Archive of Our Own ^beta

Richie

The apartment’s too fucking quiet.

It echoes back every sound, the hum of the shitty fridge, the distant siren from the street below—the hammering of my pulse in my skull, like it’s trying to escape.

It’s the kind of silence that reminds you just how alone you are.

I use what’s left of my cigarette to light a new one, hands shaking just enough to piss me off as I drop the butt in one of the many beer bottles piled up on the coffee table. It gives a satisfying hiss as I lift my eyes to my reflection on the blank TV screen in front of me.

I look like shit.

I take a deep drag, hold it in my lungs until it burns, then exhale slow, leaning back on the uncomfortable couch, legs spread wide.

Watching the smoke fade into nothing.

Along with everything else.

Tiff’s been gone almost a year now. Sat right here on this lumpy ass couch and told me she’d always love me. Just not the way I deserved to be loved. Whatever the fuck that means. I didn’t argue with her—she made up her mind about me a long time ago.

Eva though, I miss that kid every day. Every night I don’t get to tuck her into bed or sing her Taylor Swift—it fucking eats at me. I’ll get her this weekend though. Seven more sleeps. We’ll go to the park, maybe get ice cream.

That’s something to hold onto.

Fuck, that’s all I’ve got left.

I take another drag, choking on the burn—exhaling quick as my eyes fall to the full beer bottle on the coffee table. The condensation is long since evaporated, probably tastes like shit now. It’s been sitting there since I got back from the funeral.

Mikey’s funeral.

That was hours ago.

I take another drag.

Mikey’s funeral?

It sounds fucking absurd. Wrong in my head. Sounds wrong out loud too. Mikey should’ve lived forever. He was supposed to—but whatever he’s been carrying? It got too heavy for him.

Why the fuck didn’t I help him carry it?

Why didn’t I know it got that bad?

I take another pull of nicotine, hold it in too long again. Mikey’s fucking funeral. At least we sent him off like he lived, a fucking disaster. Donna, of course she showed her ass. Laid across the casket and wailed like her heart was being ripped out.

I guess it probably was.

Cicero had to drag her away kicking and screaming while people whispered among themselves.

Fucking jagoffs.

People gotta grieve their own ways.

Mikey would’ve been laughing his ass off—half those people only showed up to make sure he was really dead anyway.

Something that sounds more like a sob than a laugh huffs out of me as I lean forward and drop my finished cigarette into the empty bottle.

Yeah, Mikey would have told them all to go fuck today.

I reach for the beer, the one I cracked open when the sun was still out, fingers brushing the wrinkled label. I consider chugging it down, flat and bitter.

Instead, I grab it without warning and hurl it at the wall, watching glass explode in every direction—foam splattering the floor, the curtains.

I don’t flinch. Just watch it slide down the paint, into the soaked carpet. I sit back and grab another cigarette, fumbling for my lighter. I pat my chest, searching pockets.

I feel hollow.

Like my heart isn’t even beating anymore.

Like someone’s scooped me the fuck out and there’s nothing left.

The room settles, the fridge hums. I stare at the dead-eyed prick in the TV screen.

I’m still here.

Still alive.

With absolutely no fucking idea why.

~

The Original Beef of Chicagoland is a war zone.

That’s nothing new.

What’s new is the office door being shut.

He always kept it cracked.

The little shit hole room past the walk-in where Mikey sat with his head in his hands every day staring at unpaid bills, IOUs and whatever else he was hiding from us. Nobody’s touched the spot since he—

I shake the thought.

It’s like an unspoken pact. Leave it shut. Leave Mikey in there a little longer.

I exhale around the ache in my chest and nod to the next asshole in line.

“Yo, easy money’s in the house. Ya want the usual?” I ask the Billy Joel look alike standing in front of me. He tells me to fuck off and orders the usual. I call it out, ring it up. I’m running on Camel Lights and pure fucking spite today.

The little bell over the front door jingles, bringing my eyes up on instinct and fuck me—

The hottest girl I’ve ever seen steps inside.

She takes a step toward the line like she owns the chaos radiating between these walls, calm, aware and entirely too confident. I watch her tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear, hazel eyes taking it all in before they land on me.

“Fuck, you’re pretty.” Chi Chi states like it’s canon, eyes roaming as she forces a polite smile. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

“I’m looking for Richie.”

Of course she is.

For a second, I can’t breathe.

Chi Chi glances up at me, jealousy and envy dripping off of him as he rolls his eyes and turns back to the window. “Yeah—that’d be me.” I mutter, shoving a wad of crumpled bills into Billy’s outstretched hand.

I force myself not to look at her. Force myself to have one fucking ounce of self control and I fail, miserably—meeting her whiskey eyes.

“Mikey sent me.”

Her words knock the air clean out of my lungs.

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it while I try to swallow the sound. It’s like swallowing knives.

“Yeah? From the fucking grave, sweetheart?” I ask, words coming out too forced. Too bitter. She frowns, and I instantly hate it. “No,” She assures me softly, “From Benny’s Italiano’s on Hubbard’s Street.”

I can only stare at her, waiting for more. Is this broad trying to tell me my dead best friend is out on Hubbard putting money into other businesses while his ship is sinking into the dirt?

“Sweetheart—“

“I served him last week, he told me to come here, ask for Richie and you’d give me a job.”

I swallow hard, unable to speak. Unable to do anything but stare at this girl—waltzing into Mikey’s house with his fucking words still in her mouth. I press my fist to my chest to breathe through the ache swirling in the center of it, dropping her gaze with another brittle laugh.

“Fucking Mikey,” I shake my head at the thought. Still planning, still looking to somehow make this dump better, even when he was at the end of his fucking rope. “You got experience in a shit hole like this? Benny’s Italiano’s a lot nicer.” My voice is sharper than I mean for it to be but I’m kind of in the middle of a nervous breakdown here.

She smiles—fucking smiles and it damn near brings me to my knees. Mikey’s sending me fucking angels down here to sling Italian beef.

“I’ve done it all. Cook. Clean. Run the line.” She says, all business and I laugh again. That’s what they all say. “Alright, princess. You got any concerns? Anything for me?”

I watch her lips part, tongue brushing the bottom one as she gathers her thoughts.

Here we go.

The catch.

Can’t work weekends or Tuesdays or past three on Wednesdays. Allergic to onions. Don’t know how to use a stove. Mikey never asks about that shit, just sees a pretty face and gives her the world.

“Benny’s cousin Tito does the delivery service there and he grabs my ass every fucking day of my life, so if that could not happen here—I’m your girl.”

I blink at her words. Fucking Tito DiMaggio. I always knew that goon was a fucking pervert.

“What’s your name?”

“Staci.”

I hand Fat Joey his change, call him a stroke because that’s what the fuck he is. Fucking gavone.

“You got a last name, Staci?”

She hesitates for just a beat. I almost miss it, flipping Joey off on his way out the door.

“Rossi.”

I glance around this sinking fucking ship, take in the shitty fluorescents that burn too bright—the grease stained tiles, the crew that’s running on fumes and grief.

I meet her eyes again, take in that fucking smile that’s so damn pretty I almost want to hate it.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, rubbing the space between my eyes to fight off a headache from the overhead lights. “The pay’s shit, the hours are shit—morale is fucking shit but yeah, nobody will grab your ass on my watch sweetheart. Can you start now?”

Her smile brightens. “Yeah,” She says easily. “I can.”

I nod and get back to it, taking over for Chi Chi so he can go wrap the sandwiches backing up the pickup window.

“Apron’s in the back. Grab a knife and start choppin’ something.”

Staci laughs under her breath, amused. “That’s specific.” She says, slipping past me to the kitchen like she already knows her way around the place. I watch her go, idly wondering what the fuck just happened.

Once she’s gone Chi Chi leans in close, voice low.

“You just hire that girl?”

“Yeah.” I say, still looking after her.

“She’s hot.”

“Yeah, Cheech. I’ve got fucking eyes.”

“Mikey sent her?”

That finally drags my eyes away from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I say again, quieter this time. “Fucking Mikey.”

Chi Chi nods. “Fucking Mikey.”

“Don’t grab her ass.”

“Heard.”

Then we get back to it.

~

Staci

The Original Beef of Chicagoland makes no fucking sense.

Not in the way other places didn’t make sense. This is bone deep. There’s no rhythm. No structure.

Just noise.

Yelling from three different directions, tickets pinned up out of order, someone shouting shit that doesn’t correspond to anything I can see.

I’m good at this.

I know I am.

But here? I can’t seem to get my footing.

“Two beefs, hot!”

“No, that was mine—”

“Who the fuck rang this in?”

“Where’s the jus?”

“Behind—behind—fucking behind!”

I turn with a pan just in time not to slam into someone else, heart pounding, not from the work but from trying to decode this chaos. Mikey warned me, but damn.

Place is a fucking nightmare sweetheart, but there’s good people there. They’ll take care of you.

I told him I could take care of myself but I feel like if I stay at Benny’s I’m going to end up on a milk carton, tied up in Tito’s fucking basement.

No bueno.

So I stay, even though I fuck up another order. Catch it too late. I can’t really pinpoint who’s yelling at me because it seems like everyone’s yelling at me.

I just keep going.

Fuck up another one.

Why the fuck do they keep yelling about their system? Richie’s going to tell me to fuck off. Go back to where I came from. Especially when I tell him his system is fucking bullshit.

Still, I don’t stop.

I adjust.

I listen harder.

I start reading the madness instead of fighting it—catch mistakes before they leave the window,  redo things without asking permission. Someone shoves a bag at me. I take it, smile and thank whoever the hell I’m handing it to.

I feel like I need to go out back and scream.

Fuck me—get your shit together Rossi.

I’ve never been fired on my first day before.

This is embarrassing.

I keep my head down, pretend I don’t notice Richie standing there—leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, cigarette unlit between his fingers like he forgot it was there.

His face is hard to read.

His eyes are impossibly blue but there’s something off.

They’re not glaring, not angry.

Definitely not impressed.

Just… empty.

Like he’s watching me from somewhere else entirely.

~

Richie

Fucking Mikey.

You send me these fucking toddlers, cousin—a pretty face who’s got no fucking idea how to thrive in this absolute shitshow of a restaurant that you left me with.

I take a drag from my cigarette, holding the smoke deep in my lungs until the back door opens and Staci steps out into the alley.

Fuck, she’s pretty.

Too pretty to be standing here with me.

I catch the way her gaze lingers a second too long. Hazel eyes sliding over my chest, then snapping back up like she’s been caught. I watch her cheeks flush just a touch of pink and that little bite on her lower lip?

It makes me forget my fucking name for a minute.

I blow out a frustrated breath.

I should tell her to go. Try the burger joint on Fifth. I hear they’ve got real benefits, fucking 401K’s and laminated menus. This place is where hopes and dreams come to fucking die.

She’s fidgeting with her lighter, pulling out her smokes carefully, trying to play it cool like we’re not standing in a fucking graveyard.

“So is Mikey more like a silent partner? Or does he work here too?”

Her voice is light, curious but it has this edge to it that sends heat straight down my spine. I stare at the brick wall across from me, take another drag.

“Mikey’s dead.” The words sit heavy in my chest, flat and lifeless, like everything else these days.

Staci lifts her head quick, eyes blowing wide. “W-what?” I just nod, take another drag. “I just saw him last week? Him and Donny came into Benny’s—they sat in my section.”

