Dead by 10, Dinner by 6

The city woke under a thin veil of fog, and love was in the air on this Valentine’s Day in 1929.

Ma had been up since before dawn, humming Danny Boy and other songs from the old country. She pressed a heart-shaped cutter into the dough, twisting her wrist, lifting out perfect cookies one by one. She’d cleaned enough houses this week and could afford to bake. Iridescent sugar dusted the counter, glittering beneath the soft ray of sun streaming in from the small window. A pot of coffee hissed on the stove.

These were the small luxuries a widowed woman from Ireland could afford. If she could get her hands on sixty grand, she thought idly, they could live however they pleased… and yet money didn't solve everything. It couldn’t outrun polio or TB. She looked at her boys, sleepily wandering into the kitchen. They were healthy and alive, and that was more than enough to be grateful for.

"Eat," she said, setting a plate in front of Billy.

Billy did as he was told. The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of fried bacon, toast browned on the cast-iron griddle, and the slow, syrupy scent of baked beans. The Hoosier cabinet stood against the wall, its flour sifter worn smooth from years of use. A Sears, Roebuck catalog sat open on the table, pages dog-eared where Danny had been dreaming about new baseball gloves and Red Ryder BB guns.

In the corner, the percolator bubbled on the stove, filling the room with the bitter scent of black coffee.

Ma never sat while they ate. She stood by the window, hands smoothing down her apron, watching the world outside.

"Ye workin’ late, then?" she asked.

"Nah," Billy muttered, stabbing at his eggs.

"Good. Danny wants ye to take him to the store after school."

Danny perked up immediately. "Kresge’s?"

Ma gave him a look. "Nowicki’s. We need bread and sugar."

Danny groaned, flopping back in his chair. "But Kresge’s got the new licorice whips—"

"Ah now, don’t be givin’ me that face," Ma cut in, turning back to the stove. "Ye’ll live."

Billy smirked. "Sorry, kid. Guess it’s Nowicki’s or nothin’."

Danny made a face, stabbing angrily at his toast like it was Billy’s fault. The sound of his fork clanking, and Danny's loud chewing, drove Billy up a wall… Ma should really get on him about that, he thought.

Billy tore off a piece of buttered rye toast, scooping up the warm baked beans Ma had ladled onto his plate. The bacon was crisp, curled at the edges, and his eggs oozed yolk over the fried potatoes.

Danny, always eating like the world was ending, shoveled beans and potatoes into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Billy smirked. "Slow down, kid. Ain’t like we’re rationin’ the stuff."

Danny scowled, his chubby cheeks comically full. "I hope ya choke on your toast."

Billy laughed, reaching for the pot of tar-black coffee, strong enough to put hair on your chest.

"Hey, Danny," he said, swirling the coffee in his cup idly, smirking. "What’s her name?"

Danny blinked. "Who?"

Billy leaned back in his chair, stretching out. "That girl at the drugstore counter. The one ye keep makin’ googly eyes at."

Danny’s face burned red. "Shut up."

Billy snorted. "What? Ain’t a crime to like a girl. Maybe I’ll walk ye over there myself, make sure she knows. It is Valentine's Day, after all."

Danny threw a piece of toast at him.

Ma sighed. "Both of ye, knock it off." But she was smiling.

Billy took another bite, shaking his head. "It’s fine, Ma. Danny’s gonna be a real lady-killer someday. Just gotta work on that face of his first."

Danny mumbled something under his breath and focused hard on his plate.

Billy just grinned.


"Ye’re just like yer father, ye know," Ma said suddenly, wistfully, her gaze somewhere else.

Billy’s grin faded. Danny dropped his fork. The chewing stopped.

She kept her eyes on the window, watching the street. "He used to tease me the same way. Wouldn’t let up, not till I turned redder than Danny’s cheeks."

Still in another place, Ma hadn't noticed the shock on her boys’ faces.

Billy’s fork hovered over his plate. He didn’t know whether to press for more or let it pass.

Ma smoothed the apron over her waist, her gaze still fixed outside.

"’Tis a different time now, I s’pose," she murmured.

