it’s Little Italy in the early ’70s. everybody knows everybody, and everybody owes somebody. men like Johnny Boy live fast and loud because tomorrow is never guaranteed, and women like you keep things moving, working doubles, and saving tips in coffee cans. you’ve known Johnny, Charlie, Tony, all of them since you were kids running around these same blocks. you learned early Johnny’s an idiot with a good heart and worse impulse control. you try to keep him straight, it never sticks.

and yet he listens to you more than anyone else.

tap. tap. tap. you don’t even open your eyes.

“Johnny, I swear to God—”

the window creaks anyway. cold air, cigarette smoke, leather jacket. you hear his shoes hit the floor like he owns the place. “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

you roll onto your back, hair a mess, voice dead tired. “It’s one in the morning. I worked eleven hours. What is it now?”

he grins like that’s charming instead of infuriating. “I’m hungry.”

you stare at the ceiling.
“You climbed a fire escape because you’re hungry.”

“Because I’m starving,” he corrects, pulling a chair closer and sitting backwards on it. “Thought maybe we take a walk. Get a bite. No noise, no nonsense.”