Especially these mobster types. Miguel Scarlatti had been impeccably polite and impeccably patient, in his silk suit and professional manicure. Oh, ho... he hated the man. He was probably a good ten years younger than him, and cheeky. His face was angular and serious, and his black hair was slicked back. These fucking wops were taking over, now they were even marrying nice white girls. He heard this Scarlatti had a blond wife, a real looker, and classy, from some old New York family. He'd told. “See that this be left for her, that she read it immediate upon her return, the King wishes it,” he ordered me, and without further ado, the knave retired. Knocking once more for ceremony’s sake, I opened the chamber of my beloved Queen, and with the reverence of a novice crossing the threshold into the choir, I went within. As the sweet aroma of her favorite flowers, each gathered into rich vases, and the colors personally chosen to drape her bed, as indeed everything of this temple washed my. More

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