I haven’ forgotten to write, I just have been busy getting my life in order. I will probably give a long winded post in the near future, but I also didn’t think anyone cared about my writing enough to ask about the absence, so it’s not the highest thing on my priority list.

My roommate talked me into entering a writing competition. In this competition, you are challenged to write a short story, with a set of hard rules, in a week. They pick the Genre, Subject, and at least one character that has to take part in it. The subject has to be involved at some point, and the Genre needs to be met in minimalist fashion. My challenge was as follows:

Word Count: 2500 Max
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Subject: Reputation
Characters: Dairyman

Normally, when I write short stories, I keep it within the Horror genre, and dip sideways into Sci-fi when I feel like it. I have never really watched, let alone write Rom-Coms, so this was, uh, interesting to do. Throw in the fact that it has to be about a dairyman, and I was at a loss for days. But, with an hour before the deadline, I have finished.

So, without further adieu, I give you my 2500 word romantic comedy, involving a dairyman.

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Tony entered the small, smoky restaurant, and took a moment to take stock of the situation. As he reached up to smooth back his hair, however, he found himself immediately annoyed. Where he normally found himself generally appreciative of small cafe’s, this one was different. Not that he could point out any one thing that set him off, but the entire atmosphere was just, simply put, wrong. He muttered a curse as his fingers found a knot in his hair, yanking a few strands out by the roots. He took a second to witness the strands between his fingers, before discarding them into the air. He was already having enough trouble keeping his hair in his head without helping the problem himself, and if Tiffany took exception to his thinning hair one more time, he had promised to follow through on the ‘death’ portion of his wedding vows a bit sooner than planned. God, nor the Pope, we’re big fans of divorce.

The sound of plates shifting, and the smell of a fresh pour of coffee brought him back to the small café. He looked at what few patrons were at the tables, glancing at each for less than a second, lest his searching eyes linger long enough to give the wrong impression. He paused only briefly, when his gaze came across a middle aged man sitting alone in a booth, paper folded on the table, hands crossed beside. For a brief moment, Tony began to feel a small sense of dread in his stomach, as the man’s eyes turned towards him. The man’s face resembled many of those in Little Italy, but as soon as their eyes locked, he found himself relaxing; if it actually was someone from the other family, he would have been dead already.

Tony nodded to the two men behind him, as he finished stepping through the doorway. The men both entered, towering over the rest of the patrons. Despite the Twins having issues handling most tasks, intimidation was not one of those; Tony knew the twins would make short work of it. One made his way to the counter, the other towards the back, where the sounds of the kitchen quickly became quiet.

“Excuse me restaurant patrons,” Tony called out in a gruff voice, the small café walls reverberating the bass of his voice so that it came out as more of a shout than he had intended. “This establishment is now closed. Your bills are paid, and we are very, very kindly asking you to leave immediately.”

There was the briefest of pauses, before a couple of those seated at the bar began to gather their belongings, some more quickly than others. A free meal is a small price to avoid bloodshed, although most days, Tony appreciated a little hurt. Kept him young, or so he told himself, but today was not one of those days. A young couple seated at the table near him seemed to be in the middle of their breakfast, as well as unwilling to just move. The man didn’t even get a chance to open his mouth, before Tony pulled open the right side of his coat, revealing his sawed off shotgun that hung off his belt at the hip. The young man rethought his decision to speak instantly, and made the right choice to leave, dragging a confused date by the arm. Today is not that day.

As the last patron left, a harried waitress came from the back, hair frazzled and apron half undone, and began clearing out the table the young date was just moments prior. Angelo, the dumber of the twins, came out moments later, a smirk on his face telling Tony he probably did something stupid in the back.

“No Milkman here, just some dry udders,” he said, nodding towards the waitress, her eyes glued to the task in front of her.

Tony took a few, slow steps towards the man, and before he had even finished the last, he struck Angelo with the back of his hand. The man appeared enraged, briefly, then pitifully aghast with shame; a struck dog is an apt term for a struck dog, especially when words were no longer needed.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry, ma’am.” He said, quietly.

