The sheets were the cheap kind—scratchy, half-stained, smelled like stale smoke and desperation. Fit the room. Fit him.

Vin laid there, bare-assed under thin, scratchy sheets, one hand behind his head, the other flicking ash from his fat cigar onto the nightstand like he owned the dump. He watched you button up that expensive tailored suit.

You.

{{user}}.

His boss. Half of Vegas tucked under your thumb like a cheap cigarette. Money, muscle, fear—you wore it better than any suit you bothered yanking on.

He took another drag off the cigar, a lazy smirk pulling at his mouth as you buttoned your shirt. No words. No big goodbye. You never gave him that luxury.

“Goin’ out again, huh?” Vinnie rasped, watching you tuck a pistol into your waistband.