Joseph doesn’t answer right away, still astride the bike, engine ticking as it cools beneath him, sunglasses hooked in the collar of his shirt. The late sun catches on the chrome, on the faint gold at his throat where a chain rests beneath the fabric, and Joseph gives Mister Terranova a respectful incline of his head instead of something flippant.

“Evening, sir,” he calls back easily–not performative or stiff, but familiar even though it had only been a short time since he had been introduced. He’d known what kind of family Michael had come from–at least this side of it–and the casual way business bled into life and attention came in the form of directives. How love sometimes looked like expectation, but he was familiar with that, however polished it was behind navy suits and cufflinks.

He watches Michael disappear back into the house without a flicker of impatience, no revving of the engine other than to make sure it was getting enough gas to idle, no checking his phone. He just keeps one foot planted on the asphalt, hands resting loosely on the bars, simply waiting.

Three weeks. Ninety percent. Twenty percent interest.

Joseph had heard it all, but didn’t comment on it, unflinching and unjudging, aware of what it must mean for Michael to be trusted with that kind of conversation in front of him. He knows what it means that Mister Terranova didn’t lower his voice, that he waved, that he said don’t get off the bike just yet like Joseph already belonged to the rhythm of this place.

The Terranovas like him and Joseph, despite himself, likes them back.

When Michael finally comes back down the steps, Joseph’s gaze drifts over him once, slow and assessing, but not critical.

“You take your time,” he says mildly, accepting the water but not yet drinking any. “I’m not on a schedule.”

When he asks, Joseph studies him for a half-second longer than necessary–not the job, not Sal, not the money, but Michael–and he waits a beat to make sure the ask isn't an obligation, that there isn’t tension sitting under his ribs. When he’s satisfied, he reaches out–not roughly, but not hesitantly, hooking two fingers into the front of Michael’s shirt to tug him the rest of the way in his space, closing that polite arm’s length distance.

“Michael,” he says, voice low to keep from carrying up the driveway. “If I had a problem with your family’s business, I wouldn’t be here.”

A hand comes up, brushing knuckles along Michael’s jaw in something softer than the setting calls for, thumb lingering there. He doesn’t move to start the bike, instead pressing a brief, unhurried kiss to his mouth. “You ready? Just tell me where we’re going.”

Joseph watches him the entire time–not the way someone watches for danger, but the way someone watches for another to flinch. He knows that look–the quiet bracing and split-second calculation of ‘is this where it changes? Is this where you decide I’m too much? Not enough? Wrong in some way?’

He doesn’t rush to fill it–doesn’t step over it and doesn’t drown it out with jokes or bravado–his hand staying at Michael’s hip, warm and steady, thumb moving once in a slow line at his side.

“Yeah, I know,” he says softly when Michael mentions bad experiences, no questions layered into it and no demand to unpack it in the driveway. He’s seen the type of men who orbit–the ones who like the myth of it all, the edge, the danger in theory until it stops being theory. They aren’t the same in his circle, nepo babies and rich addicts looking for the quick, accessible fix, but those in much deeper, and regardless, interest fades when consequence shows up

Joseph takes the address and glances at it once before folding it up and slipping it into his jacket like it is a situation already handled. Forty-five minutes, outdated house, an older guy who thinks seniority equals leverage–easy enough.

When Michael kisses him again, Joseph answers it in full, slower, not possessive, but certain, fingers curling into the fabric of Michael’s jacket instead of letting him drift back/

“You’re not something I have to protect myself from,” he said, smirk on his face–Michael should know he isn’t as sensitive as all that, and someone leaning against his wings, locking them behind him to hold on, isn’t going to do any damage.

If anything, Joseph knows he’s built for it.

He swings fully onto the bike and offers a spare helmet, eyes steady, gaze calm.

“Just get on,” he assures, the engine humming to a much louder life beneath him. “We’ve got Sal’s evening to ruin.”

Joseph feels the shift in him–not the weight which is always there, threading into Michael like muscle memory, but the settling of it and the way his grip changes when reassurance actually does land.

He accepts the kiss to his cheek without teasing, just tilting his head slightly into it. Michael’s grin earns him one in return–quieter, edged. “Good,” he says. “Then don’t be.” No lecture, no warning, just simple agreement as he waits for Michael to secure the helmet before rolling the throttle, the engine’s hum turning into something smoother, deeper, and certainly louder. When Michael swings on behind him and wraps his arm around his waist, Joseph adjusts automatically–one hand briefly covering Michae’s where it rests with a subtle squeeze.

