Showing posts with label m/m historical fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label m/m historical fiction. Show all posts

Monday, September 22, 2014

The Body on the Beach Review

The Body on the Beach    

Author: L.J. LaBarthe
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
American release date: March 12, 2013
Format/Genre/Length: E-book/M/M Historical/Mystery/83 pages
Overall Personal Rating: ★★★★

In early twentieth century Australia, same-sex relationships are not acceptable, and must remain hidden. William ‘Billy’ Liang is a respectable Adelaide businessman, the head of his family, and the elected spokesman for the Chinese community in Adelaide. He lives with his wife, Hui Zhong, and his lover, Tom Williams. Luckily for Billy, Hui Zhong is accepting of Billy’s relationship with Tom. To the outside world, Tom is Billy’s lawyer and friend, but within the Liang household, he is much more.

When the body of a man washes up on Brighton Beach, a Chinese symbol carved into his torso, Billy and Tom are asked to look into the matter. This has the potential of damaging relations between the Chinese and the Australians, which could spell trouble for the whole community. Billy and Tom take on the challenge of solving the murder and keeping things on an even keel.

This is my first time reading this author, but it won’t be the last. The Body on the Beach, while a mystery, is primarily an historical story—a slice of life look at the social structure in early 1900s Australia, and how two men who love each other are forced to live in order to maintain the illusion in front of society that they are not a couple. The murder is almost secondary besides watching these men interact under the watchful eye of judgmental people.

I loved the loving relationship they have with Billy’s wife, who makes their being together possible by her acceptance of them within the framework of their marriage. More importantly, she considers them her family and loves them both.

Great research has obviously been done on the people and the times and it shows. It was like stepping back in time. I feel sorry for Billy and Tom, that they are forced to hide their love, and will always have to. But I was glad they found a way to be together, which is more than a lot of gay men got to do back then.

If you like history, try this one. The mystery is an added bonus. Mostly, this is a story about the endurance of love.


Sunday, October 21, 2012

Six Sentence Sunday #3

Last week, I gave you something from my Halloween tale, Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire. This week, I'm going with more of a Christmas theme. It's hard to believe it's only two months away!  The name of my story is A Special Christmas, and it takes place in Prohibition era Illinois, in the Chicago area. Florian is Italian by birth. He works in his family's dry cleaning business, and he has met Al Capone. Nick is a Greek immigrant who lives with his aunt and uncle and cousin, and works with his cousin in his uncle's pharmacy. Chance brings them both to the same speakeasy in Romeoville on Christmas Eve.


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


Monday, October 1, 2012

Purly Gates Review


Purly Gates  
Author: Vastine Bondurant
Publisher: LIG Publishing
American release date: April 24, 2012
Format/Genre/Length: Ebook/M/M Romance/52 pages
Publisher/Industry Age Rating: Mature/18+
Overall Personal Rating: ★★★★★


"Some people come into our lives, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never the same." Unknown

It isn’t love at first sight, so what the hell is it?

Purlman ‘Purly’ Gates desires what he cannot have and shouldn’t want. So he does nothing about it, other than watch from a distance as the object of his desire passes by on his daily perambulation along the beach, with his two canine companions. But Purly watches him with a white hot intensity that threatens to engulf him, waiting for a sign from the other man, something that says he’s aware of Purly too. And then it comes…


Synopsis:

Lucky has noticed Purly; in fact, he’s very much aware of him and very much in lust.

Heat flushed to Lucky’s cheeks at the image playing in his mind. The stubborn
fantasy that couldn’t be expelled in which the mysterious man—in the confines of the
nondescript little cottage, moonlight fingering through the slats in the blinds—stripped
him and bound him hand and foot to a bed. Fondled his naked body, teased every inch of flesh with his dark hands until Lucky climaxed beneath the unrelenting, piercing stare of the obsidian eyes.


But when the other man boldly makes the first move, Lucky runs, and it’s only because Fate refuses to be foiled that they end up striking up an acquaintanceship.

Purly can’t help but think this won’t end well, but he’s drawn to Lucky, like a moth to a flame. He’s never wanted to be with a man like this; although he’s felt such attractions before, he’s never been moved to act on them.

He’d always kept company with dames—wining, dining and fucking them—and
therefore had no explanation for the lure of men’s bodies or the very private quickening
in his gut at how beautiful some of them were. But one thing he did know. The annoying
preoccupation did not mean he was queer, for he’d never considered acting on the draw
of a masculine physique.

Until now…


The year is 1930, and in the eyes of the society in which these men live, such relationships are not allowed, they’re unthinkable, unconscionable—taboo. Besides, Purly has secrets that he can’t explain, secrets that prevent him doing that which he longs to do. All he knows is that he needs to drive this young man away, for his own sake. For both their sakes.

How long will his resolution last when something insists on drawing them together?

