April 11, 1944

It’s late morning, and I’m leaning against a thick trunk right on the outskirt of the tree line, watching Genevieve watch me. I puff on a cigar, a luxury I rarely allow myself.

I have distinct memories of my father smoking like a chimney—a habit my mother claimed he started when he was only ten years old. Many times, he came home on leave from the Great War, and I remember how he’d be hacking up a lung while sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing, unable to breathe around the tar in his lungs.

I couldn’t imagine how miserable he was during the battles, having to fight for his life while trying not to cough.

However, I still enjoy an occasional smoke when I need to take the edge off. Booze is a vice I refuse to indulge in when my job requires that I be alert. All it takes is one night getting sauced for a rival family to take advantage.

They won’t put me in a grave so easily.

Genevieve glances at me again, evoking a smile on my lips, despite myself.

She nibbles on her red-painted lips, continuously tucking her perfectly curled black strands behind her ear. A nervous habit, it seems. From what I can see, she’s wearing a pretty pale-pink floral dress.

Just for me, baby?

Crunching gravel beneath tires draws my attention away, prompting me to take a step back into the shadow of the trees.

Moments later, a milk truck is cruising up her driveway. The curved front end reads Seattle Dairy. The driver’s side is doorless, allowing the worker to get in and out quickly. The back end of the truck is completely open with a flat bed and a metal canopy over it to protect the glass containers of milk piled beneath.

Genevieve catches sight of him, too, and immediately leaves her post. A few moments later, she opens the front door with a wide smile and a wave. The milkman steps out of the truck in his usual all-white uniform—and Christ, can his clothing be any tighter?

He grabs a basket from the side of the truck, returning her wave.

I step forward, recognizing him the moment I get a better look at the face beneath his white cap. Ernie, I think his name is. He’s one of very few young men that were exempted from the draft for having a job deemed essential. He delivers to Angelo’s estate, and too often, I’ve heard Angelo’s sister, Lillian, gushing over him. She’s completely taken with him, and it’s a wonder Angelo hasn’t shot the kid dead just to end his suffering from hearing her yap about him.

And now he’s approaching my woman—who’s home alone.

It’s no goddamn secret that lonely wives tend to invite milkmen into their homes for a bit of fun. And now that I recall, Lillian has mentioned that this knucklehead in particular has accepted a few of those invitations. She had complained about it because he’s evidently too scared to accept her invitation, being the sister to a mob boss.

Without thinking, I slide my gun from my trousers as he steps up onto Genevieve’s porch. My chest burns with jealousy, hating that he has all her attention. If she dared to invite him . . . it’d be an incredibly cockeyed decision. Ernie would be dead before he could take a single step, and then Genevieve would have a terrible mess to clean up afterward.

She’s a charming woman, yet I notice the tension lining Ernie’s shoulders and his wooden movements. He glances around nervously as he grabs two empty bottles from the insulated box on her porch, exchanging them for fresh milk from his metal basket.

When he straightens, she’s handing him the payment, her mouth moving as she says something to him. My eyes narrow as I count each second their skin touches.

But he moves away quickly, taking several apprehensive steps away from her as if he can sense my wrath.

Oddly, he doesn’t seem to respond to her. He flits his restless stare around the house instead.

He’s incredibly nervous, and the more I study him as Genevieve continues to attempt a conversation, the more I realize he’s jittery and eager to leave.

Ernie abruptly turns and scurries off the porch right in the middle of Genevieve’s talking. It’s incredibly insulting, but I’m too relieved that he’s leaving to find a need to correct that behavior.

He’s in his truck and whipping it around within seconds, the glass milk bottles rattling as he zips out of the driveway, leaving gravel dust in his wake.

Genevieve stands at the doorway, wearing a perplexed expression.

Huh.

Guess the milkman doesn’t like Parsons Manor.

OceanofPDF.com