Then, almost too soft to hear—"Least ye don’t gotta worry about a man like Big Jim Colosimo waitin’ outside yer door anymore."

Billy didn’t say anything.

Danny didn’t say anything.

Big Jim Colosimo was old news. Little did their mother know, Billy had a boss more dangerous than Big Jim ever was.

Oh, she noticed Billy bringing home extra sugar, helping out more with the rent, but she told herself it was from honest work. It was too much to concede that there was only one way to make it in Chicago, and most like her husband died trying.

They just sat there, the sound of the percolator bubbling, the distant clang of a streetcar outside.

Ma lingered at the window, watching the street like she was waiting for something—or someone—that would never come.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Billy’s stomach turned before his brain caught up.

Ma glanced up from the sink, her hands still wet, but she didn’t move. She didn’t need to.

"Who in God’s name—"

Billy was already up, shoving his chair back.

"It’s for me."

Ma pressed her lips together, wiping her hands dry. Her eyes followed him the whole way to the door.

Billy swung it open.

Frankie Gallo.

Grinning, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the whole goddamn city. Toothpick rolling between his teeth.

"Mornin’, sunshine."

"Bugs wants everyone at the garage."

"For what?"

Frankie just shrugged, tilting his head, lazy-like.

"Maybe just to talk. Maybe he wants to tickle yer balls. But when the boss says jump—"

Billy hesitated.

The thing was, the money had been too good.

Too easy.

Nobody got paid like this for nothing.

His fingers curled around the doorframe.

Frankie sighed, rocking back on his heels.

"C’mon, kid. You coming or what?"


Billy exhaled through his nose. He turned back into the house, grabbing his coat off the chair.

"I’ll be back before lunch."

Ma’s voice was quiet.

"Ye sure about that?"

Billy’s hands froze on his buttons.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen, flour still dusted on her apron.

Watching him.

Like she knew something he didn’t.

Then she did something she hadn’t done in years.

She walked to the door and pressed her fingers over the rosary beads hanging by the frame.

"If ye see a funeral on the way, don’t look at it."

Billy let out a short laugh.

"Ma—"

"Don’t laugh at me, lad." She turned from the window, her voice low, warning. "Just—don’t look. Ye’ll carry it with ye."

Billy almost shivered but forced a smirk.

"Ma, I think I can handle—"

"Just listen."

He buttoned his coat and kissed her cheek. "I’ll be fine."

Outside, the cold hit like a blade, sharp and bitter. Billy shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

Frankie lit a cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame like he was protecting something holy.

He took a drag off his cigarette, then grinned.

"So tell me, McGuire, you still givin’ that redhead from Cicero the time?"

Billy rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Frankie."

"What? It’s a fair question. I ever tell you about that waitress from The Green Mill?"

"Frankie."

Frankie laughed, slapping Billy’s shoulder. "Relax, kid, I’ll spare your virgin ears."

Billy rolled his eyes again, but the joke had done its job.

He wasn’t thinking about funeral processions or easy money anymore.

Just another morning, another job.

10:25 AM

The smell hit first—motor oil, stale cigarette smoke, something metallic beneath it all.

A few of the boys were already inside, leaning against workbenches, smoking, laughing a bit, talking low.

Peter Gusenberg. James Clark. Albert Weinshank.

Billy recognized them all—Moran’s men.

A couple of them nodded his way, but no one looked particularly interested.

"What’s the job?" Billy muttered to Frankie.

Frankie just shrugged. "I dunno, kid. Maybe a pickup."

Billy’s stomach nagged at him. Something felt off.

Moran’s men looked troubled. No one was laughing.

Just the quiet crackle of cigarette paper burning.


10:30 AM

Car doors slammed on the black and blue Cadillac outside.

Billy’s head snapped toward the sound.

Boots on pavement.

Then the door swung open, too hard, too fast.

Cops.

"Hands up."

Billy froze, the hairs on his arms standing up.

This wasn’t good.

He tried to remember a prayer, to find God—to tell Him he’d change, he’d be a good Catholic boy.

The uniforms donned by the hitmen disguised as police didn’t hesitate. The boots snapped against the concrete, crisp, rehearsed. Too fast. Too purposeful.