Commentary:

Reading Purly Gates is like watching a vintage film with most excellent cinematography. Each scene is perfectly framed, the words flowing across the page like exquisite brush strokes. Told from the perspective of each of the protagonists, it is a story of deep desires kindled in a chance meeting, an exchange of glances. The improbable meets the impossible and becomes the must happen.

Ms. Bondurant’s story overflows with sexual tension as these two men go through the steps in their elaborate courtship dance. You will find yourself holding your breath, waiting for them to finally combust, nursing a sweet ache as you anticipate and hope for the consummation of their desires.

It’s heartbreaking to realize that two people who simply wish for the freedom to love are denied that opportunity because of the times in which they live. Even more so to realize that even now, society hasn’t reached the point of enlightenment regarding love, although it’s come a long way since the more puritanical 1930’s.

Purly Gates is an erotic story without being erotica. To me, erotica is when the sex overrides the plot, when the plot is but an afterthought, and there’s the thinnest of lines between erotica and unabashed porn. Erotic romance, on the other hand, is romance that is spiced with sexiness, enough to titillate and whet the appetite.

The electricity between Purly and Lucky crackles from the pages. She conveys their longing, their feelings in a way that I can only define as classy. She doesn’t resort to overt sex, when subtle sexuality says so much more. Which isn’t to say that the story isn’t sexy, far from it. It’s quite sexy.

Her characters are well-drawn and very memorable, and the ending will take your breath away and leave you speechless.

At only 52 pages, it’s a short story. But as the adage says, it’s not the size that counts, it’s what you do with it. Vastine Bondurant does it well. A must read for lovers of romance who like t sexy heroes living in bygone days. Add this one to your Kindle for sure.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Wednesday Briefs: Trapped in Time

It's Wednesday, so it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers!  This week, the prompt was: "Suffer the little..." or the alternate prompts:  Use: three, hairy, billiard ball or "When can I see you again?" or "He/she said what?" or Use: scales, tradition, engine or use: dapper, dandelion, direct or "If I were you, I'd..."

Last week, in Trapped in Time, Vittorio and Doll named their new son, and they discovered that they were near the end of their journey. Today, they push on to reach the mysterious Professor... Enjoy! Then don't forget to visit all the Wednesday Briefers whose links follow my tales!



Trapped in Time #21



We are far too nervous and excited for sleep, so we gather around the communal fire and discuss the subject of mutual interest to us all—the mysterious Professor. It is amazing to us that there is another human here in this prehistoric place. We’d assumed we were the only ones, as our arrival predates that of man by many years. So who is this man and how did he come to be here?

Charlie is unable to provide us with any answers. “I do not know,” he confesses, somewhat apologetically. “I’ve never actually spoken to him as I speak with you.” That’s only natural, as he has only met the Professor while he was a monkey, a condition that Myron has changed.

“It’s all right,” Myron reassures him with tender kisses and gentle caresses. They’ve become very close since Charlie’s transformation. I’m concerned at what might ensue should the spell that binds Charlie as he is should fail. For both of them.

“How old is he?” Vittorio asks. Good idea. Perhaps we can piece together clues from what Charlie can tell us.  “Is he our age? Older than we are? Younger?” Of course, this assumes that Charlie has been observant of these types of things, a rather broad assumption to make.

Charlie puckers his brow in thought. “Older. Definitely older.”

“Are there any other people like him or is he alone?” I ask.

“Only him. He is the only one.”

“Does he live in a cave?” Myron contributes.  It has become almost a game to see who can ask the right question to elicit the most informative response.

Charlie shakes his head. “No, the Professor built something from the trees. He is very clever, he is. He says he is also lucky that he had some of his things with him.”

“What kind of things?” I eagerly ask.

“I do not know,” Charlie says again.

By the time we are ready to retire for the night, we’ve learned little.

“We’ll get all of our answers soon,” Vittorio assures me.

At that moment, Myron and Charlie walk by us, hand in hand. Charlie says something, but I cannot understand his words. He looks over his shoulder at Myron, then disappears behind some rocks a short distance from our camp.

I look at Myron quizzically.  “He said what?” I swear Myron is blushing, but in the darkness it’s hard to tell.
“He said to meet him over there…” He waves a hand toward the rocks.

“But why…” I begin, only to have Vittorio squeeze my hand.

“Go on, Myron,” he says softly. “Mary and Kitty are both asleep. Everything is well.”

Myron doesn’t look at us; he mumbles a quick thank you and follows in the same direction that Charlie took.
It’s only when Vittorio draws me to him and our lips meet that I realize what is going on, and that we too need time apart from them, time for ourselves.

We quickly take advantage of this unexpected solitude to remove all of our clothes and press our naked bodies close together: stroking, kissing, touching, loving. We make love until we are spent, and then we cuddle by the fire and dream together.

