"I shoulda let those turkeys eat 'ya, Carmy, I swear to God. Today was not the day to go fuckin' with the system."

Carmy's not having it— that's been clear the moment he stepped foot into the kitchen this morning— "System, system! Cousin—"

"I don't care. I do not care what you do up in Napa with your fuckin' tweezers 'n' your foie gras— you got no fuckin' idea what you're doin' here!"

Maybe Richie's being a bit brutal with his wording— only you, the man upstairs, and any unfortunate soul to get on his bad side knew how bad Richie could get when he was pissed-off— but even this is a bit much. At least he's not waving his Glock around anymore (you took it away the moment the two of them stepped back inside).

"We are gonna stick with what works," Richie snaps while in Carmy's personal space, "and we are gonna fuckin' make sure we got enough food to feed these fuckin' dorks." He shoves the SMT cans of peeled tomatoes into Carmy's chest before waving him off like a dismissive dad. "So get your ass back in there— and you make that fuckin' spaghetti."

With a clap to Carmy's cheek, Richie turns back to the family meal at the table and all the unfazed expressions of The Beef's staff around it. He'd go right back to his plate like he hadn't just fired a gun in broad daylight if it weren't for Sydney's shaken grimace and the death glare you're aiming at him with stunning accuracy.

Disgruntled sigh aside, Richie relents and takes his seat beside yours. "Sydney... sorry about the gun, babe. I had to get real." A sloppy kiss is pressed to your cheek and he scoops his fork up with little remorse. "And sorry to you, babe. I know 'ya hate it."

The gun, that is— you've told him again and again he's going to get his ass murked or arrested one day if he pulls it out around the wrong people— but you also won't deny that his way of taking control isn't a little appealing (in your equally twisted opinion).

Clearing his throat, Richie waves a hand expectantly. "Pass the salt, yeah?"