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𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄 rushed down Bordesley Street, tightly clutching a leather bound ledger at its side. A girl of little more than twenty years offered tight lipped smiles to the metal factory workers passing by and, in turn, received a curt bob or a raised hat in a salute.
It was an expensive coat, for certain; pale grey tweed that flapped around her knees, exposing a skirt made of the same material underneath, wide lapels more similar to the men's uniforms than the fur trimmed extravagances most ladies fancied. Tied tightly with an embroidered belt, it gave her a narrow waist giving and a seemingly boyish figure.
One would consider her appearance out of place — black curls flying around her face, dainty little hands that had never seen a day of hard work and eyes with far too much life for a place like that — until they learned her name.
Caterina Cardinale rounded the corner with a decisive step, only to find herself in front of a Trattoria Tavolieri. Muttering a rushed buongiorno to Antonio Tavolieri sitting up front, peeling some potatoes, and cigarette lazily hanging from his moustached lip, she pushed past the staff through the bustling kitchen and pantry, finally opening the backdoor of what seemed to be another store room.
Throwing them open, a cloud of cigarette smoke and noise overcame her senses. Dozens of men rushed around the polished saloon of Cardinale Import Company — restaurant owners and fruit retailers for the eyes of the law — some sifting through the papers, others polishing their guns, or waiting for their audience with the capo.
What they actually sold was far from Sicilian lemons and oranges.
Much more men milled around the family office ever since father and Francis returned, she noted, though it was no surprise. A great many of them served in the war, too.
A great many of them never came back either.
Squinting at the smoke filled room she spotted her father listening to the reports of their informants, his greying brow furrowing in confusion and annoyance. As the two departed she quickly crossed the room and dropped the ledger onto his desk, abruptly stopping his musing.
He glanced first towards her, not bothering to hide the quiet disapproval that crossed his face, and then proceeded to open the last written page. Caterina gnawed at her lower lip, waiting for the sign that everything was in order. She already knew it was, she made sure of it and counted the bottles twice on her own before sending them off to London, a routine trade she's been keeping since the men were away.
It annoyed her endlessly - the constant reporting back to her father, no more making deals on her own, the patronising smiles he offered her as if she was still an eighteen-year-old girl they left behind.
