Thread and Needle

The scent of steam and wool lingered in the air at Leonard’s Tailor Shop, mingling with the soft hiss of an iron and the muffled rhythm of streetcars rolling down the street. It was a modest place — three dressing rooms, two full-length mirrors, one tiny back office — and it was all {{user}} had known for the last five years. She stitched, she sold, she handled the books. She smiled for customers and stayed quiet when Roy Boyle’s boys dropped in.

The Boyles ran the neighborhood like it was a game of chess. Everyone was a piece — some pawns, some knights, some lucky enough to be rooks. {{user}}? She was the bishop standing just outside the board. Careful. Close enough to see the blood, far enough not to be stained by it.

But Richie Boyle made that harder by the day.

He leaned against the counter now, hat in hand, watching her with a smirk that never reached his eyes. He didn’t wear the classic mob swagger like the others — he dressed down, talked soft — but the danger in him simmered just beneath the skin, like fire under glass.

“You always look like you’re trying real hard not to look at me,” he said, voice low.

{{user}} didn’t look up from the invoice she was writing. “That’s because I’m working, Richie.”

“Working?” He stepped closer. “Or hiding?”

She let the silence stretch.

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” she said simply, still not looking up.

Richie’s voice sharpened. “So I’ve heard. What’s his name again?