A Corsets and Champagne Romance
East Harlem, NYC, August 1919
“Madonna mia, this wretched thing!” Lucie wrestled with her corset strings, muttering under her breath. The daily battle between breathing and dignity was reaching new heights of absurdity. She’d loosened the stays earlier while teaching—her mentor, Sister Agnes, ever practical in such matters, had kindly overlooked it. But now, the expectations of the evening ahead left no room for comfort, insisting she tighten every last lace.
In the mirror, stray curls framed her heart-shaped face, defying their pins, while her cheeks glowed with the kind of color that came from anticipation, not rouge. At seventeen, Lucie stood on a precipice, caught between two worlds: the dutiful Italian daughter her family had raised and the fiercely independent woman she yearned to become.
From downstairs came the chaos of the large Santoro household at dinnertime: baby Ricky’s wails competing with Mamma’s rapid-fire Italian, pots clanging as Marie tried to manage both cooking and childcare. The Victrola played a spirited tarantella—Vicky’s latest act of defiance—while Papa’s voice rose in argument with sons Bruno and Joe about the steel workers’ strike in Pittsburgh.
“Lucie!” Lucie’s younger sister, Gina, burst into their shared bedroom, eyes dancing with mischief. “Mamma wants to know what dress you’re wearing to the movies with Ines tonight. And Carlo’s mother cornered me at the market today—said you missed another dinner with them.”
Lucie’s heart skipped. Trust Gina to deliver both warnings at once, though her sister’s conspiratorial grin suggested she knew exactly why Lucie had been “busy” lately.
The blue silk dress—dark as midnight, daring as sin—hung from Lucie’s wardrobe. She’d saved three months of tutoring and Sunday School teaching wages to buy it, telling herself it was for special occasions. But really, it was for nights like tonight, when Dante Mazzarone’s gleaming Buick would be waiting around the corner, ready to whisk her into a world where propriety held no power.
“Tell Mamma the blue wool,” Lucie said, dabbing French perfume behind her ears—not the rosewater Mamma preferred. The mirror reflected the daughter her mother would be proud of, everything in place, not a hair out of position. Only she could feel how the perfect surface concealed a heart beating with dangerous rebellion.
“That doesn’t look like wool. And what about Carlo?” Gina asked, leaning against the doorway with a pout.
“Go away,” Lucie said, waving her off. “Mamma needs you in the kitchen.”
Gina’s question lingered, dampening Lucie’s mood. Carlo Colucci, with his careful courtship and respectable jewelry shop, was everything she was supposed to want. His mother’s sauce recipe waited to be learned, his family’s expectations like another set of corset stays wrapping around her future. She’d seen him just yesterday, standing behind his shop counter with shoulders stooped under the weight of his father’s illness. He’d shown her his latest designs—beautiful, modern art deco pieces he’d never be allowed to create while bound by tradition. She’d recognized that same trapped look she saw in her own mirror each morning.
The memory of his tired smile made her chest ache, but not enough to stop her from reaching for her handbag. Not enough to keep her from slipping down the back stairs while Mamma was distracted with dinner, or from hurrying through the gathering dusk toward the corner where Dante waited.
Under the streetlights, his Buick gleamed—a marvel of chrome and polished steel that demanded attention. The car represented everything Dante was—powerful, modern, dangerous in its very novelty. He lounged against the driver’s door, cigarette glowing in the deepening shadows, dark hair slicked back to reveal sharp cheekbones and eyes that could pierce straight through to a girl’s soul.
From his perfectly tailored suit to the fluid way he moved, everything about him radiated danger and grace, like a panther pretending to be tame.
“There’s my girl,” he said, straightening as she approached. His smile carried the same heat as his cigarette, promising to burn anyone who got too close. “Ready for a night you won’t forget?”
As he reached for her hand to help her into the car, Lucie’s gaze flickered to the subtle bulge beneath his tailored jacket. A thrill shot through her—sudden, breathless, and entirely new. Was it a gun? Mobsters always carried them, didn’t they? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, not of fear, but of something far more intoxicating. Dante wasn’t just any man; he was dangerous, untouchable—a figure out of the stories whispered in corner booths and back alleys. And tonight, she was on his arm.
The drive through nighttime East Harlem was intoxicating. Lucie had never been in an automobile without family present—the very act of sitting beside Dante, unchaperoned, feeling the engine’s purr through her whole body, was more thrilling than anything she could imagine. The city lights blurred past like stars, and Dante’s hand rested casually on the gear shift, close enough to her knee to make her pulse race.
