Whiskey Island
Cleveland, Ohio January, 2000
Niccolo Andreani did not frequent bars. When he drank, he preferred a classic Chianti over dinner with friends, a dry marsala on a solitary evening, his Tuscan grandfather's own vino santo lifted in a toast at family gatherings. He did not frequent bars, but he frequently walked past this one on his restless nightly prowls. Whiskey Island Saloon bedecked Lookout Avenue the way a faux ruby bedecked a rhinestone choker. It was the centerpiece of the street, a ramshackle, cheerfully rowdy establishment with a steady stream of pa- trons and a generous sidewalk that made it easy to avoid them.
Unfortunately, on this particular night, the whim to turn down Lookout and walk past the saloon had changed his life forever.
Niccolo registered this thought as he came to an abrupt halt, the leather soles of his hiking boots squealing against the asphalt leading into the saloon's narrow parking lot. A question followed. If he silently retraced his steps, could he find help before the situation confronting him exploded?
A shout from the back of the lot and a woman's terrified scream were his answers. The street was empty ... read full excerpt from: Whiskey Island ebook
