Emerald and Neon
1924. The Bronx. The alley behind 167th Street smelled of garbage and boiled cabbage and the particular kind of despair that only a tenement window could produce. Tommy O'Brien knew this smell. He had been born into it, raised on it, and at nineteen years old, he considered it as natural as air. Tommy was Irish—third generation, which meant his grandfather had fled the famine, his father had...
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