“Uh huh. You good for this?”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Seven hundred.”
It’s seven hundred bucks for not a lot of info, but I don’t complain. “I’ll drop it by.”
“Cool.” He ends the call, and I stand there, dripping.
All I can think about is Hannah. I have to clear this fucking contract.
For her.
Even if she never wants to see me again.
Even if we never talk, never touch again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Armando
The dimly lit bar feels like an extension of the night outside as we push through the heavy doors. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of murmured conversations.
“Scotch, neat,” I order gruffly, my voice strained, betraying the turmoil I’ve been trying my damnedest to hide.
Marco and Leo exchange concerned glances.
“Make it three,” Marco adds, his voice steady and strong.
The bartender nods in acknowledgment, placing three glasses before us. The amber liquid catches what little light filters through the smoky haze, casting a warm glow over the worn wooden table.
I waste no time, grabbing my drink and downing it in one swift motion. The clink of glass against wood punctuates the moment, and it occurs to me I’m seeking solace at the bottom of a glass. I’ve never been that man before.
Maybe I’m that man now.
“Are you all right, man?” Marco asks. “You look like shit.”
“Fine,” I reply tersely, but the way my hands grip the edge of the table tells a different story.
“Talk to us, man,” Leo urges. “We're here for you.”
“Like I said, I'm fine,” I insist, but my voice wavers ever so slightly, revealing the cracks in my armor.
“How are you holding up after everything with Hannah?” Marco asks, his voice gentle and concerned. His gaze is steady and sincere, a softness in it that I've rarely seen.
I take a deep breath, knowing that I can't avoid this conversation any longer. “It's hard,” I admit, my voice cracking slightly. “But it's for the best. She asked me to leave, and I can't blame her. I’ve been trying to get her out of my head since. And epically failing at it.”
“Hey, don't be so hard on yourself,” Marco replies, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“Enough about me,” I say, trying to change the subject. “How's your ass, cugino?” It's a weak attempt at humor, but I'm desperate to steer the conversation away from my own pain.
Marco chuckles, shaking his head. “You're really gonna ask me about that now? Fine, it hurts like hell at times, but I'll live.”
“You get asked about your ass on the daily now,” Leo chimes in, rolling his eyes. “That ass of yours is becoming famous.”
“Don’t be jealous of my famous ass,” Marco retorts with a smirk, before turning back to me. “But seriously, Mando, we're here for you, man. If you need to talk, just let us know.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, taking another swig of my drink. It burns going down, but I welcome the sensation–anything to help numb the ache inside me.