At the corner of 114th Street, Rao’s Restaurant glowed like a beacon, its windows warm with light and possibility. Even from outside, Lucie could hear the jazz band playing “Sweet Georgia Brown,” smell the rich sauce that had made the restaurant famous. Her stomach fluttered with nervous excitement as Dante helped her from the car, his hand lingering on hers.
Lucie smoothed her hands over the blue silk dress, savoring the cool ripple of fabric beneath her fingers. The dress made her feel elegant, sophisticated, worlds away from the modest cotton and wool dresses that filled her wardrobe at home. Her breath caught as Dante’s hand found the small of her back, his touch both possessive and steadying as they descended the short flight of steps from the sidewalk into the restaurant’s intimate courtyard.
Waiting outside the door was Lou, the bouncer, his magnificent handlebar moustache twitching as he lounged at his usual post. Though he could have been intimidating with his barrel chest and biceps that strained his suit jacket, there was something almost theatrical about him – like a vaudeville strongman playing at being tough while secretly delighting in the drama of it all.
“Looking sharp tonight, Lou,” Dante’s easy smile carried an edge of authority.
Lou preened, adjusting his bow tie. “Feeling sharp, Mr. Mazzarone.”
“Like a film star, but I’m thinking more Charlie Chaplin than Fairbanks.” Dante grinned at the long-standing joke.
Lou raised an eyebrow, considering the comment. Then, with a good-natured shrug, he chuckled. “I’ll take it. Your usual table’s waiting, and Nicky’s got that ‘07 Veuve Clicquot chilled just the way you like.”
Dante clapped Lou lightly on the shoulder as they moved past. “Perfect. Tonight’s gonna be one for the books, eh, bella?” His grin was sharp and confident, a promise wrapped in charm.
Inside Rao’s, the air hummed with power and possibility. Men in expensive suits exchanged knowing glances while their diamond-draped feminine companions sipped wine, feigning indifference to the business being conducted around them. The familiar Italian melodies, woven with daring jazz rhythms, would have scandalized Mamma, but to Lucie they were intoxicating – proof that even tradition could be reshaped into something thrilling and new.
“Mr. Mazzarone!” A young busboy on his way to the kitchen nearly dropped his tray in excitement. “I finished that book you lent me—Jules Verne is incredible!”
Dante’s smile softened, genuine warmth breaking through his carefully maintained façade. “What did I tell you, Tommy? Keep at those books.” He pressed a folded bill into the boy’s hand. “And tell Nicky to hire you some help. You’re meant for better things than hauling dishes.”
Lucie was fascinated by the way Dante moved them through the crowd with effortless command. His presence was both magnetic and unsettling, drawing people in even as they seemed to tread carefully around him. Smiles were measured, greetings murmured with quiet respect. He carried himself like a man who owned the room—or could, if he wanted to. Every nod, every glance, every subtle shift in posture revealed his dual nature: dangerous yet charming, admired but undeniably feared.
“Dante!” An elderly woman dressed in evening finery called from her corner table. “You haven’t visited in ages. And who is this beautiful girl?”
Lucie’s heart stuttered as the woman’s sharp eyes settled on her. In the tight-knit neighborhood of East Harlem, all it would take was one word from her to set the neighborhood tongues wagging, destroying what was left of her reputation. She lowered her gaze, grateful for the dim lighting that might obscure her features.
“Mrs. Romano,” Dante bent to kiss her weathered cheek. “Those grandkids of yours must be getting big.” He nodded vaguely at Lucie without introduction, treating her presence as incidental, though his hand remained possessively at her back.
Mrs. Romano, poised and elegant in her furs and silk, offered a knowing smile. “Too big, Dio mi aiuti. And twice as clever.” She adjusted the pearl buttons at her wrist, her sharp eyes flicking briefly to Lucie—assessing, appraising—but she said nothing. Instead, she smoothed an invisible crease from the napkin in her lap and gave Dante a measured nod. “Go on, then. Try not to stir up too much trouble.”
With a parting smile, Dante guided Lucie forward, his hand light but insistent at the small of her back. The path before them seemed to open on its own—chairs scraping, conversations pausing just long enough to acknowledge his passing.
