Chapter Text
The office was already too small for one person. With both Mikey and Carmy inside, it felt like it might implode from bad decisions and anxiety.
Stacks of envelopes littered the desk—some opened, some sealed in rubber bands. A spreadsheet was pulled up on the old desktop monitor. Mikey was half-sitting on the filing cabinet, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, flipping through a thick red notebook of names and numbers.
Carmy paced, hands flying, “I’m telling you, Mikey, we can’t keep moving twenty-five a week through Lakeview. Not with Tramonte sniffing around.”
Mikey muted his call, tossed Carmy a look. “So we move thirty-five through Bridgeport. It’s cleaner. Fewer eyes.”
“Thirty-five?” Carmy snorted. “You trying to get us raided or written up in Chicago Business?”
“We’ve got the dry cleaner, the bakery, the car wash, and the goddamn florist funneling clean receipts. If we push higher-end inventory through those fronts, we can clear—what—fifty K net a week, easy.”
“Yeah, if none of ‘em skim.” Carmy grabbed the mouse, clicked through a spreadsheet. “Last month, Luca’s bakery reported four grand less than projected. Either his wife’s gambling again or someone’s stealing from us.”
“Could be both, Sugar used to uncover a bunch of wild shit while counting the money,” Mikey grinned, then raised a hand. “Hold on.” Back on the phone: “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll take the drop Tuesday. Tell Vince not to be cute this time—he still owes us for that slip with the feds last summer. No late drops. No new guys. And if I see that kid with the neck tattoo again, I swear to Christ I’ll break his jaw.”
Click. Mikey tossed the phone on the desk, exhaled.
“You talk to Jimmy?” Carmy asked.
“He wants us to push numbers up on the South Side. He says if we can move 100K a month clean, he’ll back the remodel.”
Carmy froze. “You serious?”
“I’m dead serious. He says new signage, new booths, real PR campaign, everything– The Beef reborn.”
Carmy rubbed his face. “So we’ve gotta launder 100K through meatball subs and wedding cakes?”
“Hey.” Mikey smirked. “Don’t underestimate Chicago’s love for marinara and money.”
They both laughed, the kind of laugh that covered exhaustion, grief, and danger all rolled into one. Carmy looked at his brother—eyes bloodshot, voice hoarse, but alive in a way only this life made him.
Mikey stared at the floor for quite a while after the laughter died down. “Lenny’s gone,” he said suddenly. “Found him in his car in Melrose. Bullet to the head. Clean shot. Execution style.”
Carmy stopped pacing. “Shit.”
“They think it’s Tramonte. But you know what I think? I think we stretched him too thin. Made him run two drop spots, cover payroll, and drive the truck for Tony’s dry cleaners.”
“Did we?” Carmy asked quietly.
Mikey didn’t answer.
Instead, he rubbed his hands down his face like he could scrape off the guilt.
“They’re not soldiers, Carm. They’re kids who owe us favors and got no way out. And here we are asking them to cover our mess.”
“You mean Jimmy’s mess,” Carmy said.
Mikey looked up, deadpan. “There’s no such thing as Jimmy’s mess. It’s all ours once we touch it.”
A long silence stretched between them. Carmy ran a hand through his hair, which was already damp with sweat.
“I can’t keep doing this, Mikey,” he said finally. Voice low. “I can’t cook veal while planning drop schedules and pretending I’m not watching people drown. Plus, all this math is frying my brain,” he says, trying to joke. Mikey doesn’t laugh, just gives him a pitiful smile.
He knows how hard this is on Carmy. Natalie is no longer helping with the business since Pete and her had a kid and Carmy had to come home from culinary school in New York to make up for the lack of labor. Richie has been running patrol at night and spending all day with Eva, too tired to come into The Beef. Carmy has been running The Beef and Luca’s Bakery, one of their other laundering locations, for six months now and he’s up to his neck in marinara sauce, flour, and cocaine.
Mikey originally started dealing to pay off some debts from his father’s restaurants, but then he got enough to renovate the place and help some of the other businesses on the block. When his best friend Richie heard about it, they started finding more people to recruit and more business to operate out of. That was almost 15 years ago and they’ve been growing and growing. Sometimes the other “family business” gets rowdy, but Mikey at the end of the day is a charmer. Everyone has their neighborhoods, everyone makes their money.