I exhale the smoke in my lungs. “Yeah? Now he’s dead.”

I’ll give her credit, real hurt flashes across her face. It almost pulls me out of the haze. Almost.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know—“ I snuff out my smoke and flick it in the dumpster. “I know.” Is all I can say.

That much is obvious.

Then something clicks in my exhausted brain.

Rossi.

I look up at her slowly, blood heating in my veins for a whole different reason.

“Your brother Donovan fucking Rossi?”

She doesn’t flinch at my tone. The words landing lethal between us.

“Well, his middle name is Anthony but yeah.”

I laugh, another bitter sound—like I’ve completely forgotten how and shake my head.

Fucking perfect.

Donny Fucking Rossi, the golden boy. Star basketball player, perfect family, perfect life—while Mikey and me were scraping by, pretending we had it all figured out—he was the king of North Grand High School.

Now his little sister is standing in The Beef’s alley asking about Mikey like he’s gonna walk through the door any second.

Looking at me like she all of a sudden knows me.

Just what I fucking need.

“What’s he owe you money or something?” Staci asks, concern in her voice like that’s a question she’s had to ask one too many times. Her eyes are locked on mine now, not pulling away.

Waiting.

I laugh again. Hating the sound. Hating this day and every day since I had to go downtown and identify my best friend in a body bag. I pull out another cigarette and shake my head. “Nah, he wishes that’s all he owed me.” I assure her, lighting it quick.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fuck her eyes are pretty. Brown, green and gold and every color in between. They’re pulling me in like I’m drowning, willingly—then they fall to my mouth and heat coils tight in my gut.

This is a mistake.

“Means your brother’s a fuckin’ stronzo.”

Her face shifts—offended, protective. She straightens, chin lifting. There’s fire in her eyes now but it’s not quite anger. Knowing, maybe. Possible understanding. She steps closer, close enough her perfume mingles with my smoke.

“Ci vuole uno per conoscere uno.” She fires back, Italian rolling off her tongue like warm honey.

Takes one to know one.

I blink. I didn’t expect her to throw it back in my face like that.

Fluently.

Fuck.

I’d think I was in love—if her brother wasn’t a complete fucking douche that’s been a thorn in my side since he showed up in the tenth grade. I drag hard on the cigarette, squinting through the smoke.

“Your brother owes me two years of my fucking life back,” I say, voice low and rough. “Two years I had to watch him strut around like some hot-shot all-star, everybody kissing his ass while the rest of us were just trying to keep our heads above water. Kid thought he was untouchable. Still does, probably.”

She’s not responsible for her brother’s sins but I say it anyway because she needs to get the fuck away from me. She’s a distraction I do not fucking need right now.

I wait for her to defend him.

To tell me I don’t know shit.

Instead, she gives me this loaded, dangerous grin, eyes sparkling. Her voice is softer now, breathy. “Jealousy looks good on you, Richie.” She leans in as she says it, her eyes fixating on my mouth again.

Fuck me.

Then she pushes past to leave, letting her arm brush against mine—deliberately, sending a jolt straight through me. I stand there, cigarette burning between my fingers, unable to look away from the sway of her ass as she walks.

“Hey—” I call after her, voice coming out rougher than I want. She pauses just long enough to glance over her shoulder, eyes taking their time reaching mine—hazel catching the light, amused, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“You comin’ back tomorrow?”

She arches a brow, lifting her shoulder in a careless shrug.

“Guess you’ll find out.”

She’s gone before I can say anything else, leaving me standing there longer than I should, cigarette burning down to nothing—wondering why the hell I asked.

Or more importantly, why the fuck do I care?

~

One month later.

Richie

Two hours of sleep and whatever the fuck is left of my fucking sanity is as good as it gets today. Marcus is yelling non-stop about bread. About the mixer being fucked. Tina’s been playing this song she heard on repeat all fucking morning, screaming over the upbeat lyrics about Ebra using her pots again.

Chi Chi called an hour after we opened to tell us he’s gonna be late today—that was six hours ago. Maybe he’ll show up by closing—and in the middle of it all is Staci fucking Rossi moving like she was born to do this shit. She’s calling out orders with that calm, cutting voice of hers that makes my skin crawl and my dick twitch at the same time.

I hate that shit.

Hate that she gets to me like she does.

“Richie! Head in the fucking game, yeah? Two beefs, dry—no peppers. One hot, dipped. Move your ass!”

She doesn’t even look at me when she says it, just slaps the ticket up and keeps chopping like she’s been here ten years instead of four weeks.

“Who the fuck eats this shit dry with no heat?!” I growl like it’s her own personal order and slam two baskets down in front of her, harder than I need to. “—and you don’t run the fucking line, sweetheart. I do.”

She looks up quick, hazel eyes hitting me like a shot of whiskey—warm, dangerous, infuriating.

“Then fucking act like it,” She fires back—loud, not missing a beat. “Because right now you’re standing there holding your dick while everything backs up.”

I hear Tina snort from somewhere in the kitchen and glare at the tiny, dark haired bitch Mikey sent me straight from hell. I lean in close, voice low and dripping venom so bitter I can taste it. “You keep it up with that smart ass mouth of yours, sweetheart and I’m gonna shut you up.”

Her lips twitch—half smirk, half challenge.

“Promises, promises, Richard. You couldn’t handle me on your best day.”

I shove past her to grab more buns, shoulder brushing hers hard—knocking her back a step as she grips her knife harder, growling. Touching her, even like this, sends a shock of pleasure straight through me and I fucking hate it.

But it’s been like this for weeks now.

She shows up, everyday. Wearing these tight fucking jeans that make her ass look amazing and a smile I fucking dream about every night.

I slam an empty pan down on the counter in front of Marcus.

“I need fucking bread! We’re making sandwiches here! We need fucking bread!” I yell, only to have him flip me off and turn his back to me, watching the mixer wobbling in the corner. I keep moving, stopping at the ticket rail to rip off these infuriating little posted notes Staci incorporated last week. “Fuck this color coding bullshit.” I growl, tossing them in the trash on my way back through the kitchen.

Staci’s still plating food like it’s her life’s work. She smiles at whatever Tina’s saying. I can’t hear it over the fucking music but that smile, when she turns it on me—everything goes quiet.

It gives me a moment to breathe through the storm raging inside of my chest.

I can’t have that.

“Yo, Rossi,” I call out out over the music. “Your brother ever tell you about the state championship game senior year? Kid couldn’t even sink three points and spent the rest of the year talking about his D1 offers while the rest of us couldn’t even buy new kicks.”

That’s not exactly true.

Dee Dee bought me new shoes at the beginning of every year. Same as Mikey. Same as Carmy. Same as Nat. Woman damn near raised me like one of her own.

But Staci doesn’t need to know that.

She doesn’t flinch at my words, just keeps slicing, like I didn’t say shit. Like I’m not fucking standing here waiting to get a rise out of her.

I need it like I need air.

“Richie,” She finally says without looking up, “…you’ve told me that one twice this week. You got any new material, or we sticking with the greatest hits of your high-school trauma?”

Laughter ripples through the kitchen.

My face burns.

“Fuck you.”

She laughs—sharp and beautiful and I grip the table so hard my fucking knuckles turn white.

“Again with the promises.” Staci mutters, loud enough for me to hear.

I’m on her in two steps, crowding her space, voice a growl. “You think you’re real cute, huh? Walking in here like you’re gonna fix this place? Thinking you’re better than everyone, like your asshole brother.”

Something flashes in her eyes—hurt, maybe—but it’s gone just as fast. “I’m not trying to fix anything,” She says, low and steady. “I’m just doing my job. Maybe you should try it sometime instead of bitching about a guy who doesn’t even remember you exist.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

I inhale through my nose deep, fists clenching at my sides. I stare at her, chest tight—jaw clenched so hard it aches.

She stares back.

I want to call her a bitch. God, the word is right there on my tongue and she knows it. She’s waiting for it to. I can see it in the tension humming between us like electricity.

“Say it.” She assures me, voice as soft as silk as my eyes fall to the knife in her grip. Some people might say I’m dumb but they’ve never called me stupid. I shove past her, mumbling another low fuck you as Tina calls my name.

I don’t stop, pushing through the back door into the alley, letting it slam behind me with a satisfying smack. The cold air bites into my skin, reminding me my hoodie is inside somewhere because it’s too fucking hot in that kitchen with her in there.

I pace, searching for my smokes—realizing they’re tucked away in the pocket of that fucking hoodie.

I’m gonna lose it. Literally fucking lose it. I bend at the waist, hands on my knees—trying to breathe through this thing threatening to claw its way out of my chest.

Mikey’s dead.

Mikey’s dead and this place is falling apart and I’m letting this fucking bitch run my line—and I can’t stop thinking about what her mouth would feel like on me—and I’m losing my fucking mind!

The door opens.

I don’t turn around.

I already know who the fuck it is.

“Tina said to let you cool off,” Staci says behind me, voice flat. “But I’ve never been good at listening.”

I laugh but I don’t say anything. Don’t trust myself to say something that won’t detonate this fucking building.

She steps closer.

“What is your problem, Richie?” She asks, and there’s no teasing in it now. Just exhaustion. “Your actual problem—with me, specifically—because I’m real fucking tired of being your punching bag for whatever my brother did to your ego twenty years ago.”

I turn to her, slowly. Carefully. Take in another breath to steady my racing heart. She’s standing there, arms crossed, cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat, eyes blazing—until they’re not.

I don’t know what the fuck she sees when our eyes meet but something inside of her softens instantly and her arms fall to her sides.

The fight drains out of her like someone pulled a plug.

“Richie?”

I swallow hard at the sound of my name coming from her lips. Soft, sweet—laced with concern I don’t fucking deserve and fuck me, it lands right in the center of my chest.

I feel my shoulders drop. Feel the burn behind my eyes I’ve been forcing away for a long fucking time.

For a second I can’t move.

Can’t speak.

I just stand here like a fucking idiot while she looks at me like she sees straight through my bullshit to the hollowed-out mess underneath.

Sees how fucking empty I am.

Staci takes a step closer, arm already raised like she’s gonna touch my arm or something. I jerk away from her before she can—don’t want her to feel how bad I’m shaking.

“Richie,” She murmurs. Voice like honey. “You okay?”

I almost laugh. Okay? I haven’t been okay in so fucking long I don’t even remember what it feels like but for one stupid, weak second, I want to tell her. I want to say it out loud—Mikey’s gone and I don’t know how to do this without him.

The words are clawing up my throat and that’s when the panic hits.

Hard.

Like ice water down my spine.

I jerk away from her further, eyes narrowing. The pain inside of me turns into something vicious—and I pour it into her because she’s the one who followed me out here like a fucking martyr.

Like I’m someone worth bleeding for.

“Don’t,” I snap, voice rough and ugly. “Don’t do that.”

She freezes, hand still half-raised. Eyes wide.

“Do what?”

“That.” I gesture vaguely at her face, at the concern still in her eyes. “Act like you give a fuck about me. I don’t need your fucking pity.”

She pulls back her hand like I’ve burned her.

That’s something I can cling to.

That’s what I do best.

Hurt people.

“I’m not—”

“Save it,” I cut her off. “Nobody in your family’s ever had to deal with real world shit, so don’t act like you’ve got a fucking clue how to help me.”

I watch the words land. Watch her flinch like I slapped her. Good. Better she hate me than ever look at me like that again.