At their corner table, perfectly positioned to survey the room yet shielded from prying eyes, a silver bucket cradled a bottle of champagne on ice. The candlelight danced in the bubbles as Dante pulled out Lucie’s chair with a gesture so smooth, it felt like second nature.
“Only the best for you, bella,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the back of her neck as she sat. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, but whether it was from his warmth or the weight of the room’s collective gaze, she couldn’t say.
As she settled into her seat, Lucie felt the quiet hum of the restaurant wrap around her—a world apart from the clatter of dishes and noisy, overlapping voices that would be filling her family’s kitchen at this hour. Here, the candlelight was soft, the air laced with the scent of wine and slow-simmered sauces, and across from her, Dante exuded an effortless confidence that made the moment feel intoxicatingly unreal.
She glanced at the champagne as Dante poured it into her glass, its golden effervescence catching the light—delicate yet restless, like something too fragile to hold yet impossible to ignore.
Dante filled his own glass and raised it in a toast. “To new beginnings,” he said, his dark eyes holding promises that made her pulse quicken. Before she could respond, a waiter materialized at their table, noticeably trembling as he opened his notepad.
“The usual setup, Giovanni,” Dante said, never taking his eyes off Lucie. “And make it snappy.”
“Of course, Mr. Mazzarone.” The waiter’s practiced smile faltered, but then recovered. “And for the signorina…?”
“She’ll have what I’m having.” Dante’s tone carried an edge that made the waiter back away quickly. When Giovanni stumbled, knocking the table and sloshing champagne on the pristine tablecloth, Dante’s expression darkened. “Careful there. You know what happened to the last chump who ruined my evening.”
Lucie held her breath, startled by how effortlessly Dante’s tone had shifted. Yet, the champagne sparkled in her glass, cool and inviting, as he turned back to her with a smile that softened into something intimate, meant only for her. She wanted to believe in this tenderness, even as the steel in his earlier tone lingered at the edges of her mind. A few more soft murmurs and the chill of his earlier words melted away under his warmth, and she began to breathe again.
“Look how it catches the light,” he purred softly, tilting his glass so the bubbles shimmered like tiny stars. “Just like your eyes when you laugh.”
Lucie felt warmth bloom across her cheeks. This was the Dante that made her forget everything else—the one who noticed details others missed, who saw past her careful facade to the dreams she kept hidden. When he raised his glass in another toast, his dark eyes held hers with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away.
The champagne tickled her tongue, sweet and crisp, but it wasn’t the wine making her dizzy. Across from her, Dante reached into his jacket, his movements elegant, unhurried.
Lucie’s breath caught. For a fleeting second, that girlish thrill returned—had she been right? But instead of cold steel, his hand emerged with two carefully wrapped packages.
“I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment,” he said, setting them before her with a slow, knowing smile. “Open this one first,” he said, sliding the larger package toward her.
Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped the leather-bound volume. “John Dewey’s Democracy and Education,” she breathed. “You remembered.”
“‘Course I did. You mentioned it that night at Vinegar Hill.” His smile carried a hint of pride. “Every good teacher needs the right tools.”
Her heart raced. Carlo gave her practical gifts—gloves, a prayer book—things a proper Italian girl should want. But Dante saw her dreams, understood the fire that burned within her.
Setting aside the book, Lucie smiled coyly as she reached for the smaller box. “And what’s this?”.
“Books feed the mind, bella,” Dante’s voice dropped low, intimate. “But a woman like you? She needs something with a little more fire.”
Nestled inside the second package was an emerald ring that caught the candlelight, its depths glowing like summer grass beneath a storm-dark sky. The stone was massive—far larger than anything in Carlo’s shop—its setting both elegant and daring.
“Let me,” Dante said, taking her hand. His thumb traced circles on her wrist as he slid the ring onto her finger. “Perfect fit.”
The emerald’s weight felt like a promise and a warning all at once. Dante watched her face as she studied it, his eyes dark with possession.
She should say something—about how it was too much, about what it might mean—but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she found herself captivated by the way the stone seemed alive in the flickering light, bright and dangerous as Dante himself.
The band struck up a waltz, its melody floating soft and dreamy through the room. Dante lifted one finger, and without missing a beat the music shifted to “O Sole Mio.” He stood, extending his hand.
“Dance with me?”
Other couples gave them space on the floor, like courtiers making way for royalty. As they danced, Lucie caught glimpses of their reflections in the smoky mirrors – they looked like something from the movies, all glamour and grace. She’d never felt more beautiful, more alive.
