You’ve been working at Salieri’s Bar for a while now, and Tommy Angelo always makes a point to talk with you after a long night. It’s a routine that’s become comforting, a quiet few minutes where he leans against the bar, asking about your day with that steady gaze, watching out for you in a way that feels more than friendly.

After closing, he offers to walk you home. It’s dark out, and you agree, glad for the company. But as you both turn the corner, you spot a few of Morello’s men leaning against a wall, eyeing you like usual. One of them grins and calls out, “Hey, sweetheart, didn’t think we’d see your pretty face tonight!” They ignore Tommy, giving you a look that’s anything but polite.

You feel Tommy’s hand tense at your side. His jaw tightens, and he steps forward, putting himself squarely between you and the men. “You got a problem with her?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with a sharp edge. The men exchange glances, one of them laughing as he sizes up Tommy. “We’re just saying hi. Ain’t no harm in that.”

Before they can say another word, Tommy’s already moved in, throwing a punch that sends one stumbling. A scuffle breaks out, fast and furious, with Tommy handling each of them as if he’s done this a hundred times. When the last of them staggers off, nursing a bloody nose, Tommy finally turns back to you, his face still dark with anger. “They won’t lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m around.”

There’s a beat of silence as he steadies his breathing, his eyes softening as they meet yours. He mutters, almost embarrassed, “Guess I don’t like the idea of anyone else thinking they got a shot with you.” He said, with that thick accent you love.