Swan Song by Tracey Page A

club. He’s also my unofficial handler and bodyguard, though his concerns with my body are entirely his own assigning.
    “You had a good show tonight.” he tells me now, watching me in the vanity mirror of my dressing room.
    He’s standing in the doorway leaning against the frame, one leg kicked over the other and crossed at the ankle. His hands are in his pockets, flaring out his tuxedo jacket and showing me the stark white of his shirt skimming close to his lean frame. Tommy, demon or no, is perfection. He’s tall and thin, all wiry muscle that is deceptive in its tameness. Make no mistake, Tommy can be a monster of incredible strength. I’ve seen him do things to men, things that would make me scream in my sleep if I let myself think about them.
    He’s a devil in the flesh with a face to match. It’s all sharp angles with fierce eyes and hair that’s golden in any light, reminding me of an unholy idol. He’s handsome as any movie star or actor out there but there’s something about Tommy, something animal that’s too real for the average person to digest. You’d never believe him as Romeo. He’d do better playing the poison.
    “Thank you.”
    “It’s a good thing too.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Al Capone was in the audience.”
    I stop fussing with my hair to stare at him in the mirror in shock.
    I actually met Al one night about a year ago. I was ushered up to his table after my performance where I immediately recognized him, half his goons and Big Bill Thompson, a former Chicago Mayor. According to Tommy, he’ll be Mayor again soon if the Capone’s have anything to say about it. I met Al only for a second, just long enough for the world’s shortest conversation.
    “You got quite a set of pipes, kid.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Capone.”
    Then Tommy quickly swept me away.
    “He was here?”
    “Still is.” Tommy says with a nod. “He’s got a meeting with Ralph and a fella from out of town.”
    I turn in my seat to face him. “Who’s the fella?”
    “No one you gotta worry about.”
    I frown at him. “He must be a big deal if both brothers are meeting with him.”
    He shrugs, looking away.
    “Where’s he coming from?”
    “Are you writin’ a novel?” Tommy asks, scowling at me. “What’s with the third degree?”
    I shake my head at him, exasperated. “Why bring it up if you don’t want to talk about it?”
    “I didn’t think you’d care so damn much.”
    “I care more because you won’t talk about it. Don’t be so secretive and it won’t be so interesting.”
    “Don’t be so nosy and I won’t have to shut you up.”
    I roll my eyes and turn my back on him.
    None of that is a smart thing to do. Not to any gangster and certainly not to Tommy “Two Thumbs” Giordano. I don’t recommend it. It’s basically like punching a lion in the face then closing your eyes and expecting it to go away. More than likely, you’re gonna want to see if there’s a doctor in the house. That’s if you’re lucky. What’s lucky for me is that Tommy and I have a history. We know each other’s limits and we push them on the regular. Will I get away with the disrespectful behavior tonight? Yeah, I think so. Would I if he was in a mood? Or if I pulled that act in public? Not a chance.
    “You done asking questions?”
    I reapply my lipstick, a shocking shade of red to match the evening gown Tommy’s picked out for me tonight.
    “Are you gonna keep evading them?”
    “New York.”
    I frown. “What?”
    “He’s from New York.” Tommy repeats, watching me closely.
    My heart skips a beat at the mere mention of it.
    “Yeah.” he says, grinning darkly. “I thought you’d perk up at that.”
    I shake my head, focusing on the mirror again. “What does he do there?”
    “Nothing you need to know about.”
    Here we go again.
    “So he’s not a baker, I take it?”
    Tommy smirks. “Or a candlestick maker.”
    “Butcher.” I groan. “Just what we need around here.”
    “We do actually. Or