The Faded Attic
Act I Luigi Aiello wiped the grease from his hands onto a rag that had already lost its color, the fabric stiff with old oil and the sharp, metallic tang of the strike kitchen’s ventilation shafts. He stood before the long table where the accounts were kept, the factory whistle key in his pocket clicking against his thigh like a loose tooth, a small, heavy reminder of the authority he was about...
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