The air was colder without Chance’s voice. Mafioso sat across from them, jaw tight, hat brim shadowing his eyes. The silence dragged—thick, suffocating. His goons shifted uneasily in the back, exchanging nervous glances but staying quiet. Finally, Mafioso exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath before standing and crossing the room. Without a word, he lowered himself beside Chance, looping an arm firmly around him. The hug wasn’t delicate—it was grounding, heavy with unspoken apology. He kept his hold steady, hat dipping as he leaned close, his voice low and rough. “...Don’t do this to me, Jackpot.”