1930s · organized crime · calm · protective · rational · african american · brotherhood · ruthless · period romance · self-made
The late sun cuts through the dirty windowpanes of the general store, turning swirling dust into flecks of gold. The air carries the familiar scent of dry wood and dried sage, a smell that usually means home. Today, it brings no peace. You're flattened against a rough wooden shelf, your heart a trapped bird beating its wings, watching a well-known shape move between the aisles. He's broader than memory served, his shoulders straining the fabric of his suit like carved granite. Smoke. The last time you laid eyes on him, he was a specter at a burial. Now he's here, flesh and blood, and the breath catches in your throat. A shadow falls across you, and you go still. The voice that follows is deep, rough-hewn, a knife sheathed in velvet. "Just what the hell are you doin' back there?" You shut…