I turn away from her and run a hand over my tired eyes, let it stop at my mouth to hold back the scream threatening to rip out of me. She stands behind me for a second longer then turns back to the kitchen without a word, letting the door click shut behind her.

I press the heel of my palms into my eyes until I see stars.

Fucking idiot.

She just watched me nearly break in half out here and reach for me anyway, just to throw it back in her face like she’s some spoiled brat who’s never had to hurt before.

I know that isn’t true.

I’ve seen the way she flinches when her phone buzzes sometimes, the way she brushes off questions about her personal life. I’ve seen her work doubles without complaining, fix mistakes that weren’t hers to fix, try to make this place efficient when she doesn’t owe us shit.

She followed me out here to fix this rift between us and I just told her to go fuck herself.

Fuck.

I stand there longer than I should, letting the cold seep into me. Trying to feel something besides this—nothing inside of me.

Eventually I push off the wall and head back inside with my tail between my legs. The kitchen noise slams into me like a wave—tickets spitting, Marcus cursing the mixer, Tina’s music still blasting.

Everything is exactly the same as when I stormed out.

Except Staci.

She’s at her station, head down, slicing peppers thin and fast like I didn’t just gut her in the alley. I walk over to her, keeping my eyes down and my voice low.

“That shit about your family was a low blow—I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t look up but her knife slows. The quiet hangs between us for a moment then she nods once, and goes back to chopping. I grab a basket and start wrapping sandwiches beside her. No more words. No more bullshit for now. I stand closer to her than I should—but she doesn’t tell me to move—even when our elbows nudge against each other’s arms as we work.

The rhythm picks back up around us like nothing happened but I know I hit a nerve and I hate that it bothers me so much. I hate that she might be the best thing that’s ever happened to this fucking place, and I hate that Mikey isn’t here to see it.

~

Staci

The Red Line rattles south, lights flickering like they’re on their last breath.

Just like me.

Everything aches, my back, my feet. My heart. I’m so tired but I know my night has barely started. I know there’s going to be a mess waiting for me at home—I just pray it’s something easy like mom passed out on the kitchen floor again and not Donny overdosing in the bathroom.

I keep my head down, hood up against the chill and eyes on my banking app on my phone.

$272.37 until payday.

Rent’s due in six days.

Mom’s meds in four.

Not enough money for either of them.

How the hell am I going to pull this one off?

I stare at the screen until the numbers blur, thinking maybe if I look hard enough I’ll find the answer.

I don’t.

I close the app and shove my phone in my pocket. People like Richie think I come from money. Think Donny and I grew up with silver spoons in our mouths and stability in our lives.

Perfect house.

Perfect parents.

He has no idea.

He’s carried a chip about my brother on his shoulder since they were kids. Like Donny stole something from him just by existing, by being good at basketball, by getting the scholarships and having teachers and coaches love him.

He never saw the rest.

So what if dad was a hot shot lawyer. Downtown firm, nice suits, company car. He still left when I was six. Took off with his twenty-three-year-old secretary to Florida. Left mom with two kids, a mortgage she couldn’t pay, and a nervous breakdown that never ended.

Richie probably hasn’t seen Donny since high school—no idea that’s when my brother peaked, lost his scholarships, hurt his knee. Oxy turned into heroin when the money ran out.

Mom’s sent him to rehab four different times. He’s still not clean. Still bleeding her dry. Swearing he’s done using. Disappearing for weeks at a time.

I’m thirty-four years old, still living with my mom because she can’t take care of herself. Still spending my days off searching the South Side for my junkie brother to get enough money to keep the lights on.

The train lurches to a stop at 63rd.

I get off and pull my coat around me tight against the February cold. My fingers are numb. My feet are hurting. I keep going, past the broken chain link fences, past the group on the corner who nod their heads to me because they know my brother. 

Thankful none of them seem to be looking for him tonight. I walk past the spot I found him face down in the snow a few weeks ago, half-dead and hypothermic. When I finally get to our place I stop at the front door and take in a deep breath that does nothing for the anxiety coursing through me.

Please don’t let anyone be dead in here.

I let myself in quietly and wait for my eyes to focus in the dark. I spot mom first, passed out on the couch, then the empty fifth of vodka on the coffee table. The only light comes from the red tip of the still burning cigarette between her fingers.

My heart stops for a second as I cross the room and snatch it from her, stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray. She doesn’t stir, breathing slow and heavy, mouth opened—mascara smudged down her face.

I stand there a minute, watching her chest rise and fall. Wondering when she stopped being the mom and started being someone I have to take care of.

Feels like forever.

I sigh and pull the blanket from the back of the couch, checking for anymore half-lit cigarettes before covering her with it. I wonder if she even knows I’m still here.

Donny’s door is shut.

My heart drops further.

I give mom another once over and turn towards the hallway, tapping my knuckles against the wood. No answer. I push it open and the room is empty. Bed unmade, dirty clothes scattered.

I sigh again, bone-tired, then start gathering it all up to go start a load. My phone buzzes as I juggle the armful of clothes and maneuver it out of my pocket to glance at the screen.

Thanks for all your hard work today, sweetheart.

Fucking Richie.

I stare at the screen longer than I should, heart sputtering in my chest like the traitor it is. This man is a damn hurricane. Hot one minute, cold the next. I think about him in the alley today, the crack in his voice—the way his eyes went wet.

How I reach for him like an idiot.

Then the venom he spewed when he saw that I saw his mask slip just an inch, the sound of his voice when he apologized after, soft and deep. That shit about your family was a low blow—I’m sorry. How he orbited me for the rest of the night, almost touching, like he needed me there more than he could ever say with words.

I roll my eyes at the thought—Richie Jerimovich is a walking red flag in a faded black hoodie.

I don’t know what the fuck he wants from me.

One minute he’s tearing me down, the next he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Like he wants to ruin me in the best possible way. It sends a rush of heat through me every single time.

I want to text him back. To ask him if he’s okay, to tell him to meet me somewhere and take some of his hurt away if only for an hour—but I’m not stupid.

He’s still wearing his wedding ring.

Still raw from losing Mikey.

Still carrying too much to give anyone anything worth having—and I’ve got my own sinking ship to deal with.

I lock the phone, set it face-down on the washer and start the load. I try not to think about how good his hands would feel in my hair… or how easy it would be to get lost in his chaos.

My phone buzzes again and I flip it over too fast, nearly dropping it. My stupid heart leaping like Richie’s got something else to say that might make tonight hurt less—but it’s not him.

It’s Nico.

Dread fills my chest.

My thumb hovers.

Nico only texts me when it’s really bad. Like, come buy him out of an ass beating bad or start praying bad.

I answer before I can talk myself out of it.

What?

I’m two for two tonight. It’s just the Donny’s about to get his teeth kicked in kind of bad.

His reply comes fast.

He’s at 71st. He’s fucked up. Says he don’t got the money and they’re not letting him leave.

My eyes close. My forehead rests against the cold metal of the washer while it rattles to life.

That’ll put my bank account at a nice even zero come tomorrow morning.

I type back with shaking fingers.

I’m coming.

No questions. No hesitations. I don’t ask how bad it is. I don’t ask who they are. I don’t ask what it’s going to cost me this time—because I already know the answer.

Everything.

~

Richie

Fuck it’s early, like—lights still off, Marcus not here yet early. I tell myself I’m here because payrolls fucked and Ebra said something about the freezer yesterday—when really I just couldn’t stand it another second in that empty fucking apartment.

I also want to see her.

Staci left me on read last night. I shouldn’t have texted her. Fuck I need to learn how to just leave her the fuck alone, but I can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t stop picturing her every time I close my eyes.

I lean against the counter with a cup of coffee that tastes like shit, watching the front door like it’s Christmas morning.

Pathetic.

I watch Staci step inside a minute later looking as exhausted as I feel but still so damn beautiful it aches. She’s not late, she’s just… not early. She’s always here before me but today every step she takes looks like it costs her.

Something’s wrong.

My back straightens on instinct.

“Hey.”

She looks up quick, like she didn’t realize anyone was here yet. Fuck, she’s tired. Really fucking tired. I want to tell her to go back home, we’ll figure it out but I’m too damn selfish. I need her here with me. When she’s here the shit with Mikey is almost bearable, if only for a little while.

I’ll take whatever the fuck I can get.

“Hey.” She breathes, no smile. No snark. None of her usual, “Mornin’ slim, try not to be a dick today, yeah?”

My stomach drops.

“You good?” I ask, keeping it light. Casual. Like I’m not already spiraling. “You’re usually here way before me, Rossi.”

She shrugs out of her coat and hangs it up, rubbing her hands together to try to create some warmth between them. I force myself to believe she’s shaking because of the cold.

“I’m fine.”

She grabs an apron and ties it around her waist, bringing my eyes to her hips. Then her thighs. I tighten my fingers around my coffee cup to keep from reaching for her.

As if she’d ever let me touch her.

“Let’s just get this shit show started, yeah? I want to get this day over with.”

The words hit wrong. Flat—like she doesn’t give a fuck about anything. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here. I follow her into the kitchen, eyes on her ass because fuck—an ass like that deserves to be looked at, then I step in front of her without warning, blocking the way to her station.

I just need her to stop for a second to regain control of whatever the fuck this is.

Hey—” I lower my voice. “I apologized for that shit in the alley yesterday.”

Right?

The days just bleed into one another now but I specifically remember feeling like shit for what I said. I couldn’t tell you the last time I slept but I know I made that shit right with her. Staci pauses for half a second, not even a full stop—just long enough to let me see she hears me.

Then she nods—

“I know.”

—and keeps moving.

What the hell. I take in a breath that never reaches my lungs. It feels like there’s a fist closing around my fucking throat.

She’s mad at me.

Fuck.

I went too far yesterday. I barely remember her fucking brother—just that he was a know it all prick in school but that’s not on her and that’s family. You never speak about fucking family.

Everyone knows that.

I fucking know that.

So I try to make it right. Not with words this time—words are what got me in this shit. Actions. I beat her to the heavy stuff. Drag the fifty-pound onion bin out of the walk-in and drop it at her station before she goes for it. Give her the good cutting board, the one that doesn’t wobble. Refill her cup of water when it’s half empty and slide it back without a word. Take the trash run she hates. Run the grill for a stretch so she doesn’t have to stand in the heat.

Every single time I do something, I get the same polite, dead-ass response.

“Thanks, Richie.”

Barely a smile, no eye contact.

I try harder. Like if I just do enough nice shit she’ll start fighting with me again.

I wipe down her station while she’s plating. Restock her peppers without asking. Jump in and wrap sandwiches when the tickets pile up so she doesn’t have to reach across. Even grab the mop when some asshole spills soda up front and handle it myself instead of yelling for someone else to do it.

If I do one more nice thing and get one more nothing in return I’m gonna put my fist through a fucking wall.

I want the fight back.

I want that spark.

I want her to look at me like I exist again—even if it’s just to tell me I’m an asshole.

~

I don’t get a real smile out of her until the dinner rush is over, but damn when it finally comes all the extra shit I’ve been doing today was worth it.

“There she is.” I mutter, meeting hazel eyes as she laughs again. It sounds like music to my ears. “It was really Bill Murray?” She asks and I nod. “In the flesh.”

That sparkles back in her eyes, she still worn out but at least she’s smiling again. “T-thanks… for helping me so much today. I had a long night, just—tired.” She doesn’t shrink away when I take a step closer to her. I feel like that’s an understatement, like she surpassed tired a long time ago but I don’t mention it.

