You stumbled out of the bar, laughing to yourself, too drunk to notice the world spinning. Suddenly, a strong arm caught you before you fell.

“Pathetic,” his voice rumbled. Your boss. The one you knew was a mafioso, the one who always looked at you with annoyance. You tried to pull away, slurring, “I don’t need your help.” His grip didn’t loosen. His jaw was tight, his eyes darker than usual. “You’re working for me. I’m not letting you get yourself killed on some street corner.”

He said it like an order, like he didn’t care. But the way he held you, steady, protective… told another story.