“Hey, how about you take the afternoon off? I miss being in the kitchen. I’ll look over The Beef and Luca’s tonight and you go do whatever the fuck it is you do when you’re not here,” Mikey offers to Carmy.
“What? No, I got it we can both–”
“Nah, Carm don’t sweat it. Richie’s dropping Eva off with Tiff and he’ll be here early to patrol, neither of us have any drop offs today and spaghetti is the special– I got this you go.”
“Are you sure?” Carmy asks, unsure.
“Get the fuck out of my office Carmen,” Mikey says grabbing him but his shoulders, “Go! Eat, get some pussy, spend your money– I don’t care. Take the night off.” Carmy turns red at the gesture.
“Ok, ok. Heard, I’ll fuck off. Call if you need something?” He asks, staring his older brother in his eyes.
“Yeah I’ll call if I want a nice steak dinner. Don’t bring your ass back here until tomorrow,” Mikey says, pushing a finger into his chest. He turns him and pushes him out of the office. Carmy laughs, grabs his jacket and heads out, unsure what to do with his new found freedom.
Lenny’s death clung to Carmy like smoke as he walked through the farmer’s market, the weight of it pressing behind his eyes and dragging at his limbs. He kept replaying it—how he found out, what the body must’ve looked like, whether Lenny had seen it coming. He wondered if their folks knew yet, or if Mikey was still trying to figure out what to say, how to spin it. Mikey usually handled things when one of their guys went down. Quiet. Efficient. But this one hit different. Lenny wasn’t just some guy—they’d known each other since they were kids. And Lenny’s cousin, Claire... shit. How the hell was he supposed to look her in the eye?
He thought about getting her flowers—tulips maybe, or something stupid and soft she wouldn’t expect. But even the thought of approaching her with that news made his chest tighten. Everything in him itched to be doing something else, to be anywhere else. For now, he kept his eyes on the vegetables, like finding the right bunch of parsley might stop his brain from spiraling.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had a day off that didn’t feel like another form of labor. His body ached from service, from sleepless nights, from cleaning up messes no one else would touch. He hadn’t eaten anything besides beef sandwiches and corner-store protein bars in days. Running The Beef was supposed to be temporary, but here he was—neck deep in marinara, drug schedules, and funeral planning. Nat had drawn a line months ago, told Mikey she was done until the laundering stopped. Mikey didn’t blink. Just handed Carmy the reins like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t yanked him back from New York and threatened to cut off tuition if he didn’t step up. He should’ve been pissed—wanted to be pissed—but what was the point? He was back. The money was good. His brother needed him. And maybe if he stayed close enough, he could stop the whole thing from blowing up.
Still, Lenny was dead.
Carmy moved through the stalls like a ghost, grabbing produce mechanically. His vision narrowed, focus tunneling in and out. The market should’ve been calming—the smell of basil, the thrum of quiet city life—but all he felt was a low buzz of panic beneath his skin. Like if he slowed down even a second, it would all collapse. People brushed past him. Voices filtered through, but none of them stuck. Everything was noise. Everything was demand. And Carmy felt frayed at the edges, like he was holding a dozen plates midair and waiting for the first to crash.
He scanned tomatoes with the same cold calculation he used to cut meat. Touch, inspect, discard. He wasn’t really here. He hadn’t been anywhere in weeks. Since burying himself in The Beef, in Mikey’s world, in his own guilt—he hadn’t really felt like a person. Just a function. Just a buffer between chaos and collapse. And even that was starting to crack.
Carmy looked at the flowers, even though he would probably just grab some from the floral shop before going to see Claire. He could use some for his apartment. He makes a bouquet of tulips and hyacinths, before walking through the rest of the vendors.
It’s weird having money now, he can actually afford the things he wants. He’s been a hell of a lot more stressed, but also more fulfilled in a way. When he has time for his hobbies, he indulges, hyper focuses and knows his shit. So, when he sees a pair of Levi 501XX Big E Jeans on a hanger in a stall, he doesn’t even think of looking at the price tag before grabbing them. On the other side of the rack someone grabs the hanger at the same time Carmy grabs the pant leg. They both release at the same time. Carmy waits a second before putting his hand on top of the hanger stopping the stranger from taking them off of the rack.
A hand clasps on top of his. Carmy flinches like he’s been burned and yanks the hanger off the rack.
“Seriously?” He hears from the other side of the rack before someone pushes open a divide between the denim and climbs to the other side.
A girl steps through the clothes wearing a colorful scarf holding back long braids and a pissed off disposition.