I just take her in. Her smile lights up her eyes. They look almost green under the fluorescent lights up here in the dojo. I open my mouth, then close it again. I don’t want to fuck this moment up—it’s the first real one I’ve gotten with her today.

I want to tell her how pretty she is but before I can get the nerve the bell over the front door dings and pulls her attention away. I watch her smile falter, then vanish completely.

My head snaps up, eyes already locking on the guy walking in. Vinnie fucking Ferraro. I suddenly want to spit his name out of my mouth. Piece of shit dealer, used to come in here looking for Mikey all the time.

“Yo, Vinnie. Didn’t think you liked Italian beef.” I mutter, but he doesn’t look at me.

He’s looking at her.

My jaw tightens.

I’m moving before I realize it, sliding between Staci and the counter, glaring at this fucking jagoff who’s still looking past me.

“Hey. What can I get you?”

Even his smile is sleazy.

“Just here to see her.”

I can feel Staci go rigid behind me, breath catching as she closes the register and tells me it’s alright—that she’s got this.

Yeah, not on my fucking watch. I lean on the counter, blocking his view of her on purpose.

“You wanna eat, order some fucking food. Don’t come in here bothering my staff.”

That finally gets me a look. Slow and amused—like I’m nothing but in his way. Fuck I hate this guy. Every fight me and Mikey had over the past few months was over some asshole like this.

“She knows why I’m here.”

I glance back at Staci.

She looks scared.

Fuck.

Vinnie follows my line of sight, smirks.

“Donny make it home last night I take it?” He says, loud enough that it feels personal.

My patience snaps clean in half.

“Alright,” I say, leaning closer. “You can turn around and walk right the fuck out of here with that shit.”

He laughs under his breath.

“Relax, Jerimovich. Just passing along a message.”

I feel Staci’s hand warm on my back, fingers tightening around my shirt but I don’t know if she’s pushing me away or holding me steady. I’m two seconds from slugging this asshole.

Whatever the fuck he’s here to say is gonna hurt her—and I can’t have that.

“I’m serious Vinnie.”

He ignores me, stepping aside so he can look right at Staci when he delivers his message. What the fuck is she even doing around a guy like this? I take a step back, feeling her against me. She hasn’t let go.

“Next time your brother tries to stiff me on an ounce of coke,” Vinnie says, voice still easy but dropping promises she knows he’ll keep, “I’m gonna break his legs and leave him in a ditch. You hear me? Might wanna make sure he gets that shit through his thick skull.”

Something hot and blinding detonates behind my ribs. I’m across the space before I remember deciding to move, finger jabbing into his chest hard enough to make him rock back a step.

“Fuck off talking to her like that,” I snarl. “Or you’ll wish you woke up in a fucking ditch. Heard?”

The room goes dead quiet.

A couple customers freeze mid-bite.

Vinnie looks down at my finger, then back up at me—and grins, unbothered.

I lean in, close enough he can smell the coffee on my breath, the barely-contained violence buzzing under my skin.

“Get the fuck out,” I tell him. “Before I break your legs.”

For a split second—just one—I think he might push it. Then he lifts both hands, mock-innocent.

“Alright, Richie—damn.” He nods once, eyes never leaving Staci. “Didn’t know you were laying the pipe to Rossi’s little sister.”

I shove him away from the counter, watching him laugh like he didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of the room.

“Bet he don’t know it either. Can’t see him being okay with her fuckin around with a loser like you, Jerimovich.”

Staci’s hand fists at my shirt, this time holding me back as I go to climb over the counter. “You tell Donny fucking Rossi he knows where to find me!” I snap, watching him retreat outside—hands still raised. Laugh still grating my nerves.

The bell dings again.

Silence crashes down around it.

I turn back to Staci—

—and my stomach drops.

She’s wrecked.

Not crying. Worse. Completely folded inward, like every wall she had just collapsed at once. Her shoulders are tight, breath shallow, eyes fixed on nothing. All the venom I ever spewed about Donny—golden boy, stronzo, untouchable—turns to ash in my mouth.

I step closer to her, heart hammering in my chest. I’m a fucking asshole. Through and through.

“Hey,” I say, barely a whisper now. “Staci. Look at me.” She can’t. Just shakes her head once, a quiet breath rushing from her chest. I lift my hand slowly and cup her cheek, fingertips slipping into her dark hair. “Hey.”

She flinches hard—but she doesn’t pull away. She lets me brush away the first tear that betrays her like she’s made of glass.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice breaks whether I want it to or not. “I didn’t know.“

Apparently I’m really fucking bad at realizing people are drug addicts. Ask my dead best friend. Her breath stutters, another broken little sound escaping her throat.

“I’ve got you,” I tell her, quieter than I’ve ever said anything in my life. “Fuck Vinnie Ferraro, that goon couldn’t break a bone if he put his whole ass into it. Fucking stroke, that one.”

She laughs, but it sounds more like a sob and for one heartbeat—just one—she leans into my hand. The weight of her cheek against my palm warms something in my chest I didn’t know was still there.

Then she pulls back—steps out of my reach like she’s angry at herself for letting me see any of this.

“I’m good,” She whispers. “I just… need a minute.”

She turns and walks away fast—past the kitchen to the bathroom without another word. I stand here, hand still hanging in the air, staring at the space she left behind.

Fuck.

All that shit I said about her brother.

All the shit she’s been dealing with—I know it first hand.

Mikey—

Tina pushes through the dojo a minute later—takes one look at me, then notices Staci’s gone.

“What happened?”

I shake my head.

“Nothing. All good, T.”

Tina sighs, softer than usual, jerking her chin toward the back. “Payroll’s due tomorrow, baby. Time to open the office back up. We ain’t doing this shit for free.”

I drag both hands down my face, feel the burn behind my eyes I refuse to let out. Sugar was supposed to come in and do this shit but she’s refusing. Says she doesn’t want anything to do with this place anymore.

Told me to call fucking Carmen. I’m not calling that dead eyed motherfucker. Can’t even come home to his family when his brother—

I shove my thoughts back down where they belong.

Fuck Carmen Berzatto. Bobby Flay wanna be, fucking Noma assho—

“Yeah,” I rasp, meeting Tina’s waiting eyes. “Yeah. I’m comin’.” I follow her into the kitchen slow, glancing up at the closed bathroom door. I want to go knock on it, make sure Staci’s okay but that will probably just make everything worse.

I’m good at that.

Real good at making shit worse.

Tina walks me to Mikey’s door like I’m headed to the principals office, waiting patiently as I fight this inner battle.

Fuck this.

Fuck this so much. I don’t wanna go in here. I don’t wanna do this shit without him.

I take a deep breath, stop being a pussy, and lift my hand to the knob—let it hover a second too long.

It’s cold under my fingers.

I turn it slow and brace myself, listening to the toilet flush, then the sink turn on. I want to turn around and go to her—fuck going in this office. Fuck dealing with these ghosts—but the guys need to get paid.

Nobody wants to do this shit for free.

“Richie—“ Tina starts but I shake my head and push through the door. The smell of Mikey’s cologne hits me like a fist, sending an ache I wasn’t ready for straight through my chest. I hold my breath. “I got it, T. Checks will be ready first thing in the morning, yeah?”

She just nods, doesn’t say anything else.

The door clicks shut quiet behind me.

It feels smaller in here somehow. Emptier, despite all the shit stacked around the room. His desk is still a mess, paperwork scattered everywhere, half written notes that make no sense. The payroll book is in the center of it all like a bad omen, like he was just gonna come back and finish it later.

The closer I get to the desk, to his chair—the harder my heart starts to pound. It feels like I’m on the verge of a fucking heart attack all of a sudden.

I stop just short of sitting down.

Mikey’s chair is pushed back like he stood up too fast and never came back. There’s a picture of us lying on its back beside the book. Two kids taking this place over from Dee Dee and that dead beat—smiling at the camera like we’ve got a fucking clue what we’re about to get ourselves into.

I swallow hard, jaw tightening.

This was never supposed to be me.

Mikey was the one who knew the numbers. The one who talked fast and made everyone believe it’d work out somehow—

Maybe he’ll bust in the door any second and tell me to fuck off, get back out front and sling his sandwiches.

That’s what I’m good at.

Not this.

I wait for it—wait for him. His laugh. His playful shove when he tells me to get the fuck out of his chair—but it never comes.

Mikey’s gone—

—and I’m the only one left to sign the checks.

Me, and fucking Carmen.

Mikey left this shit to him when he died but little brothers halfway across the country plating bugs and kissing Ramsey’s ass.

Too busy to be bothered with it.

Just like all the other shit.

I reach for a pen but my hand freezes halfway there. I can’t do this. Can’t pretend I can keep this place alive when Mikey couldn’t even keep himself alive.

I lean over the desk and let my forehead drop, running both hands over my face.

This place is fucked.

~

Staci

It’s been over an hour since we closed. Luckily no more goons showed up looking for my brother. Tina and Ebra left twenty minutes ago, followed by Marcus—muttering goodnights that felt heavier than usual. I stayed to wipe the tables. Richie usually does that—says we all do it wrong but he’s been locked in Mikey’s office forever—”working on payroll.”

I can’t imagine how hard it must be to sit in there surrounded by what’s left of his best friend, but I don’t bother him. I don’t even know if I can look him in the eye after tonight. It’s no secret what my brother is—but I liked having one person in this world who still thought Donny was something better than what he’s become.

Even if Richie was an asshole about it.

Last night Donny was barely recognizable when I found him—curled up in the corner of Vinnie’s shitty apartment, burning up and freezing at the same time—track marks fresh and angry. He couldn’t even hold his head up, just kept mumbling sorry, sorry like that shit means anything to me anymore.

I’m staring to think my brother is a lost cause.

I shake the thought and toss my rag into the bin.

The place looks good enough for who it’s for but what do I do about Richie? Leave him to it? Tell him goodnight? I should thank him for taking up for me with Vinnie, even if I was two seconds from cutting his balls off myself. Fucking mouth breather—

My whole body jolts as something crashes inside of Mikey’s office, glass shattering. I hear Richie cuss, then another muffled thud as I pause at the door—hand raised to open it.

“Richie?”

No answer.

Another thud, then a soft broken grunt as I push the door open carefully. The room is dark except for the weak glow of the desk lamp throwing long shadows over the chaos.

Papers are still flying, picture frames shattered on the ground across the room. Richie is sitting on the floor under the lamp, back against the wall—knees bent, blood dripping from his right hand.

His eyes are wet, red-rimmed, glistening like he’s been crying—or fighting hard no too. He doesn’t look at me. Just stares straight ahead, hollow, chest rising and falling too fast, like he’s barely holding it together.

“Shit, Richie.”

I grab the first-aid kit from the kitchen and drop to my knees between his thighs. His good hand rests limp beside us, the injured one hanging loose from his knee, blood trickling from his palm. 

I take it carefully, cradling it in mine. Richie doesn’t look at me—he’s not looking at anything. He doesn’t flinch when I pull the shard of glass from his palm or dab the antiseptic over the gash. He just lets me do what needs to be done like he’s over all of it.

“You’re good at that.” He mutters, finally—almost too quiet to hear. He nods between us as I wrap his hand with gauze and look up to meet his eyes, forcing a sympathetic smile. “I wanted to be a nurse.” I tell him like it matters, like it will ever happen.

