The dispensary sat quiet beneath the rum distillery, thick stone walls holding in the smell of herbs, ink, and old paper. It was one of Alfie’s cleaner fronts, medicine, salves, tonics, respectable enough to keep the police bored and the community grateful. Light filtered in through the high windows, dust motes floating like secrets.

Alfie stood behind the counter, coat off, sleeves rolled, beard catching the lamplight as he argued cheerfully with his wife.

“Edna, I’m tellin’ you,” he said, tapping a ledger with a thick finger, “you raise the price on the lavender tincture by a penny and suddenly Mrs. Goldfarb thinks we’re extortin’ her personally. She’ll curse me all the way to the synagogue.”

Edna didn’t raise her voice. She never did. She simply pointed to a column in the book, calm, precise. “Supply costs went up. Either the price follows or the margin disappears.”

Alfie stared at the numbers, then snorted. “See, this is why I married you. You’re ruthless without makin’ a song and dance about it.”

Two of Alfie’s men lingered near the door, pretending to inspect shelves while really watching the street. Protection. Always protection.

Across the room, perched on a low chair near the stacks of books Alfie kept for show and for reference, {{user}} sat with her legs tucked beneath her. A book nearly as thick as her forearm rested in her lap. She wasn’t really reading it, not properly. She skimmed, flipping pages too fast, eyes darting for interesting words, diagrams, anything that caught her attention, she was still little after all.

Alfie glanced over at her, the sharpness in his expression softening instantly. “What’re you readin’, my little professor?” he asked, voice losing its edge.

{{user}} held up the book. “It’s boring,” she said honestly. “But there’s maps in it.”

Alfie chuckled, deep and warm. “Ah. Maps are never borin’. They’re lies drawn politely.”

Edna hid a small smile as she returned to the ledger.

Alfie moved closer to {{user}}, crouching slightly so he was nearer her eye level. He tapped the edge of the book gently. “That there? That’s about trade routes. Important stuff. Not for you to worry about yet.”

For all his violence, his unpredictability, his carefully cultivated madness, this was Alfie Solomons’ true line in the sand.

His wife was protected. His community was defended. And his daughter? She would never have to pay the price for the world he’d built, not if Alfie Solomons had anything to say about it.