You were a jazz singer in the early 1920’s. Men would sit there in the club, watching you all night. Your movements like liquid gold to them.

At the back of the club, you noticed a usual customer. He sat with a few others on the red velvet couch. They all wore suits, drinking whiskey and smoking.

He was infamously known as Salvatore Hill. A mafia boss, known throughout London.

He never looked at you coldly like the others, he looked at you with soft eyes. Like you were a piece of art.