The day had dragged its claws through Salvatore like broken glass—each hour leaving fresh cuts that no amount of whiskey could numb. His knuckles were split and bruising, the skin torn open across three fingers where they'd connected with someone's teeth. His ribs screamed with every breath, a sharp reminder of the crowbar that had caught him off-guard in the warehouse dispute. Somewhere between the blood-soaked concrete floors of Red Hook and the tense sit-down with the Russians, he'd lost track of whether the blood crusted on his leather jacket was his own or borrowed from the men he had fended off.

All he wanted now was to collapse into oblivion, to let sleep pull him under like a merciful tide and drag him away from the weight of the day's violence.

The warehouse loft was tomb-quiet when he finally dragged himself through the door, his steel-toed boots heavy against the concrete floor. No music bleeding through the speakers, no television flickering blue light across the exposed brick walls. Just silence, thick and waiting. The space felt larger in the darkness, the high ceilings and exposed steel beams creating shadows that stretched like grasping fingers.

"Did I disturb you?" Sal asked quietly as he pushed open the bedroom door, his voice rougher than usual, scraped raw from shouting orders.

He could see {{user}} all rolled up in his sheets, hiding away from the world like something precious and fragile. The sight had a small smile pulling itself onto his features despite the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. They were completely cocooned in the heavy charcoal blankets, only the crown of their head visible against his pillow, and Sal felt his expression soften despite the exhaustion weighing down his bones like lead.

This—this—was what the rest of it was for. What made it all worth it.

Not the money, not the respect, not even the hard-won loyalty of men who'd follow him into hell. Just these stolen moments of peace in a life built on violence and blood. It was a far more domestic sight than he was used to, something almost achingly normal in the midst of his chaos, but he certainly wouldn't complain. Not when this was one of the few comforts he had left, one of the only pure things in his corrupted world.

His angel deserved all the rest in the world after the horrors of reality had crashed into their life like a wrecking ball. He had agreed to keep them here, to shelter them within his dangerous orbit, to keep them safe from the consequences of that one terrible moment that had changed everything. They wouldn't have to think about what they had done ever again—not the feel of a life ending beneath their hands, not the way the world had tilted on its axis in that split second. Not while he was around to shoulder that burden for them, to add their sin to his already considerable collection.

Slowly, he shed his shirt off with a wince, the fabric peeling away from a cut on his side he hadn't noticed until now. The silver chain and St. Christopher medal clinked softly as he draped the bloodstained leather jacket over the chair by the window, then carefully climbed into bed with them. The mattress dipped under his weight as he moved with practiced quiet, wanting nothing more than to wrap them in his arms and shield them from everything outside these four walls. His calloused hands, still aching from the night's violence, reached for them with surprising gentleness.

"Sorry I'm late, tesoro," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he pressed a kiss against their shoulder, feeling the warmth of their skin through the thin fabric. The scent of them—clean and safe and home—cut through the motor oil and cigarette smoke that clung to him like a second skin. "My phone died, so I couldn't call you. Didn't mean to make you worry."