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" 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘?" Caterina stared at Tommy incredulously. "That's the worst bloody name you could've given it. How about, The Reckoning Day?"
"December the third, mark it down on your calendar — that's the day we enter the big shot world."
"Don't know if you heard Shelby, I'm already a big shot." She hid her playful smirk behind a cloud of smoke.
He stared at her from across the table, head cocked to one side as if trying to understand how he found himself in this situation; there was a beautiful woman by his side, a full glass of fine whiskey on the table in front of him, and the smell of freshly lit cigarettes lulled him in a soft daydream.
If he closed his eyes for a moment, he could turn the wheel of time back to when he was truly happy, content with the life he lived.
"Who else knows about it?" Caterina's question snapped him out of his musing.
"Just you, me and Grace. I've made her my secretary, now that the work is expanding."
Expansion, a prolific word he used so often these days. Opening his eyes, he glanced over the table. Caterina swayed gently to the music coming from the other side of the pub, dainty lashes fanning her rosy cheeks.
He smiled, unintentionally, mirroring her own.
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
"It's gone."
Caterina blinked, lowered herself into the chair behind her and then looked at Mazza again. "Everything?"
"To the last barrel." The enormous man scrunched up his face in distaste, letting out another string of strong Italian curses, making her wince. "I told you Caterina you had no need to meddle with pezzonovanti such as Billy Kimber!"
Nerves churned her gut and for a brief moment she contemplated disappearing into thin air instead of facing the consequences of her own decisions.
"Impossible, no one knew about Liverpool save us in this very room. Damn it, and now of all days..."
What little string held up the plan drawn out for December 3rd seemed to snap in the worst possible time, and it seemed to get worse as the time progressed.
It was well past nine o'clock and the company office was slowly filling up with men — good men, steeled by war and work, most of them Italian born before they sought their fortune in England.
She observed them while they took their seats around the room, animatedly recounting last week's football game, or a boxing match. They leaned on the doors, smoking and laughing and cursing, their pockets full of ammunition, guns slung over their shoulders and pistols resting by their ribs.
