My Love (Bwwm)

Storage Closet

The year was 1928, and life in the heart of Chicago was an intricate tapestry woven from the threads of power, danger, and secrets. In that labyrinth of intrigue, I was Dorothy, a young woman whose heart had been gripped by fear and uncertainty. You see, I had witnessed the darkest side of Artie, the notorious Irish mob boss who held the city in his grip.

Artie, a man feared and revered by many, had made a decision that would forever haunt my nights. I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, my eyes wide as I watched the barrel of a gun spew a fountain of chaos. Artie had shot a man, right before my eyes, in a twisted display of power and control. It was a sight that still sent shivers down my spine, a memory that painted my nights with vivid hues of dread.

And now, a new storm was brewing. The Chicago police were inquiring about Mr. Charles, one of Artie's closest associates. The air within Artie's opulent mansion was thick with tension as we navigated a world where secrets danced on the edge of a knife.

Each day was a relentless battle to keep my composure as I moved through the shadows of Artie's realm. My daily responsibilities included cooking, cleaning, and ensuring the gears of his operation turned smoothly. I had honed my skills in the kitchen to perfection, creating hearty southern meals that satiated Artie's voracious appetite.

On one particular morning, as the aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly baked biscuits enveloped the house, Artie sat at the grand dining table, his gaze locked on the plate before him. The silence that surrounded him was pregnant with suspense, the lingering memory of our last interaction and the secrets we both bore.

Artie savored each bite, and I watched, my heart pounding, as a rare smile stretched across his face. "Dorothy, this is exquisite," he exclaimed. "You should prepare this feast every day."

A rush of relief surged through me. It was the first time Artie had acknowledged my presence beyond my role as his cook and housekeeper. "Thank you, Mr. Artie," I replied with a sense of accomplishment.

As Artie put down his fork, he turned his gaze toward me, his eyes piercing. "Dorothy, you've piqued my curiosity. I've often wondered, why do you remain so reserved, and why do I rarely see you in the house?"

I hesitated for a moment, the weight of his scrutiny heavy on my shoulders. I couldn't help but share my truth, the fear that had bound me to the fringes of his household. "I sleep in the storage closet, Mr. Artie," I confessed. "I felt it best to stay out of the main house. Being the only person of color here, I didn't want to presume."

Artie's reaction was immediate. He slammed his fork onto the table, his gaze fixed on me. "You sleep in a storage closet? Why in God's name would you do that when there are countless rooms in this house?"

My heart plummeted, and I feared that my honesty had crossed a line. "I... I assumed that, given my race, you might not appreciate my presence in the main house."

The room was filled with silence, a thick, unsettling tension that seemed to stretch for miles. Artie's expression remained inscrutable, leaving me to believe I had irrevocably damaged our already tenuous relationship.

And then, as despair threatened to consume me, a knock sounded at the door. Artie rose from his seat, his steps resonating with authority as he approached the entrance. I followed behind, my anxiety escalating as I contemplated the unexpected visit.

Artie swung open the door, revealing two police officers in their sharply pressed uniforms. My heart raced, and I retreated deeper into the background, my eyes fixated on the unfolding scene.

"Arthur Cunningham?" one of the officers inquired.

Artie nodded solemnly. "That's me. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

The second officer spoke with an air of authority, "We received a tip about illegal activities associated with Mr. Charles, one of your close associates. Mind if we take a look around?"

Artie's brow furrowed, and he exchanged a knowing glance with the officers. He gestured for them to enter, all while his gaze remained locked on me.

As they began their investigation, my thoughts raced. The revelation about my modest sleeping quarters seemed to have triggered a chain of events, one that threatened to unravel my carefully woven existence. The past and the present were colliding, and I feared that the truth about what lay hidden in the shadows might soon come to light.