Miguel chuckled from behind the counter at his brother’s hurt. “That’ll teach you,trying to be funny,” he said, in a way that was half complaining, half teasing. “Looks good here as well, safe for the Don. As bad as my brothers joke is, there is no sign of the Milkman.”

“You idiots. The Don is meeting the Milkman here. As in, showing up soon, scheduled meet, you know, to talk business? Who knows, maybe he’ll do us a favor and take you out free of charge,” Tony felt his headache begin as he rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. For all he’s done for this family, it’s still the highest honor Tony could achieve in this life, to be in charge of The Don’s personal guard; but why did it have to be these two buffoons? Oh, yeah, because Tiffany wanted it. And Tiffany got what she wanted, or she’d complain until she got it. Tony felt his headache worsen as he thought about his wife.

“Miguel, man the front. Angelo, stay in the back and watch there. If you say another word to that poor waitress, I’ll have to explain to your Aunt Tiffany why her nephew is missing his hand.”

Angelo appeared to try and think of a rebuttal, but disappeared after realizing he had none. Tony went to the front door, and whistled to the black car parked down the road. It pulled up in front of the café, and after parking, the driver moved around to the passenger side door, opening the door to the chill Chicago air. As the Don began to step out of the vehicle, Tony heard the tail end of a giggle; Serina must be joining them today. That’s not a good sign.

The door opened, and Serina felt the chill in the air rush through the cab. It had caught her off guard, but not her father. He looked every bit as regal as he appeared growing up, but the wind flipped his hair in a way that debased the fine wine that age had created. She couldn’t help but giggle.

“Father! Fix your hair! The twins will spend all night making jokes, instead of working!”

He paused, briefly, and expertly pushed back his hair with both hands. Turning around, he extended one of his hands out towards her, a small, subtle smile creeping into his hard, crevassed face. She took his hand, as she stepped out of the car herself, and admired his work.

“There. Now that is the businessman I know.” Serina let out a playful smile; her father may be a man of few words, but she knew he appreciated her. While she didn’t enjoy more violent parts of the Family’s work, she did, however, understand the cost of respect, and the price needed to maintain it. Especially now.

The couple made their way into the small café, where Tony was already standing next to a table, one hand gesturing towards the chair meant for her father, the other outstretched to receive his pea coat. Miguel nearly tripped over a chair while pulling it out for her; it betrayed the suave intent, but she found herself smiling at the gesture. It may be their respect for her father that incites them to help, but she found it endearing, having such ‘mobsters’ trip over themselves to try and help. She took her seat with soft thanks.

Once the waitress, who looked to be on the verge of tears, had filled their cups with fresh coffee, she waited in silence for her father to speak. It was an old tactic, but it worked; if she wanted to know why she was here, she simply needed to wait. Very early in her life, her father taught her that the family business was just that; a business operation. Many things were ‘Need to know,’ and anyone pressing for too much information was a liability, or a rat. Or both, as history had proven time and time again.

Serina found her mind wandering, in the silence, back to the waitress. Why had she been crying? Had one of the twins spooked her a bit too well? Or was she afraid that after our business, we would leave the place in shambles like the old pub? The recent stories the public heard were all true, but the context was all wrong. Whereas the newspapers phrased  the shooting of Vinny’s pub as collateral damage in a turf war, the truth is much more benign. He had bought the pub outright as a wedding gift for Vinny, and with his betrayal, he forfeited his right to the pub. Her fathers message was written to all, but understood by few – “You may leave, but you bring nothing with you.”

The thought brought her back to the café, and wondering why she had been brought along. She had heard mention of this meeting, soon after Vinny’s pub, but never found herself in a position to get details. Apparently, they were meeting someone; The Milkman. It was a strange alias, for sure, but nowadays, everyone had an alias. Her father was ‘The Don’, but that was to be expected. A dirty cop that she had a fling with briefly had let her know that underneath her name on the detective’s board was “Lattante”. That always made her chuckle; for being an ‘unweaned baby,’ she ran most of the business side of things herself. However, without the Family, she was nothing, and without her, it was nothing. It was both an apt, and terrible nickname.