“Dude, totally not cool. I grabbed the jeans first,” she exclaimed. Carmy’s cheeks warmed up at her loud outburst. He stutters his way through a response before she cuts him off.
“Those’ll make your ass look like a sad balloon,” she says pointing at the jeans. Carmy rolls his eyes at her attempt to get his pants.
“What if I like looking like a sad balloon?”
“Then you’re doing the world a disservice,” she quips, “besides you probably have 10 more pairs lying around.”
“What if I have a personal relationship with these jeans?”
She narrows her eyes at him. “Ok, don’t let me interrupt your deeply personal relationship with these jeans.”
He coughs a laugh. “I mean, they’ve got potential.”
“Oh, you’re a potential guy?”
“I guess?”
“You say that like it’s a question.”
Carmy tugs at the brim of his cap. She can tell he’s trying not to fidget.
“I just like the fade,” he mumbles.
“Uh-huh. Sure. You definitely seem like a guy who owns exactly seven white t-shirts and alphabetizes his spices.”
That actually gets a grin out of him. “That’s—insulting. I don’t alphabetize them.”
“So you admit you have a spice rack.”
“I’m Italian.”
“Oh God,” she exclaims.
“What?”
“The hand gestures. The stress. The silent guilt. It’s all clicking.”
“I didn’t even say anything,” Carmy rolls his eyes.
“You didn’t have to. I can feel the ancestral pasta trauma radiating off you.”
He laughs under his breath, cheeks flushed. “Okay, but like… do you want the jeans?”
“I mean, they’re probably too big. But now I feel weird walking away. You touched them with such emotion.”
“I’ll find another pair. I’m not that attached.”
“No, no. You keep them. I’ll let you have this one, Carmen.”
He freezes. “How’d you—?”
“Tag on your tote. Says 'Carmen Berzatto.' Kinda iconic, not gonna lie.”
“Yeah. My mom named me after my grandpa.”
“Let me guess. Big guy. Hands like cast iron. Taught you to stir sauce with a wooden spoon and a prayer?” She asks with a teasing grin on her face.
“That’s... freakishly accurate.”
“Told you, you’re so Italian.”
They both laugh. He hands her the jeans anyway. “Take ’em.”
“You sure?” She asked, looking up at him.
“Positive.”
There’s a beat where they’re just smiling at each other. Her standing there beaming up at him with the jeans in her hand.
“Tell you what. I’ll split custody,” she says softly.
“Joint custody over the jeans?” He asks incredulously.
“Exactly,” she nods.
“Cool. I’ll wear them on weekends, you can get them on weeknights.” He offers.
“Sounds like a deal. I’m Sydney, by the way,” and she sticks out her hand for him to shake. He stares at it for a second, not ready for the conversation to be over.
“How about a truce instead, Sydney? I'll buy you those jeans and you can have them– full custody– if you come grab lunch with me?” He asks and puts out his hand. Now it’s her turn to stare. Before Carmy has a chance to pull back, he feels her soft hands grasping his.
“Deal, Berzatto.” She says with a toothy grin. Carmy smiled back and made his way to the guy who owned the stand. “Come on,” he said softly to her.
As Carmy walked beside Sydney, the Levi’s bag swinging between them, he couldn’t quite believe he’d asked her to lunch—actually asked her. It had come out almost impulsively, like his body moved faster than his brain for once. But now, in the quiet beat between stalls and sentences, it hit him how rare that was. How foreign it felt to want something without calculation or dread. She was sharp, quick, easy to talk to in a way that didn’t drain him. No code-switching, no pretending to be colder or tougher than he was. Just banter. Curiosity. Chemistry. It had been so long since he’d felt that flicker—since he’d even let himself look for it. And now here it was, walking next to him in a colorful scarf, teasing him about jeans and making him laugh like he hadn’t in months. For once, he wasn’t overthinking it. He just wanted her there. And that scared the shit out of him.
Sydney pokes at her grilled elote with a flimsy plastic fork. Carmy watches her from the corner of his eye, already halfway through a pulled pork sandwich that has no right being as good as it is.
“So,” she says between bites. “You gonna tell me where you learned to talk girls into lunch with denim and soft eyes?”
Carmy nearly chokes.
“Soft eyes?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know. That whole shy, I-might-apologize-for-existing energy? Dangerous.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning but clearly flustered. “It wasn’t a strategy. I just—liked talking to you.”