“Hold on,” he says, not because he thinks Michael won’t, but because he likes saying it; and then they’re moving, Joseph riding like he does most things–controlled, economical, no wasted motion. He doesn’t show off by recklessly weaving through traffic, but through every lean calculated, confident without ego.

And, of course, he knows Michael is watching.

The suburb things out into longer roads and older storefronts, the kind of places that peaked a decade ago and never quite noticed yet that they were fading. Joseph slows at the bar comes into view, dulled by time, signage outdated, apartment windows above with blinds that haven’t been replaced since the early 2000s.

He clocks the cars and recognizes the pattern even if he doesn’t know the names–not random, not quiet, but an audience, and he feels a shift in Michael again, a sharp current of anticipation, maybe enjoyment.

Joseph keeps quiet as he eases the bike into a slow roll past the building once, taking inventory–faces at the window, who’s outside, who is pretending not to look at the source of the noise. He brings it around and parks clearly at the curb, engine cutting off with a low rumble.

“Your move,” he says calmly to Michael, not getting off the bike just yet in waiting for instruction.

Discreet. Joe knows how to be discreet, and sometimes Michael wonders if that's from the part of him here, or the part of him that's Warren that makes that come out so well. Maybe it's a bit of both honestly—only one of them, he understands, has worked in the military. While the other...

He pushes it back, taking another glance. "I'm going to get out here, on the street. If I sneak in here, there's a good chance someone's got a kid in there and they won't get out fast enough. I come in through here, they'll be smart enough to send them away." Michael eases off the helmet, not caring that it makes his hair look a little wild, taking the time to climb off. "Park out back, and sit on the curb. If I don't come out of there in five minutes, come on in, see what's up. You hear gunshots—"

Before, well. He'd have had said something different. Now, as Joe takes the helmet form him, he knows better. "You come in and make sure we all make it out of there alive. Money or not." The fun Michael, the one at clubs isn't there. It's the Michael that used to corner nepobabies who whined too much who he threatened into silence, the Michael that used to track other people in clubs to see who he could pick off first, the Michael that used to be whispered about but never seen until he wanted to be seen or called upon.

The Michael that Joe had wanted months ago, the Michael who came to him, made sure to fix everything.

It's a good reminder in this moment. That was the part of him that Joe had needed once, and he needs to not forget that. That Joe hasn't shied away from that part of him, ever.

Michael throws him a sharp smile, taking off towards the front. Like he guessed, there are some of the younger kids there, the uninvolved ones. They depart via side door, as he paces well enough to let them leave in enough time to start their cars. They know locking the door is useless, and when he opens it, he can see that Sal is there with his two sons, Tony and Hymie. Both of them are around his age, though Tony seems the least pleased to see Michael.

"Tony. You got your nose fixed," he shuts the door behind him, looking around the bar. Games are playing, there are two more men in the back booths who are assuredly men who work for Sal, and he can see at least one of them clearly regrets being there. "Good for you."

"Stop bustin' my son's balls," Sal commands from behind the counter, forcing Michael to turn and look at his aging face, the resentfulness there. "You did enough of that breaking it."

They're both remembering the sound and swing of a bat from a baseball game three years before. Michael doesn't pretend to play innocent, walking up to the bar. "I'm just glad he still has some, Sal. Seems like he got them from you—you shouldn't be playing games when you know exactly why I'm here."

Joseph listens–not just to the words, but the cadence, and that shift underneath them, almost smiling. He isn’t sure which part it comes from–whether it is his doing or something to do with the winged wonder–it didn’t matter. It was all the same muscle now. When Michael lays out of the plan, Joseph nods once.

He has the plan, but focuses deeper, on lines further along: The direction isn’t to finish it, but to make sure we all make it out alive.

“Right, alive,” he says, taking the helmet from Michael, eyes never leaving him. He sees it clearly now–the shift from sharp-grinning boyfriend to something seemingly older in spirit, harder. It is the version that doesn’t need volume to command a room and Joseph knows he has nothing to be afraid of.

He needed it once.

Still does, even if the tone has changed.

Joseph does exactly as told, rolling the bike around the back, engine low, parking in shadow where he can see the rear exit and half the street in one glance. He kills the engine, rests the bike on its stand, and takes a seat on the curb like a man waiting for nothing in particular, but whatever the perception, he isn’t idle. He clocks the door, watches people filter out–shoulders tight and eyes down–and while voices rise and fall within, he checks his watch.

Three minutes.