Morning comes. Charlie and Myron have returned, and Charlie brings some fruit he has found. It looks like a banana, but fatter and sweeter. I slice them and cook them and they are very delicious. We clean up our camp and set off.  It is heartening to know we are close to our goal, and to the only other human being in this entire world. We can only pray that he has some answers to our questions. Undoubtedly he has an interesting story to tell of how he came to be here, and we can tell our tale to him, if he is interested in listening.

From what little Charlie has told us, it sounds as though this Professor is very self-sufficient. Perhaps, if we are lucky, he has some knowledge of our situation and how to reverse it.  Although I do not expect this to be the case. Unless he just happens to know magic, like Myron.

It’s a beautiful day. Kitty is in a playful mood. He’s tired of being carried, so we let him walk, even if it slows us down a little. Mary is just as watchful of him as we are, and is quick to put him back on the right path if he seems about to stray.

For lunch, we content ourselves with fruit, not wishing to take the time for a fire or to hunt for small game.  Our path leads us downward into a shady valley where we find a small stream. We jump into the water fully clothed. The sun will dry us again, and it is the best we can do at the moment regarding our laundry situation, but soon, I vow, we shall do better.

Afterward, we climb up the gentle slope until we reach the top.

“Look!” Charlie points. There ahead of us, to our amazement, we see what appear to be two wooden huts huddled close to some very large rocks, as well as a small pond.  Smoke curls up from one of the huts; a most welcome sight.

We cannot help but hasten our steps, eager to meet this mystery man if for no other reason than he is one of us, even if he is a stranger. Vittorio gathers Kitty, and holds him, despite his protests—good thing he has not yet learned to use his claws—while Mary sits on the seat of the penny farthing.

Suddenly a figure emerges from one of the huts, sees our group and stops, no doubt amazed by our sudden appearance.  As we draw nearer, he begins to wave.

Suddenly, I stop and I stare, and my mouth falls open in amazement.

“Doll?” Vittorio asks in concern.

“Doll?” the man also asks.

I stare at him in disbelief. “Vati?”

And then I faint.

to be continued


Don't forget to check out the other Wednesday Briefers:



Nephylim
  
   m/m
Lily Sawyer      m/m 
Michael Mandrake     m/m
Cia Nordwell  m/m
MA Church     m/m

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Wednesday Briefs: Trapped in Time #20

Happy Wednesday one and all and welcome to more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We have a new Briefer this week, please put your hands together and welcome Cia Nordwell! We're excited to have her join us. This week, the prompt was: "You are the sunshine of my..." and the alternate prompts were: Use: butts, pudding, cat or "I'd like to make you an offer..." or use something with stripes in  your story or use: whole new world or "I always thought you look like..."

Last week, as you'll recall, in Trapped in Time, they came across a dying mother and an orphaned sabre-tooth tiger. See what has become of them! And don't forget to visit the other Briefers, whose links follow my tale. Enjoy!

Trapped in Time #20



Although numerous suggestions are made as to what to name the new member of our little group, Vittorio and I find ourselves calling him Kitty—having ascertained his gender in the usual way—and Kitty he stays. I am nervous at first, but Vittorio remains his usual unflappable self. It’s obvious to me that he was born to be a father, he is such a natural at it, and my heart swells with pride when I look at the two of them together. I love him more and more with each passing day. He never ceases to amaze me.

Our first concern is what shall we feed our new son? Mother’s milk is not exactly flowing from the ground, if you know what I mean, and none of us are adequately equipped to supply the necessary nutrient for his diet. We give him some water from what we have, but it is obvious that he wishes for more, and for that I cannot blame him.
Our prayers are answered—in more ways than one—in an unexpected way.

We have decided to stay in this cave for a day or two, until we make sure that Kitty is strong enough to travel. Vittorio and I do not wish to take any chances, he is so young and has been through a most traumatic experience.

 And then my lover has a most brilliant idea! He takes some of the rocks that lie about the cave and beats them, one against the other, until he discovers which is strongest, and hones it as sharp as he can. Using that, he takes some of the small sticks that litter the ground, remnants of snapped branches that have fallen from the trees, and fashions a few stakes. Charlie and Mary help us, collecting some branches. From them, we remove the heaviest of the leaves and weave them together to form a rope of sorts. We add the rope to the stakes, and thus we have a snare! Vittorio sets out the snare, and we go about our business until he says it is time to check it, to see if we have caught anything. Shortly after that we find ourselves with a small animal that somewhat resembles a rabbit, but with shorter ears and longer tail, and my mouth waters at the idea of hasenpfeffer, but that must wait until we have a pot in which to cook such a rabbit stew. For now I am content to roast it on the spit that Vittorio makes for me, and such a feast we have!

As it cooks, we take the juices from the meat, add it to some water, forming a broth, and feed that to Kitty, anxiously watching his reaction. He loves it!