So The Milkman could be anyone, a contract killer, a businessman, a connect, and the moniker could have come from anything. Miguel, the buffoon, was known as Miguel “The Statesman” DiFantano; All because during a meeting with one of the senators, a lucky journalist caught a picture of them briefly shaking hands. For weeks, it caused the press to search for a connection between the Family, and the Senator’s committee. The truth is, Miguel mistook the man for a valet, and was trying to stiff the man on a tip, but that doesn’t change perception. It’s all about perception, so when her father finally spoke, Serina listened intently.

“We are here to meet Milkman” Her father said softly. “He is the son of an old business acquaintance. His father was one of my best workers, but when his wife became pregnant, he approached me about leaving the family.” Her father sighed, softly, before giving her an even softer smile. “You had just been born, I have a soft spot when it comes to children. He must have known; the man was quite shrewd.”

Serina felt herself return the smile. Whereas others might have taken that as regret, she knew he was being more retrospective; there are many things that she understood about her father that others could never know. It’s why she was here. She understood now. She took a sip of her coffee, before responding.

“Well, if his son is anything like him, I’ll be sure to let you know if you’re getting milked.” A rare, full smile flashed across her fathers face, and Serina knew she was right; Her father was concerned that his past would make him weaker, and she was there to give a buffer.

“In case we get milked.” He said, his smile becoming wry with the words.

As if on cue, the door opened, and a well built man entered, bundled with a thick scarf, and bridge coat. Serina felt her interest grow; anyone who could put her father on edge is someone to be reckoned with, and his clothes showed he was successful. As he removed his leather gloves, Serina noted his hands were worn, but not terribly so; calluses and a lack of rings were the sign of a worker. Serina liked  workers; they were more direct, and there was less to interpret. They also tended to be easier on her eyes. The combination of no rings and a workers body caught Serina off-guard, as she rubbed her thumb over the bottom of her own, bare ring finger. With her father being who he was, it was something she had put out of her mind years ago.

Tony took the man’s coat, and he made his way over to greet her father, outstretching his hand in a familiar way; nobody in the family would dare. Her father, however, stood and reciprocated, their hands locking in a firm handshake, before becoming an embrace.

“It’s been so long!” Her father started with unexpected warmth. “Too long. How’s your father? Last we spoke, he feared your mother would leave him, if he continued losing his hair.” A soft chuckle betrayed the joke, her father actually wanted to know.

“My father is well, sir. He still has all his hair, so I think retirement suits him. They both send their love.” The man flashed a warm smile towards her father, before turning to face Serina.

Serina finally was able to appreciate the man himself as he introduced himself. He was tall, but not so tall as to tower over her. He was wearing a collared shirt that matched the dark green of his eyes. His face was pleasant to look at, handsome, but not chiseled, and as he saw her, a dimple formed in only his one cheek.

“You must be Serina! My father has told me so much about you! I’m Marco, it’s a pleasure to meet you!”

He offered his hand, and Serina took it, gently. His grip was soft, but firm, and she caught herself using her other hand to lightly touch his forearm as the greeting ended. Even underneath his shirt she could tell was toned by hard work. She wondered if everything was as toned as his forearm. If only this wasn’t business.

As if her father had sensed her dirty thoughts, he stood, and reached for his jacket that Tony had already prepared. Serina must have looked confused, because he stopped, briefly, before taking a long sigh, and letting out that same wry smile he had moments before.

“Let me know if you get…fleeced,” He said, before heading out the door, the rest of the men followed suit, leaving just her and Marco in the small café.

“So, let’s talk business.” She said, trying to regain her composure, Serina decided to move forward. This was odd, but it wouldn’t be the first time Father had left her to attend to matters at hand.

“Oh, well, there’s not much excitement in my line of work. Hard to get iced when your biggest threat is spilt milk. I think that’s why your father set us up on this date.”

“Date?”