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marinara, the smell was too much to bear even for a man groveling for his soul. "Ohh Senora Franchesca! Can I make this ina my restaurant?" Redemption goes particularly well with a freshly seasoned slowly simmered marinara. Maria Franchesca didn't question this as even though that restaurant had a notorious history as a speakeasy. After all, no Italian even slightly understood nor could abide prohibition. Outlawing wine was akin to outlawing genuflection before Christ and Christ drank wine. Was the last supper served in a speakeasy? It would have to have been were it reheld. No. The speakeasy was no issue. She didn't respect law which didn't respect humanity. She saved her respect for morality. Her own wine press was in a second cellar through a secret door. It had been dug by her late husband who folded the deep soil from beneath the house into the spectacular garden which issued many of the herbs floating in that sauce which, in turn, declared the theme of this house - life. The wine cellar was cave-like and cool. It was close and monastic. It was dark and stripped of any pretense. Grape was the seed. This was the womb. Elsewhere federal agents were ripping exactly such doors open and screaming AHA, WHAT IS THIS? Fortunately, that didn't happen much in the North Ward. Even so, one had to be careful. But this, her own cellar secret, she shared, giving Louis her best primo - the unpressed - the highly valued and very limited first wine made from that juice leached only from the pressure of the weight of the grapes themselves. "Ona disa wine I givea you my son. You no maka acid. Ona my dead husband, I pray fora you soul, to helpa you showa the way." It was dark, but eyes adapt, he gave her his son's picture with his hand shaking so hard he could barely hold the image. Nothing shook this man. Nothing. Yet, there it was. Passion. Shaking expectation. There was enough reflected light as he replied, "On