She glances at him. “So what is this, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“This.” She gestures between them, between bites. “Are we hanging out? Is this... a date?”
Carmy swallows slowly, then sets his food down. He looks at her for real—eyes steady, vulnerable in that Carmy way that means he’s actually about to say something that matters.
“You want it to be?”
Sydney doesn’t answer right away. She takes another bite, then leans back on her elbows, chewing slowly, buying time. When she swallows, her voice is softer.
“Wouldn’t mind if it was.”
He nods, quiet for a second.
“You doing anything after this?” he asks.
“Besides finishing this corn and maybe stealing your cookie? No.”
He grins. “Good. ‘Cause if this is a date I’d wanna keep going.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s next on your Carmen approved date itinerary?”
“Well, I was supposed to be shopping for something for dinner, before this crazy woman argued with me over some jeans. But I’m thinking maybe the arcade on Orleans? If you’re down,” he asked. Sydney laughed and nodded her head. Carmy couldn’t believe this was his day off.
The arcade was chaotic and loud—flashing lights, digital beeping, the hum of machines stacked shoulder to shoulder—but somehow, with Sydney beside him, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt… almost normal. They went up to the counter three times, trading bills for coins like kids on a sugar high. Sydney obliterated him in the two-player fighter games—grinning wildly, button-mashing like a pro while Carmy tried and failed to keep up. He got his revenge on the pinball machines, hyper-focused in a way that almost let him forget everything waiting for him back at The Beef. They flirted in bursts: flung high fives that lingered into touches, hugs that lasted a beat too long, teasing jabs that made Carmy smile so much his cheeks started to ache.
Still, underneath it all, a nervous hum buzzed in his chest. He wasn’t used to this lightness—to reaching out and not recoiling. When he rested his hand on the small of her back as she leaned into the Wheel of Fortune game, it was cautious, tentative. Testing the boundary. When she rubbed his shoulders before he stepped up to the punching bag game, he had to bite the inside of his cheek just to stay grounded. And when she kissed his knuckles afterward, laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world, something in him stirred so deep it felt dangerous.
As the sun began to dip below the rooftops and the arcade lights faded into the evening, Carmy found himself anxious—not because the day had gone wrong, but because it had gone right. Too right. He couldn’t think of how to say goodbye, couldn’t bear for the spell to break, so he blurted out a suggestion to walk around the block. Buy time. Stretch it out just a little longer.
The air smells like someone grilling somewhere in the distance. A breeze cuts the heat just enough. Carmy kicks a pebble ahead of them like it’s something he’s trying to work out.
“So what’s your deal?” he asks. “Outside of denim theft and emotional intimidation.”
Sydney shrugs, but she’s smiling. “I cook.”
Carmy turns to her, eyebrows lifting. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Professionally.”
“Like… restaurant cook?”
“More like—chef.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
He laughs, almost disbelieving. “You let me talk about tamales like I invented flavor and didn’t say a damn thing?”
“I was enjoying the show.”
“Where do you cook?”
“Avec”
“Wow, that’s some serious heat. Where were you before that?”
“Alinea, but before that I did UPS.”
“That’s so cool, is that in Chicago?”
“UPS? The United Parcel Service. I drove for them for a while. That’s how I paid my way through culinary school.”
“Oh yeah. I totally… So you like the fine dining stuff?”
“Yeah I uh…it can suck a lot sometimes? But it’s what I want to do and I’m not over the fact that I’m literally living the dream I’ve had for so long. So I’ll keep working in these shitty kitchens until the wow factor wears off and I find something new.”
“Yeah?” Carmy asks softly, “That’s how I feel working in my brother’s restaurant. It’s all I wanted to do when I was younger so even when shits bad, I just think back to when he shut me out. It could be worse.” He says thoughtfully.
Sydney nods slowly, still chewing on something he said a few beats back. Her expression isn’t playful anymore—it’s thoughtful. Quiet. Like she’s filing him away carefully, cataloging his tells, the little admissions he doesn’t realize he’s making. Carmy watches her, struck by the shift. There’s something in her gaze that goes beyond curiosity. It feels like understanding. Like she already knows part of him—maybe even the part he’s spent years trying to hide.
He breaks the silence with a question, gentle but pointed. “What’s your signature dish?”
She raises an eyebrow. “You first.”
“I’m Italian. Take a wild guess.”
“Gnocchi.”