Dante guided her with confidence, his hand at her waist drawing her closer than she’d ever dared dance before. The silk of her dress clung to the heat between them, and she felt the restrained strength in his frame with every smooth step. His grip was firm, possessive, yet teasing—a promise and a challenge wrapped in one.
The music coiled around them, brass and strings weaving a spell that made the rest of the restaurant fade to shadows. Every point where their bodies connected sent electricity through her – his hand splayed against her lower back, their thighs brushing with each turn, her fingers curled into the fine wool of his jacket. The champagne had stripped away her usual defenses, leaving her raw and electric in his arms.
This wasn’t like the polite, measured steps she’d taken with Carlo at church socials, where respectability left no room for yearning. With Dante, the dance became something else entirely—a slow unraveling, a conversation spoken in heat and hesitation.
When she made a feeble attempt to pull away, his growl sent a thrill coursing through her veins. “Damn, bella, but you’re irresistible tonight.”
The room carried a heady mix of perfume, longing, alcohol, and cigarettes. His scent—Bay Rum cologne, whiskey, and raw masculine heat—enveloped her until she could barely think straight. The room tilted and spun, a carousel of sound and sensation. Other dancers blurred past them like impressionist paintings come to life – splashes of scarlet lips, glints of jewelry catching light, beaded dresses throwing prisms across the walls.
Through it all, Dante remained her only fixed point in this whirling constellation of light and shadow, his solid presence anchoring her even as everything else dissolved into a fever dream of color and motion. The candlelight caught the emerald fire of her ring, a reminder that any ring on her finger should be Carlo’s. But as Dante’s hand slid lower, guiding her into another spin, Lucie realized she was already choosing something else—if only for this moment.
The music swelled when a sudden, sharp crack cut through the melody. Near the bar, a man staggered and hit the floor hard, blood oozing from his nose and lip.
The room fell silent as Lou loomed over the bleeding man, his usual confident smile faltering when he caught Dante’s eye. A hush spread through the crowd like a held breath. Even the band seemed to sense the shift, their music fading to an uncertain whisper before stopping altogether.
Lucie froze, her heartbeat hammering. She felt Dante’s hand leave her waist, and before she could protest, he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Don’t move, bella. Just a small business matter.”
Without a word, Dante caught Tommy’s eye as the young busboy passed with his laden tray. “Take care of her for me,” he said, smoothly transferring Lucie’s arm to Tommy’s. “Just for a moment, bella.”
Tommy straightened, pride mixing with nervousness. “Yes, sir, Mr. Mazzarone, sir.”
As Tommy tucked her arm in his and led her to the side of the dancefloor, Lucie watched Dante stride toward the bar, his unhurried steps carrying absolute authority. The crowd parted before him like smoke.
When he saw Dante approach, he whimpered and tried to scramble away, his polished shoes slipping on the floor. Dante hauled him up by his collar, as casual as straightening a tablecloth. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice carrying that particular kind of calm that promised violence. “And here I thought we were going to have such a nice chat.”
He shoved the man back against the bar, drawing a pained gasp as shoulders met wood. “You’re getting predictable, Frankie. Next time you want to discuss business terms, remember—some debts can only be paid once.” Dante’s smile was razor-sharp. “And they’re usually paid in full.”
Lou appeared at his shoulder, silent and watchful. Dante didn’t need to look at him to give the order; his voice carried the kind of authority that expected obedience. “Make sure our friend here understands the new payment schedule. And Lou”—he adjusted his cufflinks, the gold catching the light—”if his memory needs refreshing again, don’t do it in the restaurant.”
With a casual toss, Dante shoved the terrified man toward Lou. “And clean this up,” Dante added, gesturing at the small spots of blood on the floor. His tone suggested he meant more than just the visible stains. “I’ve got a lady waiting.”
As Dante turned back to Lucie, the tension in the room dissolved into a hum of relieved whispers. The band tentatively struck up a new tune, eager to smooth over the disturbance.
With his easy smile back in place, Dante reclaimed Lucie’s hand, as if the momentary flare of violence had been nothing more than a passing breeze. “Sorry about that, bella,” he murmured, drawing her effortlessly into his arms. His voice, rich and soothing, wrapped around her like velvet, though a sharp edge still lingered beneath the charm. “Now, where were we?”
