Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

01 | Proposal

"Her wings are cut and then she is blamed for not knowing how to fly." — Simone de Beauvoir

New York City, Upper Eastside, October 1954

PAMELA ANNE KELLY watched the flame of the candle before her as it flickered, casting mottled streaks of indigo and crimson upon the foggy windowpane. Serpentine threads of smoke overpowered the comfort of the soft golden light and warmth slithering into her lungs, making her cough.

Sitting across from her date for the evening—Ivy League law graduate Timothy Atwell, she tried to ignore the dark lipstick stain on the side of his cheek that had not been from her.

She watched in disgusted silence as her gentleman companion sliced his steak, carefully carving up the hulk of meat with the measured precision of a Venetian sculptor. His silver wristwatch gleamed in the golden glow of candlelight, and he smacked his thin lips in a churlish manner.

She looked down at her own dainty plate of peas, carrots, and salmon. Her food was practically untouched except for a slight scrambling of the peas and a crescent-shaped slice gone from the scaly neck of the fish. 

She hated eating fish—or any kind of creature. She loved animals and detested the idea of consuming their pitiful carcasses, though Timothy taunted her endlessly about that sensibility.

"You're not hungry." Timothy's chewing muffled his baritone voice, letters slurred together and nearly indistinguishable. Clearly, his indulgence in gin and sherry belied his usual care for table etiquette. Just the other night, he had scolded her for chewing her bubblegum too loudly.

It wasn't until he raised his blue eyes to Pamela that she realized he was waiting for her reply.

"Not very," she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, subconsciously pushing the legs of her chair with her ankles sideways so it angled her away from him.

"You don't like this place? Your mother told me it was your favourite." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "It isn't your time of the month, is it?"

Pamela's anger mushroomed at the suggestion. The utter nerve of the man! 

She considered leaving, but the city was cold and dark outside and she didn't have a ride home.

Instead, she seared Timothy's face with indignant eyes and a sardonic remark. "I'm surprised your mother never taught you how to interact with members of the fairer sex, Timothy. We are delicate creatures—especially with such sensitive matters."

Timothy frowned, missing her sarcasm as he motioned his fork to her unfinished meal. "You aren't eating your fish. Honestly, Pamela, before I know it, you'll be a beatnik just like your commie brother. You've been reading that rubbish Kerouac, haven't you?"

A male server minced over to the table, granting some much-needed relief from the exceedingly terse exchange. "Is everything satisfactory, sir and madame?"

While Pamela nodded, Timothy lambasted the man with a cutting accusation. "Absolutely nothing was satisfactory. You can tell your chef that the steak was too dry, and not the rare one I had requested. We will not be returning."

"I am very sorry, sir. I will inform him of your displeasure immediately." The server's eyes bulged, and he bowed before scurrying back to the kitchen like a tailed lizard.

Pamela was tongue-tied. She was embarrassed to be seen out with such a rude individual, especially when people assumed the pair to be a married couple. She had been out with Timothy Atwell many times over the past year and it seemed with every new outing, he only became less agreeable and more mean-spirited.