Three more men appeared in the back—dressed in civilian clothes.

Nothing made sense.


Frankie thought about that redhead from Cicero.

He’d meant to take her to see Broadway Melody—first talkie musical, supposed to be a big deal.

Billy thought about the special dinner his ma was making.

Roast beef. Her way of telling him she had good news.

Something about a cousin in Boston, a job on the docks. A union.

He didn’t understand why that was a good thing, but she had smiled when she told him.

For the first time in a long time, she had hope.

Billy clenched his jaw.

Just get through this.

Just—

Someone laughed. A joke about "Moron." About Capone taking over.

The air shifted.

Then—

The gunfire started.

10:32 AM.

The first note struck—sharp, commanding.

Then came the overture.

The Tommy Gun chattered to life, a snare drum rattling against brick and bone. Short, controlled bursts, each round slapping flesh, punching through bodies like a conductor marking time.

Then the second Thompson joined in—a wild, reckless violin, bow dragging too hard across the strings, spitting lead in long, breathless sweeps.

The rhythm built. Bodies jolted, a percussive beat—wet, final, undeniable.

A pause.

Smoke curled, thick and bitter.

Then—

The shotgun roared, slow, deliberate. A single, deep drumbeat.

Another.

Another.

Each blast an exclamation point.

The final note.

And then—silence.

The echoes lingered, bouncing off brick like a song cut short. The orchestra packed up, their instruments still warm with blood, and stepped into the cold.

The symphony of shrapnel left its audience deceased or dying, their final notes fading in a haze of gunpowder and the shredded meat of men they once knew.

By 10:35 AM, the Cadillac was gone.

Billy had never taken Danny to the store.

He had never come through the door with his collar turned up against the cold, grumbling about the price of bread or the weight of a sugar sack in his arms.

Instead, he was somewhere else.

Somewhere she could not follow.

The wind rattled against the panes. The light dimmed further, spilling long shadows over the empty chair at the table.

They did not speak of it.

They did not acknowledge it.

Tomorrow would come.

Tomorrow, the bread would still need buying.

Tomorrow, the streetcar bells would still ring, the church clock would still chime.

Tomorrow, people would go on.

But Billy would not.

And so they sat, the air thick with everything left unsaid, listening to the clock tick toward night.


The light outside had shifted, stretching shadows long and thin over the worn wooden floor. The sun, pale and weak, clung to the edges of the buildings across the street—like it, too, was waiting for something that would never come.

Danny sat at the table, hunched over his plate, chewing slow, though he wasn’t really eating.

The scrape of his fork against the porcelain was the only sound in the room.

A hollow, grating noise that Ma didn’t bother to hush.

There was no point now.

She didn’t sit. She never did.

Instead, she stood by the window, the way she had this morning, her hands smoothing over her apron.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there. Watching. Waiting. Wringing her hands.

The street outside hadn’t changed.

The same laundry lines sagged between windows, the same steam curled from the gutters. The same people passed by, caught up in the same lives they’d been living just this morning.

Only she was different.

Somewhere down the street, a trolley bell clanged. A door slammed. The wind curled under the eaves, pressing against the glass, making it shudder.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the wind fill the spaces Billy had left behind.

She could see him, even now—his shoulders hunched in his coat, hands deep in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe with that same crooked smirk his father used to wear.

"I’ll be back before lunch."

She swallowed, the taste of salt thick in her throat.

Danny cleared his throat. His voice came small, careful.

"Tomorrow, maybe we can still go to Nowicki’s. I can run down after school."

The clock ticked.

A beat passed.

Ma stayed where she was, fingers curling into the edge of the curtain, her knuckles pale and swollen beneath the raw stretch of skin.

The roast sat untouched on the table, its scent cloying now, heavy, a ghost of a meal never eaten.

It had been a nice day.

Her boys were healthy.

She sighed, an unconscious sound that betrayed the emotions she was fighting to hide.

"Aye," she said finally, voice quiet. "Tomorrow."

She flicked away a tear that felt foreign on a face that rarely divulged sorrow.

Danny nodded, turning back to his plate.

5:30 PM.