This is an important watch for folks in the U.S. about the fight for women to get the right to vote.
The in-fighting across generations and races is important to see. Politics isn't pretty, and basic rights don't come easy or free when it's a constant uphill battle against oppressors.
Please watch if you can — this is the original Broadway cast production, shot professionally for PBS' Great Performances. It's available in full for free on YouTube.
I drink two cups of coffee per day not because I have an addiction, but because my body has adapted to the presence of caffeine enough that its absence causes mild but unpleasant side effects.
I reblogged this post not because I liked it and wanted to share it, but because reading it elicited a pleasant sensation that I felt would be appreciated by others
“A kiss may be grand, but it won’t pay the rental, on your humble flat, or help you at the automat.”
Like literally the most famous song about how much girls love jewellry is just explaining the importance of getting jewellry for when your partner leaves you penniless and alone.
The founder of Girl Scouting in the US, Juliette Gordon Low, funded her first troop by selling her pearl necklace, which was her only belonging after her husband died and left everything to his mistress.
She founded Girl Scouts to teach girls self-sufficiency so they wouldn’t have to go through what she went through when her husband died and she didn’t know how to take care of herself.
While we’re on the subject, let’s please also remember that historically disenfranchised communities who had to worry about frequently being run out of town often bought expensive jewelry with their limited funds not because they were greedy or tacky or classless, but rather because you can’t sew a real estate investment into the lining of your coat, and the powers that be can’t freeze a diamond necklace the way that they can freeze a bank account.
Summary: You return home to find Chicago's most feared mafia don in your house.
Companion piece to:
Cigars - Chicago's most feared mafia don comes home to find a surprise in his study.
You’re welcomed home by scent of lilies.
Flowers that have no place in your house because you certainly did not buy them. They rest on the sideboard in your open plan kitchen/dining space, a rich burgundy that reminds you of blood.
You lean against the doorframe, surveying the man standing at your kitchen island in a seven thousand dollar with the shirt sleeves rolled up and a navy-blue apron you certainly don’t own. He kneads dough on the counter, the veins in his muscular arms popping as he exudes a power that gets you more than a little wet between your legs.
“Pour yourself a glass of wine.” Dom says, jerking his head towards the uncorked bottle of red residing on the set kitchen table. There’s a crystal bowl of floating candles in the centre, each one hand carved into the shape of a lily. “I thought maybe we could talk about your proposal while we wait for the dough to rise.”
“So, you broke into my house to make dinner for me.” You say pushing off the doorframe and reaching for the wine. It’s a Pinot Noir that costs over $25k at retail because it’s from tiny 4-acre vineyard in Burgandy. You raise your eyebrows, your thumb running over the red wax seal before you begin to fill both glasses.
“You broke into my home first.” He reminds you, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he drives his knuckles into the dough. “I thought it was kind of our thing.”
Our thing…
The way he says it sends a rush of heat through your body as you carry the wine towards the kitchen island.
“The flowers…” You begin, and he looks up for the first time capturing your gaze. His eyes are warm and dark, like honey being dripped across your skin. Your teeth sink into your lower lip at the thought of that, his strong hands guiding your legs apart as he licks it off your inner thigh. His gaze fastens on the action, his pupils dilating.
“I’m an excellent house guest.” He informs you, the scar on his upper lip deepening as he gives you that salacious smile. “I always bring a gift for the host.”
Oh, you like him, really fucking like him. Those old-fashioned manners wrapped up in nontraditional values. You didn’t expect that from a man who runs the biggest crime syndicate in this state.
“So, what are you making me?” You say, using two fingers to push his wine glass towards him.
“Pizza.” He tells you as he folds the dough again, driving his palms into it. “My nonna used to make the best pie this side of Chicago, she passed it down me as a little boy.” His nonna also used launder cash and smuggle heroin through the dozens of pizzerias she owned throughout the city. She’d managed to walk away untouched when the indictment came down in the 70s, starting up her business once again when the heat died down. “I had to buy in some groceries though, I gather you’re not a stay at home and cook kinda gal.”
“I’m not.” You say, slipping into one of the stools at the kitchen island. “So, if you’re looking for a trad wife to fill that big empty house of yours…”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Trust me if that was what I wanted I have plenty of pretty young things lining up to take up the mantle.”
“I noticed.” You say, your fingertips playing along the stem of your wineglass. “I also noticed you didn’t seem particularly interested in any of them.”
“They don’t want me.” He says frankly as he rolls the dough into a ball between his hands. He reaches for the mixing bowl he’s lightly oiled before placing it inside and covering it with a damp towel. “They want the prestige that comes with fucking the Head of the Pascal Family.”
“It looks like you learned your lesson from Monica.” You remark, sipping from your wineglass. His head jerks up, that honey turning molten as he fixes you with stare makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out. “Maybe not.”
“You know.” He states, his floured palms grasping the kitchen island, the skin across his knuckles tightening as he grips it. “That’s why you came to me about Vale?”
“Yes, I know she was his mole. That she was feeding him information on your operations to him over pillow talk while screwing him behind your back.” The words strike him like bullets, searing through his skin as he tries not to flinch. “You pretend to be the grieving widow but… we both know that her car accident wasn’t such an accident.”
“Who the fuck are you?” He snarls the words into the space between you, and in that moment you see the man from all those stories, the one that tore snitches apart by tying their wrists and ankles to two separate cars, who beat a cop to death for trying to extort him, leaving the body on the steps of his precinct. A betrayal like Monica’s, the punishment couldn’t be public like that. It was too intimate, too painful, it would have to look like an accident because anything else would mean that he was weak, that he’d let the snake into his bed and allowed himself to get bitten.
