Suor Filomena called after Ali, but Ali hadn’t listened to her command to slow down since the day she arrived at the orphanage covered in soot from the Fire almost twenty-one years ago. One never knew when their time on this earth would be over, and Ali had too much to accomplish to waste even a moment.

She owed Papà that much.