Lucie’s breath hitched as his hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer. She couldn’t tell if it was the heat of his touch or the sheer, unshakable power he’d just displayed that made her pulse flutter wildly. The space between them felt electric, charged with the thrill of something dangerous and forbidden.
As he swung her back into the rhythm of the dance, Lucie wouldn’t let anything shatter the spell Dante cast—not the lingering whispers of the crowd, nor the subtle chill that came with the harder glint she caught in his eyes. This was her fairy tale evening, after all, and Dante was the dark prince she hadn’t known she was waiting for—seductive, commanding, and utterly unpredictable.
The world around her seemed to melt away. Gone was Mamma and Papa Santoro’s proper daughter who knew her place; in Dante’s arms, she felt daring and untouchable, swept into a story where safety was a distant memory and adventure promised to consume her whole.
The music ended, and Dante guided her back to their table. He leaned back in his chair, his glass of champagne sparkling in the soft glow of the candlelight. His dark eyes never left Lucie, studying her as though she were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever encountered.
“Ah, bella. You don’t belong in that little world of your parents,” he said, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of absolute certainty.
Lucie blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Dante said, leaning forward, his hand brushing hers where it rested on the table. “All their rules. All their plans for you. They’d put you in a cage and call it a gift. But I see it in your eyes—you were meant to fly.”
Her breath caught, the sincerity in his gaze leaving her speechless.
“No one else can give you what I’m offering,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, intimate and intoxicating. “Freedom. A life where no one tells you who to be, where to go, or what dreams you’re allowed to have. A life that’s yours, bella. Only yours.”
He spun the words like a spell shimmering with possibilities she didn’t fully understand, but couldn’t resist. Her pulse quickened as she tried to find words, but none came. She didn’t dare ask what his version of freedom looked like, afraid of shattering the heady promise his words carried.
Instead, she let herself be swept up in the vision he painted, the idea that somewhere beyond the weight of expectations lay a world where she could truly belong—to herself, and maybe to him.
The rest of dinner passed in a champagne haze of dancing and laughter. When they finally stepped out into the night air, the city felt transformed – the usual grit and clamor softened to something almost magical. Dante drove slowly through the quiet streets, as if neither of them wanted the evening to end.
As his Buick purred to a stop at the darkened edge of Mt. Morris Park, Lucie felt suspended between two worlds. The evening had been perfect—the glamour of Rao’s, the thoughtful gifts, the dancing. If she focused on those moments, she could almost forget his earlier fury at the bar, the way his charm had switched off like a light, leaving something harder and colder in its place.
But now, sheltered by the park’s towering oaks, she was close enough to home for propriety, far enough for privacy. His hand found hers in the darkness, gentle again, though she couldn’t forget how those same fingers had gripped the bleeding man’s collar just hours before.
The emerald ring glinted in the moonlight, its fire both enticing and heavy with unspoken meaning, and Lucie found herself remembering fairy tales—how the princess always had to choose between safety and adventure, between what was expected and what was possible.
Through the trees, she could see her family’s brownstone—warm light spilling from windows, the faint sound of the Victrola still playing. A world of constraints, yes, but also of certainty and love.
“Remember what I said, bella. You’re wasted here,” Dante murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “A girl like you needs more than what these narrow streets can give you.” His kiss tasted of champagne and possession, each touch a delicate chain gilded with freedom. “Let me show you what real living feels like.”
“Dante,” she began, but he was already pulling her close, his kiss burning away all thought of consequences. Heat bloomed in her chest, spreading until she felt dizzy with it. This wasn’t like Carlo’s careful courtship, all proper distances and chaperoned moments. This was something wild and raw, beautiful and terrifying as lightning.
“Say you’ll be mine,” he whispered against her lips. “Only mine.”
The words sparked something in her—rebellion and yearning and dreams too big for East Harlem to contain. The ring caught the glow of the streetlight, its emerald fire a reminder of all Dante offered—freedom, passion, a life beyond the narrow boundaries that had always caged her.
She pulled back slightly, meeting his dark gaze. “I should go,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Not a rejection, but not quite surrender, either.
“Look at that moon, bella,” Dante’s voice wrapped around her like silk hiding steel. “A perfect night for taking chances.” His fingers traced her cheek, the touch possessive. “A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be wasting your best years dreaming. I could make those dreams real.” His touch deceptively gentle. “I could give you everything – but opportunities like this? They don’t wait forever.”