“You know who I am.” You say, swirling the wine around your glass. “And you know how I know what I know.”
He pauses, the cogs turning in his brain. You wait patiently, raising your glass to your lips as he clicks his fingers. “The sister.” His voice filled with disbelief. “The one that disappeared, the one that everyone thought the Flaconnis had burned alive in an oil drum out on the wastelands.”
“A good reason to go to war, no?” You say, your fingers hooking in the neckline of your dress, pulling the fabric away from your skin. His lips purse into a furious line as he takes in the bullet wound above your left breast, just shy of where your heart should be. “Since I didn’t want to marry, Stephen decided I was worth more to him dead. He put a bullet in me, dumped me on their land with the intention of gaining support from the other families so he could take over their territory. The only problem is he didn’t finish the job so when he went to get fuel for his little bonfire…”
“You escaped.” He summarises, his palm rubbing across his mouth as he stares at you. The edges of his lips curl up, an unexpected bark of laughter erupting from deep his chest. “The look on his fucking face when he came back to find you gone… I wish I could have seen it…”
A ghost of a smile crosses your lips as you release the fabric of your dress, covering the scar once more. “Honestly, I do too. I had enough of my own finances squirrelled away to vanish for a while, recover but now…”
“Now you want revenge.” He says, nodding his head with understanding.
“Yes. I know you do too for him turning Monica.” You say meeting his gaze. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of the organisation, you can have that, absorb it into your own. I just want to look him in the eyes as I pull the trigger, I want him to know it was me that terrorized him, that dismantled his life piece by piece.”
“What you’re asking for…” He leans over the counter, his elbows resting on it as it brings him into your proximity. You can smell the aftershave that clings to his skin. Agarwood, Turkish rose and amber. It’s a delectable scent, rich, smoky, woodsy with just the slightest floral hint to take the edge off. It tells of unspoken nights, of calloused hands roaming over bare skin, a gruff whisper in your ear as fingers squeeze your throat, raw heat driven deep into you. “…it’s going to require us working together… very closely. Things like this, they take time, planning.”
“I know.” You say conspiratory, tilting your face so the tip of your nose brushes light over his. “It’ll mean lots more wine, dinners, cigars, who knows what else we’ll get into.”
“I’ve been burned before…”
“I know.” You say earnestly, tapping the space above your heart. “So, have I. I can tell you I won’t betray you, but I know… it doesn’t make a difference, that actions speak louder than words so I… I actually have a gift for you.”
You break away, rising to your feet, returning to the purse you’ve left by the door. You dig around in it for a second, removing a black velvet box that usually used for bracelets. His eyebrows raise as you place it on the counter, sliding it towards him. He picks it up, his mouth flattening into a line as he open it, reviewing the item inside.
It’s a man’s finger, wrinkled and tanned with a huge gold signet ring attached to the base. In the centre is a polished red garnet, one that he recognises almost immediately as belonging his head of security.
“Monica wasn’t the only rat in your organization.” You inform him as he sets it down between the two of you. “Don’t worry, I took care of this one for you.”
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@mandy426 I could defo see Harri coming home and finding these in her home. Dom sitting there like you broke into my place, I thought I'd return the favour.
Summary: Chicago's most feared mafia don comes home to find a surprise in his study.
Cigars.
The smell hits Dom as soon as he opens the door to the study inside his historical mansion overlooking Lake Michigan. Rich, deep, sophisticated. Each one goes for $136 million per single.
He stares at the woman sitting at his desk, his mouth turning dry at the sight of you. Little black dress that reads classy but dangerous, patent leather fuck me heels that almost make him bite his lip. His fingers flex, coiling into a fist at his side. He hasn’t felt much desire since Monica died, but he feels the heat searing through him as he drinks you in.
“You here to kill me?” He asks closing the door quietly behind him. Some days he thinks death would be a welcome change. He’s the most feared man in this city but his life has become a gilded cage. Stilted, dull. He craves the excitement of the early days, his wild bloody era.
You take a drag of the cigar, your sultry lips wrapping around it in a way that makes his dick twitch in his trousers. You let out a long stream of smoke, your eyes flickering to him as if he’s finally worthy of your attention.
He can’t explain why that does a little something for him, why it makes him want to get on his knees and…
“No.” Your voice light, sultry, like the opening notes to Beethoven’s Für Elise. “I’m not here to kill you. I actually have a proposition.”
“Hm.” Dom strides towards you with purpose. You don’t flinch when he arrives in your proximity, you stay exactly where you are as his palms come to rest on the ebony desk, his thumbs lightly brushing along the hem of your dress. His hips settle between your knees, pushing them even further apart. The dress rides just a little bit higher, revealing lace stocking tops that make his dick throb. “And why should I trust the person who broke into my home, and is currently sitting on my desk, smoking my cigars?”
“You have a dozen of these fucking things.” You remind him, blowing a puff of smoke into his face. He inhales it like a narcotic, wondering what it would feel like to taste it off your lips. “And we both want the same thing.”
“And that is…” He lets the words hang between you, his gaze locking on yours. Your eyes, they sparkle like stars high up in the nighttime sky, drawing him in, ensnaring him.
You set down the cigar in the crystal ashtray, your fingertips playing along the lapels of his $45,000 dollar suit, adjusting them as you lean in closer, your lips almost brushing over his,
“Well Dom.” You say his name with a familiarity that sends a wildfire coursing through his nervous system. “We both want Stephen Vale dead.”
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