The Row
Every family had a street like this.
The bakery that knew your order. The tailor who knew your size before you did. The social club with the chairs out front and a card game that never really ended. Everybody looked out for everybody, and nobody said much about it.
Mafia Row is that street, cut into heavyweight cotton. Quiet pieces, a few words, worn by people who know what they mean.
See you on the Row