“Wanted to? You’re a fuckin’ toddler, sweetheart. Why aren’t you out there makin’ the world a better place?”

I smile, lifting my eyes to his slowly.

“You don’t think I’m making the world a better place by working here?”

His eyes roll.

“You know what I mean.”

I tape the bandage—smooth it down gently with my thumb as our eyes meet again. His are so damn blue. “My perfect family keeps getting in the way.” I whisper, half joking but the hurt slips through.

Richie doesn’t look away.

“I’m sorry,” He rasps, voice stripped raw. “For all that shit I said about your brother. I didn’t know.” He huffs the smallest, saddest laugh then just looks at me. “Twice in two days. I’m a real fucking prick huh?”

I shake my head no, tell him it’s alright.

“It’s not.” He sighs. “It’s really not.”

I’m still holding his hand in mine, searching the sadness in his gaze. Whatever happened in here, it got to be too much for him and I hate that.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For taking care of Vinnie for me today. For… having my back.”

Sometimes it feels like no one does.

He scoffs quietly but his eyes soften. “Fuck that mouth breather.” His words pull a tiny laugh from me, and his mouth curves—just a little—at the sound but it’s short lived as I glance around the room.

Completely trashed, it looks like Richie swept the desk clean then broke every picture frame with his fist.

I finally let his hand go.

“Donny probably wasn’t a good influence on Mikey,” I say, feeling suddenly responsible for something I had nothing to do with. I only ever met Mikey a handful of times, all of them he was with my brother, pupils blown. Laughing too loud. “He’s into some heavy shit.” I add, looking up at Richie slowly.

He shakes his head, sitting up a little straighter.

“No, sweetheart. Mikey was responsible for Mikey. Whatever he was into is on him.” His voice is firm but gentle, like he needs me to believe it—for both of us. He lifts his good hand to brush my hair away from my face and something loosens in my chest.

“I’m sorry about Mikey.” I whisper. “I didn’t know him well, but he was nice to me every time I saw him… and funny.”

Richie laughs again, a real one—fingers sinking further into my hair. I lean into him without thinking, watching his eyes fall to my mouth—he doesn’t pull away.

I don’t either.

Richie guides me to him, closing that last inch between us. Kissing me soft, deliberate—like he’s afraid to rush the only good thing he’s touched today.

His lips are warm, a little chapped—tasting faintly of coffee and salt. He doesn’t push, just holds me there, mouth moving slow against mine, like he’s savoring every second. I part my lips on a quiet exhale and his tongue slides in slow, careful, meeting mine in long, lingering strokes that send heat pooling low in my belly.

We both sink into it—soft presses, slow tastes, shared breaths. His injured hand stays cradled in his lap while the other threads deeper into my hair, thumb stroking the side of my neck right over my racing pulse. I shift closer without breaking the kiss—climbing carefully into his lap until I’m straddling him with my knees on either side of his hips, chests pressed close.

He welcomes my weight with a rough exhale—both hands moving now, the good one cupping my jaw like I’m something precious. The other sliding across my waist, bandage brushing against the bare skin just under my shirt.

The kiss turns hungrier, tongues stroking deeper, possessive, making me moan softly into his mouth as he tilts my head, taking more—hips rolling instinctively against him, feeling him hard beneath me.

Richie groans low, grip tightening—pulling me down harder as he thrusts up just once, desperate. My hands slide down his shoulders to his chest, nails digging into his shirt as he grips my hips, keeping me right where he needs me—kissing me like he’s been starving for this his whole life and finally gets to eat.

My fingers twist in his hair, his bandaged hand slipping higher under my shirt, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, sending sparks everywhere. It feels like we’re pulling everything broken out of each other and replacing it with something warm and alive.

Then his phone starts ringing.

He ignores it completely—growl vibrating against my lips as he kisses me harder, deeper, hand fisting my shirt like he’ll rip it if that’s what it takes to keep me close. The ringing stops. We breathe together—hot, heavy.

Then it starts again.

Richie breaks the kiss with a frustrated growl, forehead pressed to mine, eyes dark and wild.

“Fuck this.” He mutters desperately, fishing the phone from his pocket with a shaking hand. He glances at the screen, face twisting with annoyance then jabs the button to send it straight to voicemail, tossing it aside like it burned him.

Immediately his mouth is back on mine, both hands gripping my hips hard, pulling me down against him as he rocks up—groaning my name low and wrecked.

“Don’t stop, sweetheart—please, fuck, I need this—I need you—” His voice cracks on the plea, raw desperation pouring out like I’ve got him by the throat, all that tough-guy bullshit crumbling as he kisses me again, frantic now, like he’s chasing something he knows he can’t keep.

Then his phone’s ringing again.

“Motherfucker!”

I pull back from him slowly, breathing hard—searching his hooded eyes—still wet at the edges. He’s looking at my mouth like he can’t get enough but one hand drops from my waist to fumble for his phone.

“Just one second, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” His thumb brushes over my side, cursing under his breath as he brings the phone to his ear with a growl. “Yeah, Tiff. What—“

A tiny, panicked voice starts immediately—words tumbling out over each other. Something about a bear. The one uncle Mikey gave me. Richie’s whole body goes tense beneath me, but his bandaged hand tightens on my waist, trying to keep me close even as he listens.

“Yeah—yes, baby. I hear you. Did you look in your book bag?”

I feel the shift—the moment the world outside this room comes crashing back in.

What the fuck am I doing?

His wedding band catches the low light around us as he rubs his eyes, still painfully hard beneath me and trying to breathe through it. “Eva, I’m sure if you left it at school they’ll have it there tomorrow. No—we put your initials on the bottom remember? Yea—yeah, let me talk to mommy.”

I ease off his lap slow, forcing a polite smile while I wish the universe would swallow me whole. The last place I need to be is grinding on Richie Jerimovich’s lap while he’s talking to his wife.

He reaches for me, blue eyes wrecked with longing, but I stand up anyway. He’s my boss. Kind of. Definitely my coworker—and he still wears his fucking wedding ring months after his divorce.

Fuck Staci, you know better than this shit.

“I have to go.” I whisper.

The look on his face is desperate—almost pleading, but Tiffany’s voice rises on the line, frantic.

“No. No! I haven’t fucking seen it Tiff. Why would you—no! This is on you! Why would you let her take it to fucking school?”

I back toward the door, heart pounding in my throat—aching for something I know I can’t have. Richie watches me go, phone pressed to his ear, looking like a man being torn in half.

I slip out quiet, pull the door closed behind me with a soft click that echoes through the kitchen and leave him there in the wreckage—alone with his ghosts, his family, and the mess we just made.

~

Richie

Fuck I’m tired.

When I see you again, cousin—I’m gonna beat your ass. For all kinds of reasons really but mostly because of that fucking bear. I think it’s a pencil eraser—barely the size of a fucking dime and Eva Jerimovich’s most prized fucking possession.

I’ve never been able to find one that same color—and trust me, I’ve scoured all of fucking Chicago looking for one.

Fuck that little cock blocking bear—it’s a bane in my fuckin existence.

I wipe my hands on a rag, heart already jackhammering when I spot Staci through the pass, helping Tina chop peppers like a boss. Her heads down, hands quick and that smile she’s giving Tina?

It belongs to me.

Except she hasn’t mentioned last night at all and half of me wonders if I fucking dreamed it. Except I didn’t even sleep last night so I know it happened.

I can still feel her around me.

Still taste her.

I slip into the kitchen, leaving Chi Chi to man the front. I laugh a little too loud at whatever Marcus says—but keep going until I’m standing in front of Staci, matching her grin. She looks up to me slowly, with those hazel eyes framed in dark lashes—still laughing quiet at Tina’s story.

Fuck, she’s pretty and she’s acting like nothing happened between us—like she wasn’t dry humping my dick in Mikey’s office twelve hours ago, moaning into my mouth while I was two seconds from coming in my pants.

“What’s up, slim?” She says softly, searching my eyes for a moment before returning them to the task at hand. A strand of her dark hair falls against her cheek and she brushes it away with her shoulder.

All I can think about is sinking my hands in her hair and dragging her mouth back to mine.

“Can I talk to you for a second sweetheart?”

She nods, glancing over to Tina who takes the hint and carries her container of peppers toward Ebra, who’s been hollering for them all morning. I wait until she disappears around the corner then I move, sliding in beside Staci carefully, crowding her against the counter before she can slip away.

She startles when my chest brushes her back, but doesn’t pull away.

“We pretending like last night didn’t happen, or?” I murmur low in her ear, hands braced on the counter on either side of her hips, caging her in.

Her breath catches and she laughs—killing my confidence.

But I don’t die easy.

I know she was as into as I was.

Staci tilts her head just enough that I catch the flush creeping up her neck, those hazel eyes flicking to mine—beautiful, but guarded.

“That would probably be the smartest thing to do.” She assures me, softly. I lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I can still taste you. Still feel your tongue sliding against mine. Ain’t no way I’m ever forgetting that, sweetheart.”

She shivers—just a little—but then straightens, turning fully to face me. Arms crossed, chin up. That wall I’m so familiar with slamming back up.

“We’re at work,” She says, cool as hell. “And last night was… a mistake.”

Her words hit like a slap and I laugh, low and rough, trying to play it off, but it stings.

“Thats bullshit and you know it.”

She looks away, jaw tight.

“You didn’t text me.”

I blink. That’s what this is about?

“Staci—I was up until three in the fucking morning crawling around Eva’s bedroom looking for that fucking eraser Mikey gave her. Found it under her bed at like 3 a.m. Kid cried herself to sleep thinking she lost it. Tiff was losing her shit. I didn’t—”

She cuts me off with a tired sigh, rubbing her temple. “Richie—I like you, but you’ve got too much baggage.”

Her words land hard, heavy and final. I step back like she shoved me, heat crawling up my neck.

“Yo,” I say, voice dropping dangerously low. “You saying my kid is too much fucking baggage?”

Her eyes blow wide, instant regret flashing across her pretty face. “No! Fuck Richie—I would never say that. You’re just—”

She throws her hands up in Italian frustration, voice rising as she pushes past me to head out front like she can outrun this conversation. I follow her to the register, ignoring the customers. Ignoring everyone but her. I’m glaring, fucking shaking with it as I tower over her, waiting.

“I’m what? Not fucking good enough for you?” My voice is loud, causing Chi Chi to stop bagging sandwiches and Ebra to look up from the slicer quickly. He says my name in warning, trying to stop this before it detonates but it’s too fucking late for that.

Staci turns to glare at me now.

“You’re still wearing your fucking wedding ring, Richie!” Her voice rings out through the entire restaurant. Lifting eyes and shutting mouths. It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “…and I can’t fucking compete with that.” She adds before turning to the line and motioning for the next customer.

She puts on that fake ass smile for them as my eyes fall to my left hand. The thin gold band shines in the fluorescent light as I twist it absently, throat tight.

I take a deep breath and pull her away from the register.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I assure her, forcing her to look at me. To stand here with me and sort through this shit in the middle of the fucking dojo. “I just… haven’t taken it off yet.”

Staci laughs—sharp, bitter, nothing like the sound I love and it makes me feel like a fucking schmuck. Like I’m fucking lying about it. I haven’t thought about Tiff like that in forever—and not since the day the women glaring at me walked into this fucking restaurant.

“That’s what they all say, Richie.”

