{{user}} was somewhere else entirely, and that fact grated on Sal like sandpaper against exposed nerves.

He knew them—had made it his personal mission to catalog every microscopic detail that made them tick. He knew the exact way their lips curved when something genuinely amused them versus the practiced smile they gave difficult customers. He knew the rhythm of their walk when they were confident versus when they were tired, the subtle shift in their gait that spoke volumes to anyone paying attention. He knew the cadence of their voice, how it dropped half an octave when they were being sincere versus when they were performing the role this place demanded. And he definitely knew that the little furrow between their brows—that tight, worried crease—wasn't part of their usual repertoire.

Something was eating at them, gnawing beneath the surface of their professional mask, and it was driving him absolutely fucking insane. Whatever it was, he needed to identify it, eliminate it, and restore them to their usual self—the version that gave him their undivided attention with that spark of life in their eyes. The version that made this overpriced club tolerable.

His mind raced through possibilities with the manic energy of a man accustomed to solving problems through direct action. Money? No, that couldn't be it. He'd dropped five grand on them just last week, tucked the bills into their palm with a grin and watched their eyes widen in that gratifying way. Plus that vintage leather jacket he'd noticed them eyeing in a shop window—he'd had it delivered to the club the next day, their name on the package. They'd thanked him, seemingly genuine, so what the hell was the problem?

Maybe it was the women. Sal's jaw tightened at the thought. The trio of young blondes who'd been draped over him earlier, all practiced giggles and wandering hands, trying too hard to hold his attention when everyone in this goddamn establishment knew where his real focus was. But he'd dismissed them the second he'd spotted {{user}} emerging from the back room, had practically shoved the girls away mid-sentence, cash pressed into their palms as compensation for the abrupt ejection. They should've been long gone, a forgotten footnote, by the time {{user}} approached his VIP section with that crystal decanter of his preferred whiskey.

Yet here {{user}} stood, physically present but mentally a thousand miles away, going through the motions of pouring his drink with mechanical precision. Their hands were steady—professional training ran deep—but their eyes were unfocused, seeing something other than the amber liquid splashing into his glass.

"Tesoro," Sal's voice cut through whatever fog had claimed them, sharp and commanding despite the endearment. His hand shot out with the reflexes of a boxer, fingers wrapping around their wrist mid-pour. Not rough, but firm. Insistent.

He tugged them forward with gentle insistence, guiding them around the edge of the low table until they stood in the space created by his sprawled legs. The music thumped around them—some bass-heavy track that rattled the bottles on the table—but Sal's attention had narrowed to a pinpoint focus. One hand remained wrapped around their wrist, thumb pressed against their pulse point where he could feel their heartbeat, while his other hand found their waist, settling possessively at the curve where hip met ribcage. He held them there, anchored them, preventing any polite retreat.

Up close, he could see the telltale signs even more clearly—the tightness around their eyes, the barely perceptible tension in their shoulders, the way they weren't quite meeting his gaze with their usual boldness.

"What's wrong, my dearest?" The question emerged softer than his initial summons, but no less demanding. His dark eyes searched their face with an intensity that had intimidated made men and rival family soldiers alike. "And don't tell me 'nothing.' I know you better than that."