Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER TEN

Name: Dean Martin

Year: 1944

Age: 27

"Waaaayy Maaaariee . . . way marie . . . Quanto sonno, agiu perso per te!" I croon, watching in amusement as all the dames in the room eye my fingers running lightly over the base of the microphone.

"What are you, F-4 or somethin'?" Someone from a ringside table bellows, and although I can't exactly make out his whole face, I can see the drunken red haze in his eyes before I glance away in disdain. Although most of the audience drops their gaze and falls into an uncomfortable silence, a few men who share the fat-head's sentiments laugh out-loud, protected by the spotlight nearly blinding me.

"Chooch." I mutter under my breath, upper lip curling in scorn. I know he couldn't have understood what I said, but I catch sight of the hand that slips into his pocket in response. Without hesitation, I push the microphone out of the way and dive right on top of the son of a bitch. We crash onto the floor together, the pounding of blood in my ears drowning out the startled cries from the crowd. As soon as we hit the floor I knock the guy's wrist into the ground so the switchblade flies out of his hand and lands a few feet away.

I grip his pomaded hair and slam his face into the ground so I can hear the snap of his nose with a crack. He goes limp, but things aren't over yet as hands begin seizing my jacket and all I can smell is breath that could get me drunk all by itself. Struggling to my feet, I force myself through the crowd by swinging blindly and hoping I don't hit a dame.

Finally I'm hit by a gust of wind, and I know I'm out safe. Head spinning, I stumble into the street as the bouncer and a few of the other staff members stop them from coming out after me.

"Disgraziat'."

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Name: Dean Martin

Year: 1944

Age: 27

The sight of the boisterous sign titled "Nedick's" makes my stomach growl pitifully, and I wish for once—just for once—I could have a full meal. But I know wishful thinking gets you nowhere but in a lot of trouble.

"Do you two want the usual?"

"Yep." Sonny replies to the waitress, and he sits down beside me at the counter, hungrily eyeing the breakfasts of the people around us.

"Are you sure you're ready for tonight?" I say slyly, a grin playing on my lips.

"What are you talkin' about? I'm the one who actually won more than one fight." Sonny shakes his head at me and lifts a fist with bumpy fingers and knuckles shining with scars that didn't quite heal right. "This baby gave a lot of people a nose like yours."

I shove his arm only half playfully, and the warm, rich scent of coffee turns my head. Set before me are a glass of orange juice, a doughnut, and a cup of coffee. With precise calculation I scarf down half the glass, half of the doughnut, and half of the coffee. Glancing around warily, I wipe the corner of my mouth with my pocket square before looking to Sonny, who says casually, "You'd better go sign those contracts."

"Finish this for me." I respond generously, but I feel much less generous than I sound. I'm downright starving. Giving the rest of the meal a final wistful glance, I stand up and stroll away.

Later that Night

"Give it to him!"

"Yeah, really make him bleed!" Shouts come from all around us, enveloping us in a dingy cloud befitting a place with busted marquee lights and a persistent stench of blood and sweat.

"Don't you dare, Sonny. I'm older than you, remember that." I mutter to him as we circle each other in the ring, bouncing lightly to and fro on the balls of our feet. He rolls his eyes, bare fists raised in front of him in the instinctive stance of a seasoned fighter.

I give him a quick shot in the mouth before darting back away from his reach. After a few moments of failed swings on both sides, he manages to place a blow to my stomach, and oxygen evades my grasp.

Now angry, as soon as I catch my breath, I stride forward brazenly, eyes flashing, and drive Sonny back with punches square in the jaw until I realize just where Sonny is a second too late. The final blow sends Sonny reeling back into the window just behind him, which completely shatters. He manages to grab a hold of the metal blinds and dangles helplessly. It occurs to me we're six floors up.

With a frightening coldness washing over me, I race over to Sonny and grab his wrist, pulling him back into the room. Finally he's on the ground inside, and we both lie there, chest heaving—his back and chest covered in blood from the glass shards of the window. Guess I'm stronger than I think.