Brooklyn, 1953.

Franklin Sinatra took a small puff of his cigarette, rolling the whiskey around in his glass. Light jazz was playing on the radio, and he used this moment to relax. These few weeks would be all for him—away from the flashing lights of Hollywood, the obsessed fans and greedy producers at his record label. Him and his family—that was it.

He was about to leave the bar when he noticed a young girl sweeping the floors. “My, what lady,” he murmured, gazing at her beauty.