Something ugly snaps inside of me—anger clouds my vision and I step closer, voice low and wrecked.

“That ship has fucking sailed, Staci.” I say through my teeth. “I don’t want Tiff anymore and she sure as hell doesn’t want me—”

“Yeah,” She fires back, eyes blazing, “—and there’s probably a good reason for that.”

I stare at her, chest heaving, feeling her words hit deep—right where it hurts the most. She doesn’t back down, just holds my gaze, waiting for me to swing.

And I do.

For the fucking fences.

“Fucking bitch.” I sneer under my breath, stepping into her space so our chests are almost touching. I watch her flinch but I don’t fucking care. She already thinks I’m a piece of shit, so I might as well prove her right.

“At least I’m not dragging my worthless, junkie brother around like a fucking anchor.”

Chi Chi says my name, but I keep going.

“You gonna start blowing Vinnie to keep him from cracking Donny’s skull open when he fucks him over again?”

I feel somebody grab my arm but I jerk away from them and start backing Staci into the wall.

“How many more times you gonna bail that piece of shit out before you realize he’s already dead?“

The words pour out ugly and mean, designed to cut to the bone. Then I wait for it—wait for her to rip into me, throw it back in my face twice as hard.

I live for that fire from her.

It’s all I’ve fucking got left—but she doesn’t.

She cracks.

Hazel eyes well up fast and something in my chest breaks wide open.

“Staci—“

She rips her apron off like it weighs a thousand pounds and throws it at my chest.

“Fuck this.” She whispers, voice shaking—then shes pushing past me and storms trash out the front door, bell jingling like a fucking gunshot.

I stand there frozen, her apron in my hands, watching the empty space she left behind. Tina grabs my arm again, eyes narrowed and angry.

Really angry.

“When the fuck you gonna learn how to shut the fuck up, Richie?”

I don’t answer her, dropping the apron on the counter, hands sliding up to grip my hair, staring at the door like Staci might walk back through it.

Like this is all a fucking joke.

She doesn’t and I feel it—deep in my chest where everything hurts all the time now—that I just fucked up the only good thing that’s happened to me since Mikey put a fucking gun in his mouth.

I stand there with my hands on my head, chest heaving and hollow—wondering how many more people I can push away before there’s no one left.

~

I don’t know how long I sit in Mikey’s chair after Staci left—breathing in the smell of his cologne until my throat is raw with it. I sign everyone’s checks, pass them out and go back to the office to sort through the massive stack of unpaid bills that are still on the floor—no idea if there’s even any money left in the account.

That’s a problem for another day.

My hand throbs under the bandage Staci wrapped last night—gentle, careful, like I was worth fixing.

I’m not.

At least she figured that out now, instead of five years from now like Tiff did. Stuck with a kid by a loser like me. Fucking pathetic. Broken. My best friend—my fucking brother—didn’t even want to stick around with me.

How fucked is that?

I pick up my phone and hit Staci’s name, not bothering to bring it to my ear cause I know she won’t answer. She hasn’t in the past two hours I’ve been blowing her shit up.

Hey! It’s Staci. Leave it at the tone!

I hang up.

I’ve got no idea what to even say to her.

I fucked up? I didn’t mean it. I don’t even remember what the fuck I said—it was all bullshit. I just wanted you to hurt like I was hurting. I just want to feel something besides pain.

I run both hands over my face and push to my feet, letting the chair tip over with the rest of this shit in here I haven’t cleaned up. Then I’m pushing through the kitchen. Tina’s wiping down Staci’s station, Marcus is stacking sheet pans. Ebra’s pacing the floors. They all look up when I come through.

“I’m out,” I mutter, grabbing my hoodie off the rack. Staci’s jacket is still hanging beside it. I hesitate then throw it over my arm like I’m off to do a service by returning it to her. Even though I have no fucking idea where she even is.

Tina straightens, hands on her hips. “What the fuck, Richie? We’ve still got three hours—”

“Figure it out or don’t. I’m fucking over it.” I yank the hoodie on, keys digging into my palm. “Lock the doors on your way out if you leave, or don’t—like I said. Fuck this place.”

“Richie—” Tina starts, voice sharp, but I’m already out the door and heading to my car. The cold bites as I slide behind the wheel, slamming the door hard enough to make the windows rattle. My chest is heaving, eyes stinging from the half-dried tears I’ve been trying to breathe through all afternoon.

Why am I such a fucking degenerate?

All I had to do was be nice to her. Assure her that the ring is just familiar. Just there so I don’t have to disassociate myself from a time in my life when my best friend was still alive. I honestly don’t even think about it—but that doesn’t matter now. What’s said can’t be taken back and that shit about Donny—

Fuck.

I pull onto the street and head North to those really nice houses a few blocks past Mikey’s place. That’s where Donny grew up.

The biggest house for the biggest asshole.

Staci’s probably there having her butler make fresh squeezed lemonade or some shit.

She’s probably freezing without her coat.

I’ll just return it and leave it at that. Cut my ties. It’s better that way. Girl like her doesn’t deserve to suffer over someone like me. A broken fucking human barely capable of human connection.

There is no middle ground with me.

I pull up to the house twenty minutes later, smoke half a cigarette to get my nerve up—then forget the damn coat in the passengers seat as I make my way toward the front door.

An older man comes to the door when I knock, mid-sixties, African American. He’s wearing a bulls sweater and a polite but confused smile.

“We’re not interested in buying anything—“

“No, I uh. I’m not—“ I shake my head and try again. “I’m sorry to bother you I’m just looking for my friend? Does Staci…, or Donny Rossi live here?”

He thinks for a moment, like he doesn’t know if they do or not and I sigh.

This fucking day.

“My wife and I bought this place from Rossi’s twenty some years ago. House was foreclosing, husband ran off with some young thing to Florida—left her with two kids. Sad story. My wife used to send Christmas cards to her but she lost contact after a while. Woman never was right after all that.”

Fuck me.

I open my mouth to say something and close it again. Taking in his words. I guess Donny’s family life wasn’t as good as I always thought it was.

“Alright man, thanks anyway.” I mutter, walking back to my car in a daze. I try to think back to high school, like it wasn’t a lifetime ago—but all I remember is Donny’s smug ass face when I think of him.

Back in the car I try Staci again. She doesn’t pick up. Straight to voicemail now, like she’s turned the damn thing off.

I really can’t blame her.

Fucking think Richie.

No mutual friends.

Staci was in grade school when I was graduating. That in itself should be enough to take my antique ass back home but it’s not.

I call her again.

Nothing.

“Fuck!”

I press the back of my head to the seat and close my eyes. Fuck. I’ve ruined this. Ruined any chance of being with her because of my stupid, fucking mouth. I smack the steering wheel hard, then I realize—

We do have a mutual friend.

Donny Fucking Rossi.

I scroll my phone, stopping on Nico’s contact. This is grasping for straws but hopefully Chicago isn’t as big as it feels today.

“Yo, Nico. Y-yeah,” I take a breath. “I’m looking for Donovan Rossi. No, nothing like that. 230? Alright man, thanks. Hit me up sometime.”

He didn’t ask about Mikey.

Fucking gavone.

I dial the number and wait. Donny answers on the third ring. “Hello?” He sounds like he’s been circling the drain. “Donny? It’s Richie Jerimovich.”

There’s a moment of silence, then he huffs out a laugh like he’s happy to hear from me or some shit.

“Richie? Shit, man. Hey. How you been?”

Like we’re friends.

“I’m looking for Staci.”

He laughs again.

“Yeah, yeah. She told me she was working down at the spot with you. Mikey told her about it a while back when we were hanging out. Feels like forever since we were all in school, huh?”

I take in a sharp breath and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to will myself to get through this conversation.

“Yeah, man. Forever. Listen, you seen Staci?”

I hear a door open, then shut. Then the crack of a soda can opening. “Nah man, I’ve been home all day. She was gone before I got up—is everything okay?”

Like he cares about someone other than himself. He wouldn’t make his sister bail him out of trouble all the time is that was the case. Or put her through that shit in the first place.

“Richie?”

“Yeah, everything’s good. She left her coat at work today, just trying to get it back to her. Cold this time of year.”

Fuck me.

“Yeah, yeah. Definitely. That kid would leave her head if it wasn’t attached to her neck—“

I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off but then he says something that stops me cold.

“I don’t know what I’d do without her though. She’s saved my life more times than I can count.” 

Shit. Maybe Donny Rossi isn’t a complete gavone after all.

“Where you staying at now? I drove by your house on Whitmore—“

He hesitates for just a second. Pride almost getting the best of him.

“Oh—mom sold that place right after we graduated. We’re staying over on the South Side now. 63rd and Halsted in the apartments. It’s tight but it works. I gotta get my shit together so I can get them out of here.”

Staci’s staying on the South Side? Of Chicago? Every ugly thing I ever said about their perfect life turns sour in my mouth.

“If you see Staci will you tell her to call me?” I mutter into the phone, head back on the seat again. “Sure thing, Richie. Good to hear from you man, shit—I’m real sorry about Mikey. He was one of the good ones.”

I press my hand to my sternum, willing that ache to go away. Donny Rossi’s got his demons like the rest of us but he seems like a good dude.

And that makes me the asshole.

“Yeah, man. He was. Talk soon.”

I hang up before he can say anything else.

“Fuck.”

~

I don’t know how long I drive around the South Side of Chicago looking for Staci. Long enough to feel like a complete piece of shit by the time I circle back to River North.

I don’t go back to work.

I can’t fucking do it tonight.

Not without her.

So I sit outside The Green Door Tavern waiting to see if she’ll call me back, smoking up all of my damn cigarettes. I try one last time with no luck.

This time I talk.

“Last call, sweetheart. I promise. I won’t bother saying I’m sorry again because I keep fucking up, but I am, Staci. I really fucking am.” I take a breath that feels like fire in my lungs. “I’m falling apart without Mikey. I can’t do any of this shit without him and I keep taking that out on you—the first good thing I’ve had in a long fucking time. I’ve been wrong about everything—but that’s nothing new. So yeah, please let me try to fix this. I need someone like you in my life.”

I hang up and lean my head forward until it’s resting against the steering wheel, sitting in the quiet until I can’t fucking stand it anymore. Then I get out, slam the car door and head inside to drink away this fucking nightmare.

~

The Green Door Tavern is the same today as it was ten years ago when me and Mikey used to close up The Beef—neon sign half-dead, peeled green paint.

Back before everything slipped through my fingers.

The jukebox still skips on the same Springsteen track, floors are still sticky as fuck—and the owner still gives me the side-eye from behind the bar like I owe him money.

Which, technically, I might.

I don’t care tonight.

I slide into a back booth—the one tucked in the corner where the light doesn’t quite reach—order a whisky neat, drink it right there in front of the waitress then order another one while I stare at the scarred tabletop like it’s got the answers I need.

My phone stays dark.

No missed calls.

No texts.

Just the ghost of that last voicemail I left her, hanging in the air.

I’m halfway through my third drink when I hear it.

Her laugh.

Sharp, bright, a little too loud—like she’s forcing out what’s eating her alive. It cuts through the bar noise like a knife, and my head snaps up so fast I almost knock the glass over.

Staci’s at the far end of the bar, perched on a stool, dark hair loose over one shoulder, wearing the same clothes she was in at work today. Those ripped jeans that make her ass look fucking amazing and one of our maroon OG Beef shirts.

God she’s beautiful.

And I’m an idiot.