He shakes his head. “Risotto.”
She smirks. “Of course it is. Labor-intensive. High-stakes. Kind of a control freak’s dream.”
He laughs, a little caught off guard by how accurate that feels. “Yeah, well. I like the way it forces you to pay attention. You can’t rush it. You can’t walk away from it. You either show up the whole time or it turns to shit.”
Sydney’s smile fades into something softer. “That’s why I like quail. It’s fussy. Fragile. But if you get it right…” She shrugs. “There’s nothing like it.”
“What’s the full plate?”
“Fried quail with Fresno hot honey. Celeriac mash. And I usually throw in a charred green or something bitter—something to keep it honest.”
Carmy actually stops walking. Turns to face her.
“Okay. What the fuck.”
She tilts her head. “What?”
“That’s insane.”
“In a good way?”
“In a take me home and teach me how to make that kind of way.”
She laughs and looks away, slightly bashful. “Maybe for a second date?”
He steps closer, nudges her gently out of the path of a cracked soda can. His hand brushes hers and this time he just… keeps holding it. Sydney doesn’t let go. She swings their hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Carmy’s not sure if he’s more surprised by her comfort or how badly he wants to hold onto it.
“Come to my restaurant tonight,” he says. “We’ve got spaghetti on the menu, and I’ll walk you to the L after.”
“Big step,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Inviting a girl to your place of business this early?”
He grins. “I’m just trying to guilt you into pulling strings for a reservation at Avec. Strictly transactional.”
Sydney snorts. “Yeah, that’s not how it works.”
There’s a beat—just one—but in it, her face changes. Not doubt, exactly. More like hesitation dressed as thoughtfulness.
Carmy feels the shift and speaks before he can stop himself. “You don’t have to say yes. I just… I don’t usually do this. Not like this. And this feels—different.”
She looks up at him, meeting his eyes.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “It does.”
They keep walking, hand in hand, something unspoken simmering between them. Something neither of them knows how to name yet—but both are too curious to walk away from. The streetlights are starting to flicker on in patches, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Everything feels like it’s softening around them, folding in—like they’ve stepped into their own little corner of the city, and the rest of it’s agreed to wait a while.
The Beef is just up ahead now, the neon sign glowing red in the soft dark. Carmy stops them at the corner, tugging gently on her hand to pull her closer. They stand outside the restaurant. The windows are fogged from the heat inside, condensation streaking the glass like someone forgot to wipe it down after a heavy service.
“Let me cook you something?” he asks quietly.
“I could eat,” she says, teasingly. He wishes he could be as effortlessly sexy as she is.
“You are…” Carmy starts, His gaze shifts to the movement in the front window of the restaurant. Through the haze of steam and shadow, he sees Richie and he’s not alone.
Richie’s got a guy pressed up against the deli counter—Carmy doesn’t recognize him. The guy looks like he’s yelling something. He’s red in the face. Richie doesn’t care. He throws a punch—hard. The guy slumps, and Richie turns to glance out the window. For a second their eyes meet. Richie lifts a hand and shakes his head.
“I am…” Sydney starts for him. He’s still looking above her head. Panic spikes in his chest. She starts to turn, following his gaze, but he moves before she can. His hands go to her face, a little too fast, a little too rough, like he’s trying to shield her from what’s behind him.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Sydney,” he finishes, and it tumbles out of him raw, unscripted, desperate. Like if he can just anchor himself in her, maybe he can outrun what’s coming.
Then he’s kissing her. Slow, deep, deliberate. Like the world might end if he doesn’t get it right. She softens immediately, hands finding his—then his jaw, his neck, like she’s known him forever. The kiss builds—cautious at first, then hungry. She pulls him closer, gripping the hairs at the base of her neck. He groans into her mouth, relief and heat and need crashing into one another. His heart is pounding, not just from desire but from the sheer absurdity of the moment: he’s making out with the most compelling woman he’s met in years while a man bleeds inside the restaurant his family uses as a front.
He moves from Sydney's lips to her cheeks, to her nose and her eyelids, then to her forehead, and pulls her in for a hug. She’s laughing now and her face is warm against his chest. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, bringing her here. Too close to chaos.
