His eyes were fixed on
Florian's beautiful mouth, even as he wondered what he would taste like. Like
the drink they'd shared? Or something more?
But before he could
find out, the lights of the speakeasy began to unaccountably flash, blinking
off and on in rapid succession. He heard a voice behind them cry out, "Cheese
it, the cops!"
Then bedlam ensued.
Blurb: Christmas is coming to Prohibition era Chicago, and two young immigrants
are about to have their world rocked. When Florian and Nick meet by
chance in a speakeasy in Romeoville, their worlds will never be the same.
Is it Chance, or has Destiny brought them together?
Excerpt: Florian
Donati could charm any woman with a single glance. One flutter of his fabulous
baby blues was enough to induce cardiac arrest among the strongest females. One
warm glance could halt all traffic within a thirty yard radius, never mind that
disarming smile. His lips alone could make a nun regret her vows of chastity.
Black wavy hair, free from artificial intervention, and a dimpled chin
completed the perfection that was the twenty-year old Florian.
Florian
remained blissfully unaware of his charms, for he was possessed of an almost
child-like innocence, set within the body of a god. He was graced with a sweet
and generous disposition, and the patience of a saint. As well as an undying
love for the greatest singer who'd ever lived — the late Enrico Caruso.
When
Caruso died, in August of 1921, the sixteen-year-old Florian had been
devastated. He'd wanted to attend the funeral, in order to pay his respects.
But that was logistically impossible, as services had been held in Naples, in
the old country, home to his family for many generations. So Florian had to
content himself with holding a private memorial service at the dry cleaners
which his family owned and where he worked, in Cicero, Illinois. The only other
person in attendance also worked there — his co-worker and friend, Loria.
The
Donati family were long-time friends of Johnny Torrio — and in Cicero, that
meant a great deal. The crime lord had been instrumental in their being in the
dry cleaning business. He had brought them from New York with him where he had
given them the funds for their first store —Donati's Dry Cleaning Emporium, on
South Whicker— and they were very grateful to him. He helped them to buy the
store in Cicero, and recommended the establishment to all of his colleagues.
When circumstances forced Torrio into taking early retirement in 1925 (after
nearly being killed by a would-be assassin, he decided that Florida possessed a
certain charm), his business interests became the domain of his associate, the
amiable and well-dressed Alphonse Capone. And just as Capone inherited Torrio's
territory, so did the Donatis inherit Capone's dry cleaning.
The
silver bell attached to the shop door tinkled whenever it was opened, signaling
the advent of a customer. During the summer, the front door, as well as the
back, remained open, mostly due to the heat from the equipment in the back room
where the actual cleaning and pressing was done. This heat would build up until
it virtually flooded every nook and cranny of the emporium with an intense
warmth that was almost infernal. But during the winter, the store provided a
welcome respite from the fierce Midwestern cold without.
Florian
did not work the equipment, although he'd been around it all of his life. That
was Loria's job. She also waited on the customers who came into the store, took
their clothes and tagged them, checking them carefully for rips and tears,
loose buttons that might otherwise meet an untimely end if not taken care of,
and she supervised the dry cleaning that was actually going on in the back. She
retrieved the clean clothes for returning customers, and she took their money.
Florian's job was to keep the floor swept and the windows clean, keep fresh
flowers upon the counter, and to help Loria with heavy lifting should she
require his assistance. But his primary duty was to radiate sunshine, to make
the customers feel at home — and to sing. Although he was no Caruso, and he had
no desire to follow in his idol's illustrious footsteps, he had a sweet
untrained voice, somewhere in the baritone range, and he was the delight of
everyone that stepped foot inside Donati's.
Loria
had been bugging him all morning about his singing. Not that she disliked it,
far from it. She loved to hear her friend sing, she would listen to him
twenty-four hours a day if she could. No, it was nothing against his ability to
carry a tune; it was his choice of material. For here it was, almost Christmas,
and he refused to sing any Christmas carols, preferring instead to favor her
either with selections from his favorite operas, or with the Italian melodies
he had grown up with.
"Uccello,"
she protested, leaning against the counter, watching him sweep the already
immaculate floor. He was such a perfectionist. Uccello was the nickname he had
acquired as a young child, when first he began to sing. Uccello canterino
bello. Pretty songbird. "Uccello, just a little something for Christmas,
for me?" The thirty-something blonde reached out as he came within reach
and punched his shoulder lightly, in her typical Loria manner.
Florian
was an accommodating guy, but he also had a bit of a mischievous streak in him.
In fact, he was a very playful fellow. Pausing in his work, he wound his arms
about the broom, as if it were a lover, and began to serenade her in his native
tongue.
"Sul
mare luccica, l'astro d'argento," he crooned, his beautiful blue eyes so
expressive that Loria seemed about to cry. He sang to her of the sea, and the
wind, and a silver star. By the time he got to the chorus, his heartfelt
"Santa Lucia" did indeed bring tears to her eyes. She wiped at them
unabashedly with the corner of her work apron. This was the nature of their
relationship — nothing romantic, simple friendship. At times, Loria was like a
second mother to Florian, having known him since he was just a boy.
The
shop bell tinkled, but Florian continued to sing. He was used to an audience,
and most of the customers were used to his singing, never interrupting his
arias for something so crass as business. They invariably preferred that he
finish before they proceeded. This customer was no exception.
Only
when the last note was reverberating through the cozy shop, did he turn to find
himself the object of admiration of a swarthy, elegantly dressed man. This man
was flanked by two others in dark suits, obviously subordinates. Their
professional glance never stopped moving about the shop, as if they were
anticipating an ambush. The jagged scar, which cut diagonally across the first
man's cheek, made his identity a surety.
Link: https://silverpublishing.info/product_book_info/glbt-historical-c-53_55/a-special-christmas-p-138
Now go see what else is going on for Six Sentence Sunday!
Until next time, take care!
♥ Julie
No comments:
Post a Comment