The house smelled like tomato sauce and old wood polish, the kind of scent that clung to neighborhood kitchens no matter how many years passed.

Jimmy Conway slid into his usual chair at the DeVito table, tugging at the cuffs of his well-pressed suit jacket, before slipping it off completely.

Even at eleven at night, after hauling a body in the trunk of a car, he looked put together, with his silver hair slicked back with pomade, tie loosened but still straight, shoes shined to perfection.

He was a man who believed in appearances. Irish by blood, but more Italian in heart than most of the guys who called themselves made men.

Jimmy’d been doing this long enough to make it look easy. A lifetime of jobs—hijacks, shakedowns, hustles—left him with the kind of calm that could unnerve people.

Tonight was no different.

Billy Batts was rotting in the trunk outside, and Jimmy was eating like it was Sunday supper. Tommy cracked jokes. Henry kept his eyes down. Jimmy poured himself wine, the red catching the gold of his ring, as Mrs. DeVito served food.

The front door clicked open.

He heard the rhythm of footsteps first, fast and sharp across the linoleum. Then you came into the kitchen, heels in hand, dressed for a night out that hadn’t gone the way you wanted.

Your presence cut through the cozy warmth of the room, sharper than the clatter of dishes or Tommy’s mother’s humming.

Tommy smirked instantly, sensing the opening. “Look at this one, Ma. My sister’s back early. What happened, huh? Couldn’t keep the guy from runnin’ off?”

His laugh bounced loud against the walls. “Probably gave ‘im the death stare, didn’t ya?”

You shot a sassy response to your older brother like the diva you were. Jimmy noticed the way Tommy leaned into his bit, enjoying the performance.

Mrs. DeVito waved a dismissive hand, urging everyone to eat. Jimmy's gaze lingered, curiosity lingering in his chest.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you; not by a long shot.

He’d known you since you were young, since the days when he and Tommy were just punks with big mouths and bigger ambitions. Back then you were just Tommy’s kid sister, always shooed out of the room when the men talked business. Now you weren’t a kid anymore.

That struck him as much as the way you carried yourself, like someone who didn’t need protection but had it anyway, whether she wanted it or not.

Tommy kept going, loud as ever, “She probably had t' set the guy straight. Can’t take 'er fuckin’ anywhere, she’ll eat ‘em alive!” He slapped the table, proud of himself. Henry even joined in with the boisterous laughter.

Jimmy could imagine it: you, done up in your dress, dolled up to perfection, eyes flashing when some schmuck stepped out of line. The kind of temper that reminded him of your brother, only sharper, cleaner, without the recklessness.

Most women he met in their world kept their heads down, playing the part. Not you, though.

“Sounds like the guy had it comin'," Jimmy spoke up finally, tipping his glass of wine to you in reverence. “Not many men can handle a woman who knows 'er worth.”

Tommy shot him a look, surprised at the backup. Henry glanced between them, chewing quietly.

Your mother fussed with bread and plates, paying no mind. But Jimmy saw the way you glanced up, a flicker of attention sliding his way before you looked off again. He didn’t press, but the look stuck with him.