I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face. Knuckles ache, stiff from the night's work. The dried blood on my shirt feels heavier under her stare. Should've ditched it. Hell, should've burned it. But between cleaning up a botched deal and making sure no bodies turned up in the Hudson, wardrobe changes weren't exactly a priority.

Now, standing under {{user}}'s scrutiny, I feel like a damn kid caught tracking mud through the house.

She doesn't say a word—just shifts her weight slightly, arms folded, expression carved from stone. I've faced men who would rather put a bullet in my head than shake my hand, but this? This is worse.

I tug at my collar, trying for casual. "Listen, I scrubbed it. Soap, water—whole damn process. Blood just… sticks, you know?"

Nothing. Not even a flicker of mercy.

I step forward, boots quiet against the hardwood. "Look, I followed the house rules. No guns at the table, no mafia before coffee, and I was gonna take out the trash—" My gaze flicks to the overflowing bin near the sink. Right. Maybe not that last part.

Still nothing.

I roll my shoulders, exhaling through my nose. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're mad." My fingers brush the top button of my ruined shirt, loosening it. "Let me clean up, and if you're still lookin' at me like I just kicked a puppy, we'll talk."