She’s been right under my nose this whole time.

She’s laughing at something the guy next to her is saying, body leaning forward just enough to make her seem interested in whatever the hell he’s saying—eyelashes batting with that fucking smile that makes my chest ache.

The guys a nobody—mid-thirties maybe, button-down opened at the neck, trying too hard with the funny banter. Staci’s got a half-gone drink in front of her, straw bobbing, ice melting fast and she looks—fine.

Buzzed, maybe.

Loose.

Like she’s here to forget the same shit I’m trying to forget.

My stomach twists. I should leave. I should walk out right now and let her have this night without me ruining it more but I can’t move.

I can’t take my eyes off of her.

I watch her head tilt back, another giggle escaping her as she motions for the bartender to order another drink. The asshole beside her insists on paying as she pushes off the stool and tells him she’ll be right back. She catches herself on the bar like she’s not steady on her feet, laughing again before heading toward the bathrooms in the back.

I duck my head low to stay out of her line of sight and watch her stagger away.

Something’s off.

Yeah, she’s tiny—but she told me once she’s not much of a drinker and I can’t see her getting shit faced drunk on a Tuesday night no matter how pissed off she is at me. I watch the bartender gather a glass and pour a weak ass shot of vodka followed by a generous amount of soda. Then he sits it down at Staci’s empty bar stool and wanders off.

Fucking rookie.

The asshole at the bar glances to the glass casually then without missing a beat he pulls a baggie from his pocket and drops whatever’s in it into her drink so quick you’d have missed it if you weren’t looking right at him, watching it happen in real time.

He swirls her straw once then sits back like he never touched it—and I see fucking red. The world narrows to the back of his head and I’m on my feet before I realize I’m moving.

“Richie?” Staci’s voice stops me, it’s soft—not angry—and she places her hand on my arm as I turn to her. “What are you doing here?” Her voice wavers, smaller than it should be. Up close, her eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide and black in the dim bar light, swallowing the hazel up almost completely. She sways, fingers tightening on my sleeve like the floor’s shifting under her.

“Hey, sweetheart. I’ve been looking for you.” I whisper, turning to her fully. I place my hands on her shoulders to steady her. “You okay?”

She presses her free hand to her stomach, face paling. “I… I don’t feel good,” She whispers, voice cracking. “Everything’s spinning.” She looks up at me, confused and scared, but there’s relief there too—like despite everything, I’m the one she needs right now.

I slide my hands into her hair to gently tilt her head back, checking those pupils again. Definitely not just booze in her system. The world’s still red around the edges, but the rage shifts—the need to protect her fills my soul.

“You’re alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” I say, low and steady, even though my pulse is hammering. I shrug off my hoodie and slip it on her before wrapping an arm around her waist, steadying her as she leans into me, small and trembling. “Let’s go get some fresh air, yeah?”

She mumbles something about her drink and I assure her I’ll take care of it as her hand slides over my chest, fingers clinging to my shirt. She nods like she trust me and I guide her toward the door, steps unsteady, body heavy against mine.

Once we hit the cold I pull out my phone one-handed and dial Marcus, bringing it to my ear.

“Yo, my guy. I’m sorry about that shit today—yeah, I found her. You still at the spot?”

Staci’s hand falls to my stomach, body going slack against me as I hold her tighter.

“We’re down the street here at The Tavern, I think someone spiked her drink. Can you come stand with her while I take care of it?”

By the time I get Staci coherent enough to assure me she’s okay, just dizzy—Marcus is already jogging up, out of breath.

“What the hell happened?”

I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Some jagoff at the bar. She’s crashing hard.” I murmur, easing her into Marcus’s arms. Staci protests softly, reaching back for me but he keeps her standing. “Richie, don’t leave,” She whispers, tears starting, voice slurring now—classic roofie fog creeping in. I cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheek. “Marcus is right here, sweetheart. I’ll be right back. Promise.”

I stand there another minute, searching her blown pupils. I don’t want to leave her but I can’t let this goon get away with this shit.

Not on my fucking watch.

“I got you, Stace—let’s go sit by Richie’s car?” Marcus says to her softly and she nods but doesn’t let me go. I pry her fingers off my shirt gently, hating every second of it, then I turn and stalk back inside.

The guy’s still at the bar, laughing with some other chick now like it’s nothing. Like Staci is just an after thought. This one’s not as into his bullshit as Staci was, but she’s also still waiting for her drink.

I don’t hesitate—grabbing the back of his head and slamming his face forward into the scarred wood of the bar hard enough to crack something.

He cries out in agony, reaching for his bloodied nose as the woman jumps up with a scream. I don’t bother with her. The bartender is yelling for security as the owner storms out from the back, face thunderous.

Manny fucking Morretto—fucking stroke.

Bastard’s face is as red as his shirt.

“Fuck you Manny.” I growl before he can even catch his breath to say anything, digging into this rapist piece of shits pocket as he groans against the bar. I yank out the baggie and toss it across the counter to the bartender who’s looking at it with wide eyes.

One of the designated muscle grabs my shoulder but freezes when he sees the drugs.

“This the kind of shit you let happen down here, Manny?!” I yell as they jerk me away from the bar. “Let innocent women get fucking drugged and raped in this shit hole?” I point my finger in his fat fucking face as someone starts to drag me away. “I outta knock your fuckin’ teeth out for letting this shit like this fly down here!”

If it’s possible, Manny gets redder—but the bouncers let me go and grab the asshole bleeding out on their bar. He’s still holding his bloody nose, eyes shut and sobbing.

“Get the fuck out of here, Richie! Before I call the cops!” Manny finally yells, pointing the guards to the back alley before anyone else sees what’s going down over here.

“Yeah? Call the fucking cops, Manny—so I can tell them what the fuck you’re running!”

Manny is seconds away from a fucking heart attack, hands flaring around his head—turning his rage on his own staff now as I watch them haul the asshole toward the alley out back. I catch the bigger of the two throw a brutal punch just as the door swings shut.

Good.

They’ll handle the rest.

Nobody will call the cops—not on me at least and not before they fuck that guy up worse than I did. 

There’s a fucking code around here.

I push outside again, still humming with anger. Then I see them. Marcus has Staci sitting on the curb beside my Honda, arm draped around her carefully. She looks small, crying quietly now. She’s disoriented and clinging to him despite still looking for me. “He’s right inside, Stace. He’ll be right back.” Marcus assures her but the way she says my name nearly brings me to my knees beside them. When her wet eyes lift to mine she gasps and shoots to her feet, Marcus following quickly as she sways. I pull her close, checking her eyes again—pulse racing under my touch.

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

She seems to be alright, mostly just scared and a little dazed. “I’m gonna get you home, okay?”

63rd and Halsted.

Shitty apartments.

Marcus looks at me for a moment, taking in everything I don’t say. Today was fucked. This life is fucked—but I’m sorry for bailing like a little bitch. I’ll do better, somehow.

“It’s all good, Richie. We got you—just take care of her.” Marcus assures me, heading back to the spot after giving Staci one last glance. She thanks him for coming and he nods, disappearing as quickly as he came.

You won’t find nobody better than Marcus Brooks. 

I turn back to Staci slowly, sinking my hands in her hair again as her head bobs like she’s trying to argue with me. “Richie, don’t—“ My hands freeze. “Don’t take me home. Not…, not to my place—just leave me here.” A sob rushes from her chest with the words, sending an ache deep into my bones. I open my mouth to protest but she shakes her head again. “P-please don’t take me there. I c-can’t—“ Her hands grip my shirt, bringing me closer. Her words come out barely a sound and full of grief. “I can’t see him like that again.”

I watch the tears well up in her eyes, spilling down her wet cheeks as I try to brush them away. 

“Alright, sweetheart. I won’t—we won’t. I’ll take you to my place.” I assure her and she nods, thanking me quietly. My fingers tighten in her hair for a breath, I want to kiss her. I want to swear to her that I will never let anything fucking hurt her again but how can I—

When I’m someone that hurts her.

“Come on, sweetheart.” I whisper, guiding her into the car. I buckle her in like I’d buckle in Eva after too much ice cream. The thought of her—my kid one day having to deal with some shit like this almost turns me back toward the bar to finish what I started but Staci says my name again in that hushed whisper and it’s settled.

I won’t leave her side again tonight.

She curls toward me as I drive, head on my shoulder, hand on my thigh—murmuring apologies and nonsense. She gets down right defensive when I assure her I didn’t hide her onion prep from her on her first day at The Beef.

I did—but I’m taking that shit to the grave with me.

Then she laughs at nothing for the next fifteen minutes until she gets the hiccups—then she laughs some more.

Despite the seriousness of this night I can’t help but smile.

Her laugh is as beautiful as her.

I tell her that but she’s out cold the next moment, breathing steady beside me as the city lights blur past. For the first time today the knot in my chest loosens—just a little.

I’m still an idiot but at least tonight I’m the idiot that kept her safe.

~

“Come on, sweetheart.” I whisper as I open Staci’s door and lean in to unclasp her seatbelt. Before I can get the belt loose, her hands slide up my chest, fingers threading into the back of my hair to tug me down to her.

She says my name softly, breath catching against my lips as her eyes flutter half-open, hazy and dark, pupils still blown.

The sound of her voice does things to me I’m not proud of.

“Easy sweetheart.” I catch her wrists, holding them gently. “Let’s get you inside.”

She leans up to kiss me, pressing her mouth to mine slowly and I give in for just a second, groaning into her mouth as her tongue brushes mine before I pull away, forehead to hers, breathing hard.

My lips part to say something but I’ve got nothing, trying to walk that moral line and breathe through all the noise in my head at once.

So Staci talks for me.

“I like you,” She whispers, voice slurring just a bit, helping me remember what I’m dealing with here. “Even when you call me a bitch, and make me so angry I let some sleazy asshole buy me drinks.” A soft laugh slips past her lips in a breath and her eyes close. “I still like you. Even the broken parts.”

My chest tightens but I keep my mouth shut. If it’s the last thing I do—I’ll learn how to shut the fuck up. Just so I can keep her. Staci lets me unbuckle her belt, tries to stand. Fails. I scoop her up bridal style and carry her to the second floor of my building—complaining about my back the whole time despite her being light as a feather.

She smiles against my throat, fingers dragging into the back of my hair as I nudge the door open and carry her to my bed. She kicks her sneakers off inside the door before I set her down on the mattress gently.

Our eyes meet as her fingers lock around my shoulders for a moment, keeping me close to her. I curse under my breath as she leans into me again. This time I kiss her back—just once. Long enough to feel the mistake of it settle in my chest. She tries to pull me down with her, fingers tugging my shirt, body arching just enough to make my brain short-circuit.

I brace my arm at her side, hovering. She’s still kissing me like she’s drowning and I’m air and it takes everything I’ve got not to let my weight drop, not to give in to the heat screaming through me.

I manage to break away from her, pulling back just far enough to breathe. I press my forehead to hers again, chest heaving.

“Richie—“

“Not tonight sweetheart. Not like this, okay?” My voice is wrecked, hands shaking as I loosen them from her hair. Some of the hazel is back in her gaze, but barely. There’s a fucking war raging inside of me but somehow, somehow I manage to pull away from her further.

“I like you.” Staci repeats, softer this time—that little smirk pulling at her lips as she lays back on my pillow with a sigh. Dark hair fans out over the case, another soft sound escaping her as she sinks in and closes her eyes.