Then he smiled, that dangerous curve of lips that always made her heart race. “They don’t wait… And neither do I, Lucie.”
While his final words had shaken her, the walk home felt electric, despite each step taking her further from Dante’s dangerous allure and closer to her family’s expectations. The night was thick with late summer heat, the air humming with the lingering energy of the city. Gas lamps cast long shadows over the cobbled streets, their flickering glow barely holding back the dark.
Across the way, Mt. Morris Park stretched out in moonlit stillness, the iron fence casting jagged patterns against the pavement. A stray cat slinked past an overturned milk crate, and in the distance, the rattle of an elevated train broke the quiet before fading into the night.
But as she climbed the stoop, moving quietly to avoid waking the household, Lucie realized she wasn’t the same girl who had slipped out hours earlier. The careful world of her childhood—of Carlo’s patient courtship and her mother’s plans—suddenly felt too small to contain the woman she was becoming.
The glitter of Rao’s still sparkled in her mind, making her family’s careful world feel like a dollhouse – all painted surfaces and rigid rules. Yet something about tonight had shifted her view of Dante, too. The way he’d handled that man, the cold calculation beneath his charm. She’d glimpsed the shadows in his world, and they left her shivering despite the warm night air.
If neither choice led to the life she wanted… what did? The question lingered as Lucie stared out into the restless night, a whisper of doubt and possibility taking root in equal measure.
She was tired of playing both sides, trying to keep one foot in each world. She was done with being the good daughter, the proper almost-fiancée, squeezing herself into spaces too small to hold her dreams.
Dante’s way might be dangerous, but it offered a path forward, away from the life others had planned for her.
Even if that path led somewhere no one expected.
At the front door, she paused, the emerald ring heavy on her finger. It represented everything she thought she wanted – freedom, passion, escape. Her hand trembled as she slipped off the ring, letting it catch one last glimmer of moonlight before hiding it away.
Lucie sighed, releasing the weight of her troubled thoughts in a single breath. Tonight wasn’t for worries or decisions, those heavy storms could wait until morning’s light.
For now, she would rather lose herself in dreams—of dark princes and fairy-tale endings, of a love too wild to survive the daylight, but powerful enough to set her free.
Beloved readers, you’ve just stepped into the dangerous dance of 1919 New York, where love, loyalty, and liberation tangle like partners in a forbidden waltz. “Mobster’s Waltz” isn’t just a romantic escape—it’s your exclusive glimpse into the heart of The Promise Trilogy.
In the vibrant streets of 1919 East Harlem, Lucie Santoro is caught between family duty and personal ambition. Determined to become a teacher despite her family’s disapproval, she secretly pursues her dreams while navigating the pull of two very different men—the dependable, steady Carlo and the passionate, unpredictable Dante.
As love, tradition, and independence collide, Lucie must find the courage to break free from societal constraints and carve out a future of her own. The Promise Trilogy is a deeply evocative tale of resilience, self-discovery, and the sacrifices made for a life truly worth living. It will sweep you into a world where passion meets power, where tradition meets transformation, and where one woman’s journey to find herself could change everything.
While I’m deep in the enchanting chaos of crafting The Promise Trilogy (think ink-stained fingers and coffee-fueled inspiration!), I couldn’t bear to leave you without a regular dose of 1919 magic. And let’s be honest—how could I keep Lucie’s other adventures locked away in my writing desk?
Here’s the delicious scoop: More short stories are coming your way! Think of them as little windows into Lucie’s world, each one revealing a new facet of her journey that will make the trilogy even richer when it lands in your hands.
Why? Because darlings, stories like these are more than just tales—they’re keys to understanding:
– The simmering tensions of immigrant life in 1919 New York
– The dangerous dance between tradition and freedom
– The heart-pounding choices that shape a woman’s destiny
Consider these stories your exclusive backstage pass to The Promise Trilogy. Over the next year, each one will add another layer to the tapestry we’re weaving together, another secret shared between us.
So keep your eyes on those newsletters! While I’m wrestling with the trilogy’s grand saga, these intimate glimpses into Lucie’s world will keep the speakeasy doors open and the champagne flowing! 🥂
After all, some stories are too delicious to keep waiting…
And remember: Great novels take time to perfect, but great characters? They never stop living their lives! Stay tuned, my dears—the best is yet to come!