Queens at night was noisy, but it felt like the streets were moving just for FatTony. He waddled down the sidewalk, stomach rumbling louder than the subway.

“Twelve years away,” he muttered, “and all I got is empty pockets and a bigger belly. Fantastic.”

He patted his coat pocket where his dice sat.

“You better be lucky tonight, or it’s my feet next.”

He stopped in front of The Big Stitch, his tailor and restaurant dream. The sign flickered in the streetlight, but the place was empty. Not a soul in sight. “Maybe folks scared of my waistline or maybe they heard my spaghetti comes with a side of knuckles,” he chuckled, rubbing his belly. A dream, he thought, should be bigger than your stomach. Well, maybe as big.

FatTony loved three things: dice, food, and looking good. At least, looking good in a suit that didn’t make him feel like a sausage in casing. His last suit had nearly caused a heart attack, mostly for him, but maybe also for the tailor. He sighed, glancing at The Big Stitch.

“One day, this place is gonna be packed. Until then, I guess I roll dice and eat my feelings.”

A stray cat darted past, and FatTony barely glanced at it before taking a swig from the flask in his coat pocket. “Careful, furball,” he muttered, wiping his mouth. “I’m a friendly guy… until you steal my lunch.” He chuckled, the sound rolling down the street like a barrel full of cannoli.

He kept walking, imagining the diner a few blocks down. A sandwich, maybe two, maybe three. He was hungry in more ways than one. Hungry for food, hungry for respect, hungry to prove he was back in the game. Every dice roll was a tiny battle, every empty chair at The Big Stitch a small insult, and every glance at his reflection in a shop window a reminder that he needed a suit that fit.

FatTony didn’t worry too much. He’d eat, he’d roll, he’d dream. Queens would see him soon enough, wise guy, funny guy, dangerous guy. And maybe, just maybe, people would finally come to The Big Stitch.