Being The Mafia Lords Target

Amari's POV

Martinis. Italian beef. Then Manhattans.

I'm trying to remember something that has to do with why I'm here, but it all seems fuzzy. Like the jazz tune playing on the stereo. This is supposed to be a stop for jazz fans, like people really into that genre of blessed sounds, but here we are.

A trio. Poking our noses.

All I know is, that Marco and Isabella suggested someplace called The Green Mill on the North side of Chicago for some drinks. Why? No goddamn idea.

I look around the place and all I see are patrons dressed in jeans t-shirts and hats; a couple are dressed in shorts and sandals, their upper half bare.

"Some fashion here," I say.

Marco flashes a smile at me. He's been giving Isabella a lot of those since we sat down at this table. "Don't be sarcastic. The fashion is much more relaxed and less formal than it was in the past. It's all about being comfortable. Goditi la musica."

"You don't say. What did they wear in the past?"

Marco leans towards me like what he's about to say doesn't demand another listening ear. "Back in the nineteen twenties and nineteen thirteens, jazz fans would often dress in suits and ties, or with fur coats and jewelry. For men, hats were a must, and fedoras were particularly popular. For women, hats and gloves were important accessories. And of course, high heels and stockings were essential."

"Sounds like a cult to me," I comment. "What the hell is playing on the stereo anyway?"

Marco just smiles. Isabella laughs. I nurse my Manhattan.

A cool breeze drifts in through the open windows of the bar, bringing with it the sounds of the city outside. The hustle and bustle of the streets out there seems far away from the cozy interior of the bar, where everything seems soft and slow.

I try to relax my nerves, but it is so hard to shake the feeling of anticipation that has been plaguing me all day like a dog at a bone. I can't seem to put my finger on it, but something feels off. Like, there's something about to happen that's gonna change my life forever.

Marco and Isabella share a laugh. I get sick of it.

I sip my Manhattan, rise from my chair, and walk to the bar where I sit on a stool and watch the clock tick its way around.

"You okay, signora?" the bartender asks.

I sigh. Tell him that I probably need a better company in Italian. He shrugs, cleans off a tumbler, and walks off.

I sit here for a few minutes, then as if summoned by my words, someone comes and sits down next to me. I don't need to turn. I can tell it's a man.

As he sits down, I catch a whiff of his cologne. It is light and fresh, but also somehow earthy. I cannot help but take a deep breath, trying to place the scent. Is it sandalwood? Maybe sage?

The bartender comes over.

"Manhattan cocktail."

His voice is smooth and deep, like rich, dark chocolate. I don't even know why this comes to mind.

Bartender nods. "Same as the lady."

I notice him turn to me. "Nice to meet an indulger."

I feel my heart skip a beat. I don't know what it is about this man, but something about him feels... magnetic.

"I'm Antonio," he says, extending his hand.

I turn to him and I take his hand tentatively, like a peace offering. And experience a spark of electricity. It is like nothing I have ever felt before.

"Amari," I say, though my voice comes out in a whisper.

Antonio raises an eyebrow. "Amari. Lovely name. A pleasure to meet you." He releases my hand just as the bartender brings him the order. Antonio immediately takes a sip of his drink, like he's been craving for it.

"Said that before," I remind him, and scoff. "And pleasure? Not when it means bitterness."

"But does it matter?"

I try to collect myself, but I can't help but feel a little breathless. I say something about needing better company, and one comes like a wish granted by a djinn.

"Looks like you needed that," I say, finally finding my voice. "Is that what brought you here?"