“Doll, his teeth seem pretty sharp,” Daddy Vittorio says, running a careful finger along the edge of one. Kitty doesn’t mind. He mews at him and tries to nip his finger, playfully. “I wonder if his mama was already weaning him?”

So we carefully offer him small pieces of meat, watching to make sure he can handle them, and he devours them as fast as we can feed them to him. Then he falls asleep in Vittorio’s lap, as we all sit about the fire and admire our beautiful new baby, and make plans to resume our journey on the morrow.

Morning comes and we set off once more. Myron generously offers to push our penny farthing for us, as we now have our hands rather full with our baby. Vittorio and I take turns carrying Kitty when he sleeps, which he often does. Sometimes Myron allows Mary to be a passenger; she climbs upon the bike and sits on the seat, enjoying the view. Sometimes she does gymnastics, such as hand stands and such, swinging herself from the handle bars. We cannot help but laugh at such a sight.

The weather is beautiful. Not too warm, not too cold. Just right.  Even when it rains, the water is warm and feels nice, as we take shelter under a large tree. When we stop walking for the day, we have no cave to sleep in, but we make ourselves comfortable near the base of a large boulder, and Vittorio sets his snares again. This time he catches a fat bird that reminds me of a quail. Together we clean it and remove all the feathers—Mary and Kitty and even Charlie are more than happy to eat the bird’s insides, although I say I would rather not. I season it as well as I can with herbs, and then I stuff it with vegetables and roast it. Kitty ignores the vegetables, but he happily devours the tender flesh. After dinner, we all sit around the campfire, watching Kitty gambol and cavort. He alternates between chasing his tail and chasing after our fingers and toes. Then He climbs into Myron’s lap, and at first Myron seems apprehensive, but we smile and tell him it’s all right, and Kitty falls asleep in his arms.

Vittorio and I stretch out together, and gaze up into the sky. So many stars. So very beautiful. I lay my head upon his chest and turn my eyes to him, as I simply drink in his beauty.

“Are you happy, Doll?” he asks.

“Very,” I reply.

Suddenly he looks away from me and for a moment I am disturbed as he rises to a sitting position, a frown creasing his handsome features.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” He pulls me up, placing an arm about my shoulder as he points to something on the far horizon. I squint into the distance. Is that smoke that I see?

We beckon to Myron and Charlie, and we all look into the darkness. Straining to see the faintest trace of smoke there.

Charlie dispels the mystery.

“That’s from the Professor,” he announces.

Our journey is almost at an end!

to be continued

Don't forget to visit the other Wednesday Briefers and see what they're up to!


Nephylim
  
   m/m
Michael Mandrake     m/m
Cia Nordwell   m/m     virgin alert!
MA Church     m/m 
Elyzabeth VaLey      m/f
Tali      m/f


 Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie




Friday, August 31, 2012

Backlist Bloghop - we need a little Christmas!

We need a little Christmas, right this very minute, candles in the window, carols at the spinet....

Well, that may be from Mame, but hey, it's still true! Sometimes you need a little Christmas, even in the middle of summer. So how fortuitous that Michael Mandrake, aka my friend Sharita, is having a backlist bloghop! For my part, I'm offering a copy of A Special Christmas. Let me tell you a little bit about it...


On January 16, 1920, over the veto of President Woodrow Wilson, an exercise in futility became law when the 18th Amendment, commonly known as the Volstead Act, took effect in the United States. It prohibited the sale and manufacture of intoxicating alcoholic beverages. The Webb-Kellogg Act, which came later, prevented its transportation. Interestingly, the actual use of alcohol was not prevented. Referred to by some as the Noble Experiment, this era is commonly known simply as Prohibition.
Immediately after Prohibition began, the criminal element saw a way of making a great deal of money from the new law by supplying a demand which had not disappeared simply because it was now illegal. The country's major gangsters, such as Tom Dennison in Omaha and Al Capone in Chicago, not only grew wealthy from bootlegging, but gained the admiration of many people, both locally and nationally, acquiring the status of heroes.
Ordinary citizens wanting to drink, despite the prohibition of said drinking, went to secret establishments known as speakeasies; they were also called blind pigs. Those in higher socio-economic circles held cocktail parties. By 1926, more and more people were sympathetic to the bootleggers and their cause — the population wanted their liquor back.
In 1926, interesting things were happening in the world — Gertrude Ederle became the first woman to swim the English Channel; Hirohito was crowned Emperor of Japan; Benito Mussolini gained control of Italy; US Route 66 was created, which ran from Chicago to Los Angeles; and Henry Ford announced the forty-hour work week.
Also, as the year drew to a close, and Christmas approached, two young men who lived near Chicago —Florian Donati and Nick Giannakopoulos— were about to meet, and their lives would never be the same again.




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.

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♥ Julie