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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌, usually familiar and inviting, now only brought shivers across her spine. The pristine greyness of Francisco Cardinale's tailored suit clashed with a dark frown etched on his pallid face.
In the simpler times it was always Francis that attracted the longing sighs of her ditzy friends, with his perfectly slicked back jet-black hair and a million pound smirk, and those perfectly polished manners that made them faint with a simple Ciao. A handsome smile hid a blood soaked record and a promise of a prolific future for la familia.
Such a long time ago, it threatened to escape her memory.
Every man that came back from France was different. And Francis... whatever there was of him died over the channel, in the cold trenches of the Somme.
The boyish youth was long gone and forgotten, replaced by a thin, lanky man, prominent dark shadows underneath his eyes. As she took in his sour appearance today, Cat thought he looked even worse than the last time she saw him.
Caterina took a tentative step into the room, closing the doors behind her. By the look on her brother's face she was aware things might turn ugly soon enough.
They were never particularly close to start with, and due to the small age gap between them were continuously at each other's throats, their older brother acting like a pacificator on more than one occasion.
"Francis. You're home."
He preferred the simple, English version of his full name. It was more modern, he always said, and easier to remember. Francis was a strong, ambitious Englishman. Francesco was an Italian immigrant, condemned to be looked down upon, unable to rise up in the high society he strived towards.
"Billy fucking Kimber came round. Asking for my little sister." There was a piece of paper in his hand and he waved it pointedly in the air. "With this."
In a flurry of motion, she snatched the thick piece of paper, eyes excitedly running over the words. Clarke Import Company stood bellow, with the title of the official liquor distributor, all very officially signed by the president of the West Midlands Council.
"We have our liquor license!" She said, glancing up at him expectantly. The purse of his lips revealed his annoyance. "Oh don't look at me like that."
Francis uncrossed his arms, now pacing the length of the room. Was it possible his cheeks had become more gaunt while he was away? He kept shaking his head and throwing glares in her direction.
"And what did you do for a license, huh? Did you fuck him?" Her mouth fell open in indignation. How dare he even assume-
