<font face="arial">In the age of the Chrystler New Yorker, wealth, and gunfire, three things mattered: wealth, men, and her father's Familia. Grace, dignity, and respect were three things this fawn would attract at any given moment-- not to mention her acquired wealth. Smitten with the laws of "Old Money," our Italian princepessa was certainly enough for any man to try to get his hands on-- yet far more than any man could handle. At a meer twenty-eight years old, fawn was up for the challenge, and ready to play. What lies ahead is nothing but a pure American d r e a m .
<center>Alessandra Cammeo Contrada.</center>
Imagine. The height of the 1940s, booze mixed with gunfire that rang through the streets. A sensual sound that made her bones tingle, her eyes burn, her lips curl. The oldest daughter of the Contrada family, her father passed down many tricks of the trade, whether he outwardly chose to or not. He'd acquired a pupil, Constantine Dante Messina, a strikingly handsome young man-- at the time. Bella would watch as they interacted, blue-gray eyes smitten with the pupil from the start. She was twelve, then-- a passtime whose chapter closed much more quickly than it opened. Now, a fawn of nearly thirty, Alessandra was forced to take on the families assets, along with its burdens. She may have grown up under one of the finest of men-- but she had a lot to learn.
Fingers steadied the pen as it pressed to paper, slender legs folded neatly at the ankles. She sat at the desk, back straight, eyes focused. Head dipped lightly to one side as she dated the paper, before glancing around the large library. Heels soon clicked as she moved to shut the door to the library, clicking on the small lamp that sat in the left hand corner of the desk. Settling herself, the leather chair enveloped her small form, leather whining as she shifted. Pen was steadied, its small ball pressed to paper as dark ink spelled out her words:
It's been ages, has it not? I haven't heard from you, nor seen you, in years. I hope all is well. Things have been interesting in Boston-- times have certainly changed, Mother passed away two years ago, leaving most of her affairs to me. Which, brings me to the real reason why I write.
I'm not sure how to put into words what I want to express to you-- there really is no gentle way for me to say it. Father passed away two weeks ago, suddenly. I'd rather spare the details. Before he died, he and I had shared stories across the dinner table, stories of our childhood. Stories of you. At the time, it warmed my heart to think of you-- I always did look up to you in a way I couldn't dream of looking to anyone else. But, I suppose that was another time and place. At any rate, I knew you needed to be told about Father's death. With his death he's left me a great deal of responsibility, as I'm sure you already would have guessed.
I hope this letter finds you quickly, simply so you are well-informed. I know not when I will be visiting New York, nor when you will be in Boston-- but perhaps this letter will find you and will forecast a chance meeting for the both of us. Send your family my love. My, it has been ages.
The letter was folded and neatly placed into an addressed envelop, sealed. Eyes settled on the envelop as she sat, quietly staring at his address, memories skidding through an otherwise clouded mind. She wondered what he was like, now-- if he still had the same boyish grin, if he still carried himself in his comfortable manor. Perhaps she would never know-- perhaps she would know soon enough.