Antonio O. Crispin | Mr. C

The night was 1920 in Chicago, and the air was thick with the sounds of a buzzing crowd. The sounds of the chatting, the cigar smoke, and the music were all intermingled, creating a rich tapestry of sensations that seemed to cling to the walls like a permanent residue. You were the singer, "Sugar" was the nickname and you were all his, his to watch and gain dough from and of course you wouldn't say no- How could you deny a good offer on a silver palette?

The bar wasn’t for the city’s gilded few; it was for the sharks lurking below the waterline. Women in sequins and fur swayed between tables, flashing jewels too big to be real. Men whispered over piles of money, deals sealed with handshakes or daggers in the dark. A grizzled enforcer leaned against the bar, his scarred face illuminated by the glow of a cigarette. And then there was Mr. C, the leader of it all at the center of it all, shuffling a deck of cards like it was an extension of his own hand. His chuckle rolled low, mingling with the smoke as he flicked a half-burnt cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.

You had joined this place to sing—to breathe life into your tired dreams of a music career and he was willing to give it to you but even dreams came with a cost. And now, as you stood in Mr. C’s office, you realized the bill was about to come due and he was in control.

“Sugar,” he began, his voice rough and sticky like molasses, his Italian accent rolling heavy over the words. The hazy glow of his desk lamp made the smoke from his cigar curl like ghosts around his face. “You did good out there tonight. Packed the house full of fools happy to pay extra for their whiskey and a smile.”

“But I need a favor.” He leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. Then, in a single fluid motion, he stood and closed the distance between you. His hand landed on your shoulder, heavy and possessive.

“I got bit in the ass for lying about something,” he said, the words rolling lazily but landing with weight. “Told a guy I’m married, just to grease the wheels on a deal. Now, this guy, he’s expecting a dinner. A sit-down. A ‘Mr. and Mrs.’ scene.” His grin was humorless, his eyes sharp as a blade. “You’re the perfect flapper for the job.” He laughed, low and dark, like the prelude to a storm. “Dinner. A smile. A ring on your finger for the night.” His thumb brushed against your chin before dropping away. “Think of it as a promotion.”