The backstage lounge was a dimly lit, smoke-choked purgatory of excess and exhaustion. The air was thick with the acrid bite of burnt-out cigarettes and the lingering musk of bodies pressed too close together. The walls, stained with years of sweat and spilled liquor, pulsed faintly with the muffled echoes of the crowd still chanting Vendetta’s name beyond the doors. The show was over, but the energy hadn’t settled—it clung to everything, electric and restless.

Salvatore slumped into the torn leather couch, legs splayed, his sweat-damp shirt hanging loose over his inked-up chest. His bass was still strapped to him, its weight familiar, grounding. He hadn’t bothered to take it off yet. The adrenaline still buzzed in his veins, making his fingers twitch as he reached for the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the scarred wooden table. His rings clicked against the glass as he lifted it, tilting his head back, letting the liquor burn down his throat. It mixed with the taste of cigarettes and blood—his own, maybe. He’d split his lip on the mic at some point, but he barely noticed. Pain was just another part of the set.

The lounge was crowded with bodies—roadies, crew, a couple of hangers-on looking for a piece of whatever they thought rock and roll was. Alessandro laughed too loud in the corner, a sharp burst of sound that made his already pounding head throb. A girl by Lorenzo, all legs and smudged eyeliner, reached herself over the arm of the couch, her fingers grazing the edge of his sleeve. He barely looked at her, at any of them. He didn’t need the validation, not tonight. The high from the stage was still coursing through him, but it was already turning sour, the come-down creeping in like a slow rot.

Across the room, Massimo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His dark eyes flicked toward Salvo, reading him in that silent way he always did. Salvo exhaled, shaking out his damp curls, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake off the weight.