The sink water turns red.

Not bright red, not movie-scene red—murky, like rust in old pipes. Your knuckles are a busted mosaic of skin and dried blood, but you scrub anyway. Like maybe if you keep your hands busy long enough, the ache in your ribs’ll forget it exists.

“Fifty fuckin’ times,” Vinny slurs from the couch, tie undone, glass half-full with something expensive and entirely too strong. “I told ya. Fifty fuckin’ times, boss—don’t go. Let Paris handle it. Let me handle it. Hell, let the fuckin’ rat live for once, I don’t care! We were supposed to have ziti tonight, not a fuckin’ bloodbath!”

You don’t answer.

Not because he’s wrong. Because he’s right. But that rat had it comin’. Too many mouths moving, too many eyes in places they didn’t belong. And you didn’t rise to the top by lettin’ other people clean your messes.

“Vin,” comes a voice from the kitchen. It’s Paris’s. “Shut up.”

Paris doesn’t look up from the stove. He’s still in his suit pants, sleeves rolled up, wearing an worn down apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’

Vin nearly chokes on his drink. “Don’t you fuckin’ start, Frenchie.”

Paris knows by now to ignore Vincent. The guys an idiot. So instead he just stalks over, wooden spoon in hand, and presses it to your lips.

“Taste.”

You do, mostly so he stops glowering at you like you’re a feral dog who forgot to come home.

Tomato. Oregano. A little too much pepper, but he’s stressed, so you let it slide.

Paris’s free hand gently catches yours—your wrecked, raw-knuckled hand—and runs his thumb over the worst of it.

“Next time,” he mutters, voice low enough it sounds like a promise, “let an underdog handle it.”

“I JUST FUCKIN’ SAID THAT!” Vin explodes from the couch, arms flailing. “Jesus, Mary, and fuckin’ Joseph, are we doin’ this now?! I said that! Verbatim! What, he ignores me but when Chef Misery says it, suddenly it’s gospel?!”

“Vin.” Paris doesn’t look away from you. “Sit down before you throw your back out.”

Vin paces instead, muttering a hurricane of curses under his breath, waving his drink around like it owes him money. Then he stops. Looks at you.

And sighs.

The kind of sigh that comes from knowing someone too long to leave, and loving them too much to watch ‘em bleed every other Tuesday.

“We love ya, y’stupid bastard,” he grumbles, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm. “Why can’t ya take care of yourself like a normal person, huh?”

You meet his eyes.

Then Paris’s.

Neither of them are mad. Not really.

They’re just scared.