Her mascara is smudged from crying, lips swollen from kissing me—chest heaving with a mix of all of it.

I swallow hard. “Sleep it off, sweetheart. I’m right here.” I assure her quietly as she reaches for my hand, fingers threading together carefully. “Mmm, make sure mom puts her cigarette out.” She whispers, lifting her other hand to touch my arm. “She passes out a lot.”

I watch her breathing start to relax, head falling to the side slowly. Something sharp twists in my chest as I brush her hair from her face. “Y-yeah.” Is all I can manage, thinking back on all the couch fires I’ve stomped out over the years.

I stay perched on the edge of the mattress, watching her fight that hazy half-sleep where the filter’s off and everything spills. “Donny was so messed up the other night, Richie.” She whispers. “He was half-dead on the floor, shirt soaked through with sweat, shaking, eyes rolled back. Puke everywhere.” I brush my thumb across her cheek, catching a sudden tear. “I thought he was really gone this time.” She exhales a shaky breath, closing her eyes tighter. “He just kept telling me how sorry he was. Like that was enough.”

The words land like punches. I see Mikey instead, same scene, same panic ripping my chest open as I tried to shake him awake. My free hand curls into a fist on my thigh, nails biting skin. When he finally woke up, violently sick and shaking. He just whispered ”I’m sorry cousin.” With every gasp.

Like that was enough.

“Don’t,” I whisper, choking on the word. “Don’t worry about any of that tonight, sweetheart. Just rest.”

Staci nods, small and slow, like she’s too tired to fight it. Her fingers tighten around mine, weak but stubborn, holding on to me like I’m the only solid thing left. Her breathing deepens, evens out for real this time as she mumbles my name one last time then finally lets go.

Out cold.

I don’t move.

The ache in my chest spreads, heavy and hot, like something’s cracking open inside of me that I’ve kept locked down for years.

I was wrong about Donny Rossi.

He’s the same as Mikey. The same fucking poison ruining him, the same desperate person trying to save him.

~

Staci

The first thing I notice is the smell. Not the stale vodka-sweat-cigarette reek of my apartment—

Richie.

I inhale deep, burying my face in his pillow. Whatever shampoo he uses fills my senses. My eyes crack open, wincing against the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds. My brain throbs in my skull as I turn my head to glance around the room. It’s surprisingly tidy, books stacked on the dresser—Philip K. Dick. Vonnegut. Old takeout menus tucked into the spines like bookmarks. A framed photo of Eva sits beside the books—gap-toothed smile, frosting on her nose, Richie’s arm slung around her like a shield.

His smile is so genuine I can almost feel his joy bleeding through the picture.

Why the hell am I in his bed?

I bolt upright too fast—head swimming. The room tilts hard as I press a palm to my forehead, breathing through my nose. I left The Beef—threw my apron in Richie’s face and stormed out. I circled the block a hundred times waiting for him to come after me—to fix it—but he didn’t.

He just left, and I wandered inside that shitty bar at the end of the block to try and feel something besides hurt.

Everything after that is foggy. Some polo asshole’s stupid jokes at the bar. Richie’s voice cutting through the noise—”Hey sweetheart. I’ve been looking for you.” His arms around me, rough hands in my hair. The cold air on my face, him carrying me up stairs like a giddy bride, his mouth on mine, soft and careful and desperate.

I remember telling him I liked him.

Even the broken parts.

Fuck me.

I lift myself up on my arms slowly, breathing through the pain radiating in my skull. My mouth tastes like ashes and regret and I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, tucked under a warm blanket.

“Richie?” I whisper, throat raw. I reach for the bottle of water left on the nightstand, cracking it open and drinking it down quick. Beside it is an envelope with Richie’s perfect handwriting scrawled over it and a bottle of Advil.

Shower’s through the door on the left. Towels are clean. Raid my closet, wear whatever fits. Stay as long as you want. Coffee’s on. Netflix password: MikeysBitch6969, don’t judge—he picked it. Had to go to The Spot. I’m sorry about everything. Again.

I stare at the note until the words blur.

If Richie hadn’t showed up when he did—

My chest does something painful. Tightens, then loosens like a fist finally unclenching.

I owe him something I don’t know how to repay.

~

Richie’s shower runs hotter than the one at my place, water heater probably isn’t busted. The steam is thick enough to choke on but I stand in it anyway, letting the water pound against my shoulders until the ache in my skull dulls to something manageable. His shampoo smells clean and woodsy and stupidly masculine in a way that makes my stomach flip even when I know I shouldn’t let it.

I scrub harder than necessary, like I can rinse everything about last night off my skin. Our harsh words. That creep at the bar. The way Richie’s mouth felt against mine. The way I told him I liked him, even his broken parts. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him from coming apart.

Maybe I care about him. Maybe we care about each other, but at what cost to our sanity? The things I say to him? The things he says to me?

Richie and I are like poison.

Toxic.

I shouldn’t be in his shower right now.

I think about the things I said in the middle of that fight—how his ex-wife probably had a damn good reason for leaving him. The look on his face when the words landed—like I’d punched him square in the ribs. I saw him crack open, saw how he tries to hide under all that noise and swagger and I drove the knife in deeper anyway.

And he did the same to me.

Calling Donny a lost cause. Asking how many more times I’d bail him out before I realized he was already dead.

Every syllable was designed to hurt, and it did. It still does. I can feel the echo of it in my chest every time I think about my brother curled up on the floor, fresh track marks blooming angry under his skin.

We’re mirrors, Richie and I. We see the worst in each other and throw it back like grenades.

I don’t want to fight with him anymore. I don’t want to hurt him. He saved me last night—when he didn’t have to. He could have just left, let me be someone else’s problem but he brought me here and he took care of me.

I don’t want to hurt him—but he makes me so crazy sometimes, I don’t know if it’s possible not to.

I shut the water off, stand dripping in the steam and press my forehead to the cool tile. My heart is hammering like I’ve run a mile. I’m scared of what happens if I keep letting him in. I’m scared of what happens if I let him go.

But The Beef…

The Beef is different.

The Beef is family.

It’s loud and chaotic and falling apart half the time, but it’s also the first place in years that feels like something I could belong to. Tina’s quiet nods of approval. Marcus’s dumb jokes. Ebra’s no nonsense responses. Even Richie, when he’s not being a complete asshole, makes it feel alive.

I need that.

I need something that doesn’t threaten to destroy me every time I get near it.

That day at Benny’s Italiano’s when Donny and Mikey showed up—everything felt right. Their warmth—despite the freezing February cold, the kind of cold Chicago is known for. I was busting my ass, smiling at every table like this shitty job might actually lead somewhere, apron tied tight around my waist, hair in a high ponytail that was already falling apart from the kitchen steam.

Donny spotted me first. He looked good—hair brushed, eyes clear, no shadows under them. He pulled me into a side hug before I could even get a startled word out.

Mikey hung back a step, hands in his pockets, that easy half-smile on his face. He looked tired around the eyes, the kind of tired that comes from too many bad nights.

I was taking their order when Tito DiMaggio came around the corner from the kitchen, delivery bags in hand. Benny’s third cousin, fresh out of prison—built like a linebacker—always smelling like fryer oil and cheap aftershave. He brushed past me like he always did, hand grazing my ass in that casual, practiced way he thought no one noticed.

Mikey told me I didn’t have to put up with that shit.

Come work at The Beef.

“It’s a shithole,” He admitted, smiling at me from behind the pain in his eyes. “Grease on the walls, fluorescents that will give you a wicked headache—but the people? They’re the heart of it. Tina’ll teach you everything she knows. Marcus’ll make you laugh when you wanna cry. Ebra and Chi Chi keep the place going—and Richie—”

He paused, eyes softening like he was talking about someone important.

“Richie’s loud, a little messy—but he’d never let anyone fuck with you. Go see him. He’ll take care of you.”

He talked about The Beef like it was his baby, something precious to him—something he wanted to make better for his brother in Napa.

Carmy’s the real deal. One day it’ll be his. When it’s good enough for him.

Mikey was so proud of his little brother but he talked about The Beef like he was already halfway out the door.

I just smiled and assured him I’d go talk to Richie. He made me promise, and I don’t break promises.

After that—they ate. Benny’s famous Stromboli. They tipped big. They hugged me goodbye—Donny tight and quick, Mikey slower, like he was savoring it—then a few days later, he put a gun in his mouth.

Now here I stand, just inside the door of The Beef, bell still jingling overhead like a warning. I’m wearing Richie’s clothes—his hoodie, his scent clinging to my skin like smoke and cedar. I look like I belong to him. Like I climbed out of his bed and straight into his world.

Like I belong here.

And maybe I do.

Maybe I always did—but the question that keeps clawing at me isn’t whether I fit here or not—it’s whether I can stay here without bleeding us both dry.

~

Richie

The lunch rush is finally bleeding out but the kitchen still feels like it’s trying to choke me alive. 

I’m behind the counter, scrubbing the same spot until my knuckles ache, anything to stop my brain from looping yesterday on repeat—Staci’s face when I called her a bitch, the way her eyes filled with tears like I’d finally broken something she’d been holding together by sheer fucking will.

Then finding her in that bar, moments away from—whatever the fuck that jagoff had in mind for her.

“Fuck!” I toss the rag to the counter and run a hand over my face. Staci’s probably running back to the South Side right now to get the hell away from me and maybe that’s for the best. Maybe I’m doing her a favor by not dragging her into my shit any deeper.

Tina slides up beside me, arms folded, watching me like she’s evaluating every thought I’ve ever had.

“You talk to Staci yet?” She asks, quiet enough the others don’t catch it. “Fix your fuck-up? She comin’ back?”

I shrug. Go back to scrubbing. “Don’t know, T.”

She rolls her eyes, curses me out in Spanish. “She’s good for this place Richie—she’s good for you.”

My throat locks up.

“We’re toxic, T. It’s not like that.”

We rip each other open every time we get too close. She’s better off without me saying things I can’t take back. I’m better off alone, where the only person I can ruin is me—

The bell above the front door jingles.

I look up.

And the world fucking stops.

Staci is standing just inside the door, drowning in my clothes—my shirt hanging loose and soft like it was made for her, sweatpants rolled twice at the waist so they don’t slip off her hips. My black hoodie unzipped, sleeves swallowing her hands completely.

Her hair is damp, twisted up in that messy bun of hers that shows off the hollow of her throat, dark strands clinging like she just stepped out of my shower five minutes ago.

I try not to picture it. Kissing her under the water, her legs wrapping around me—back against the shower wall. How fucking good I know she’d feel around me. My fingers curl around the counter to keep me in place, watching her take a step inside. 

She’s beautiful in a way that hurts to look at and right now, she looks like she belongs to me.

Tina lets out a low, knowing laugh beside me, nudging her elbow into my side deep.

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, mijo.”

Staci takes another step and Tina meets her halfway, pulling her into a tight hug, whispering something I can’t hear but makes Staci’s shoulders drop like she’s finally breathing again.

“His clothes look better on you, mija.”

Staci lifts her eyes to mine slowly, waiting to see if I want her here—when I’ve never wanted anything more. My mouth curves before I can stop it.

The kind of smile that’s honest.

The kind that always gets me in trouble.

She catches it immediately and gives it right back, like she knows exactly what it means and is choosing it anyway.

“Welcome back, sweetheart.”

And just like that—we’re not done ruining each other yet.

Not by a long shot.

TBC…