Carmy held her close, her laughter vibrating softly against his chest, but all he could feel was the thrum of adrenaline behind his ribs. His heart was pounding for too many reasons—her lips, the heat of her hands, the raw need he hadn’t let himself feel in months. But also Richie. The blood. The reminder that just behind that fogged window was the life he’d been trying to keep compartmentalized. He kissed Sydney to shield her from it—to shield himself. But now, holding her in this brief moment of warmth, he felt the ache of wanting something clean, something untouched. And for the first time in a long while, he was terrified that wanting it might cost her. That it might cost him everything.
“Come back to my place,” he tells her.
She looks up at him and he realizes he’s never felt this way before. The way the low sun shines in her big brown eyes and makes her skin radiate. If she says no this might be the last time they can stand like this. Blissfully ignorant and so full with what could be.
“Ok,” She say with a smile. They walk to the L with the events that took place in The Beef behind them.
Mikey mutters a soft “fuck” under his breath and adds a splash of starchy pasta water from a small pot off to the side.The sauce is too salty, he can already tell. It’s not his best batch, but it’s something. It smells like Sunday. Like their mom’s bad temper and Carmy’s quiet eyes across the table. Like something that almost felt like family.
He didn’t flinch when the kitchen door burst open, slamming against the wall.
Richie came in hot—jacket swinging, knuckles red and swollen, breath ragged like he’d run through a war zone.
“Mike,” he barked. “I had to put some guy on the fucking floor.”
Mikey didn’t stop stirring. Just raised his eyebrows and said, “You good?”
“Am I good?” Richie laughed, wide-eyed. “Some prick from Tramonte’s crew wandered in here like he was scoping out a lunch special. He started talking slick. Wouldn’t leave. So I tuned him up.”
Mikey set the spoon down, finally turning. “You sure he was Tramonte’s?”
“He had the tat. The attitude. Looked right at me like he wanted me to know he was strapped.”
“Jesus.”
“He wanted a show. So I gave him one.”
Mikey grabbed a towel, tossed it to Richie. “You want sauce or drama first?”
“Both,” Richie said, wiping his hands. “I’m hyped up and starving.”
Mikey scooped him a bowl without asking. They didn’t need to talk about spaghetti. That was sacred. He slid it across the counter and leaned back, watching Richie inhale the first bite like it might steady his pulse.
“I told you,” Mikey said, voice low. “They’re testing boundaries. Seeing if we’ll blink.”
“We call Jimmy?” Richie asked, eyes still locked on the plate.
“Not yet.”
“You keep saying that, man.”
“Because once Jimmy steps in, it’s over. He doesn’t send warnings—he sends funerals.”
Richie kept eating. His jaw clenched tight. “So what? We wait until one of us is the funeral?”
Mikey didn’t answer right away. He picked up the spoon again, stirred slow, like he could work out the next move in the bottom of the pot.
“They hit the front of house, Rich. That’s different. That’s not some alleyway or loading dock. That’s the heart.”
Richie looked up. “And you think it’s gonna stop there?”
Mikey paused. His voice dropped.
“No. I think it’s only just starting.”
They both sat in the thick of it—steam, silence, and the weight of knowing what came next. Richie pushed his bowl away, appetite fading.
“I worry about Eva,” he said quietly. “She lost her first tooth this morning. Used this glittery-ass box she made at school. Woke me up at six, proud as hell.”
Mikey managed a smile. “Did the tooth fairy deliver?”
“Five bucks and a sticker. She asked if the fairy could Venmo next time.”
That got a laugh. Big and full-throated. It bounced around the metal counters like hope trying to hang on.
“She’s gonna run this city,” Mikey said.
“She already runs my house.” Richie glanced down. “But I’m scared, man. About her. About what I’m dragging home.”
Mikey looked at him—really looked. “Yeah. I’m scared too.”
They let that sit.
“You think this ends?” Richie asked. “This life. The drops. The lies. Or do we just carry it until it swallows us?”
Mikey stirred again. Thought long and hard.
“I think it ends,” he said finally. “But only if we want something more than the game. Only if we burn it all down for something better.”
“Like?”
“Carmy. This place. Your kid.”
Richie nodded, slowly. “Then let’s keep it tight. No more slip-ups.”
“For her,” Mikey said. “For all of it.”
They bumped fists across the counter. No words. No smiles. Just that quiet pact between two men holding back a tide.
“You should bring her by this weekend,” Mikey added. “I’ll make the meatballs.”
“The big ones? Parmesan crust?”
“You know it.”
“She’s gonna think I finally got it together.”
“Let her think it,” Mikey said, voice gentler now. “At least for one afternoon.”