Michael has utter faith in Joe, even if he can't see him from where he's standing at the bar. In the reflection, he can see that the two men behind him are counting cash, and a lot of it. At least one of them has a side-arm he's poorly concealing and the other one doesn't seem armed at all. He pretends he doesn't look at the mirror as he faces off with Sal as the old gangster says, "I already talked to your father. I told him that I needed a little more time, and that when I did, I'd pay it with ten percent interest."

"I know my father better than you—three weeks is an outrageous amount of time for you to recoup him," Michael gestures around him, eyes flinty. "I know how much business you get in and out of here. And it's not ten percent anymore; it's twenty."

Tony gives a disgruntled noise at that. Michael ignores him, even if he can feel him move behind him, grow tenser. "You knew this was coming. You know that he doesn't like it when you're late and he particularly doesn't like it when you're late at this time of year." Michael keeps his eyes on Sal, on his ticking jaw. "Stop playing games, Sal. Give me what you have. All of it. You're too old to not understand this by now."

The dig at his age has Sal flushing, swearing at him. "The fuck do you know, huh? I've given Tomasso some of my best time, and at my age, I should—"

"Know better," Michael insists, able to feel the men in the back tensing, can tell that they're wondering if they have to make a move. "Budget better. Whatever it is, I can't help you today. My father wants 90%, with 20% interest. And you and I both know that I'll sit down right here all night until you get it."

Something he doesn't want to do. Just something he's comfortable threatening, eyes pinning Sal coldly. Seeing him for the sniveling, greedy asshole that he is. "And I don't think you want me to see where you're getting some of that interest, do you?" It's just a guess, from the way things had been the past few years—that he'd started to work with other gangs, the less savory ones.

A good one, he thinks, given that Tony says, "Dad. Give him the money."

For a moment, Sal looks like he might give it without a fight. That Michael wouldn't have to fuck up his knife.

Then he sees him look at one of the men in the back, over his shoulder. Michael knows what he's going to do, knows what he's going to signal and before the man can get it out, he needs to get that gun out of the equation.

It's faster than he's moved in his life in a few seconds. Sal nodding. The man in the back grabbing for his gun. His fingers closing on one of the batarangs he'd started to carry. Turning, throwing it.

The man screams.

The gun clatters to the ground.

The batarang sticks to the wall, the man screaming in pain as his hand gushes blood.

Then Tony lurches over. Michael grins.

Ruin his night? Great.

Joseph is at the back door when the scream hits. It isn’t a startled flinch. It is a sharp, clean sound of immediate pain, but nothing fatal, and he moves before the echo finishes. One hand on the handle, he doesn’t kick it in. He opens it like he belongs there.

Inside smells like old beer and cordite anxiety. He clocks the room in a single sweep.

Sal behind the counter. Tony mid-lurch. One man on the floor clutching a ruined hand. The other frozen, counting cash that no longer matters and Michael–Centered, calm, grinning.

Joseph steps fully inside, letting the door shut behind him with a soft click that somehow lands louder than a slam.

“Well,” he says mildly, gaze flicking once to the batarang pinned in drywall. “That escalated.”

He doesn’t rush to Michael’s side. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he walks forward at an unhurried pace and nudges the fallen gun farther away with the toe of his boot before bending to pick it up. He checks the chamber automatically—engaged safety wielded by poor decline. He ejects the magazine and slides the weapon onto the bar top out of reach.

“No more of those,” he says evenly, glancing toward the second man in the booth. “You stay seated.”

It isn’t loud. It isn’t shouted. It’s simply decided, and cold in a way that suggests paperwork will follow if stupidity continues.

“You were about to make a very permanent mistake,” Joseph tells him calmly. “On a Sunday.”

He says the last part as if he knows he’s hitting some sort of religious button. What kind of guy tries to shoot someone on a Sunday? Clearly not a devout one. Joseph finally steps into Michael’s orbit then, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush–not overshadowing or stepping in front.

Just there.

Michael knows what Joe looks like at a glance, and what it means to have him come in here like this. They'll think a myriad of things, and he appreciates how calm he is when he walks in. Not the kind of calm that suggested he liked what was going on; just the kind that means he's clear headed, unhurried, and precise.

It makes everyone freezing that much better—they hadn't known if a cop was walking in or not. And now that he's neither, it's making everyone recalibrate.

The moment the gun slides on the bar, Michael glares at the man in the booth with him. The man wisely stays seated with his hand on the flat top, Sal's face growing red from anger at the jab of On a Sunday. The exact kind of thing that would piss off an old gangster like him and remind him of where he was and what this all involved. A reminder that he was going up against an institution older than him.

"You should have listened to your son," Michael says, voice dripping with disdain. "You know I can't let you walk on out of here after you tried that."

Tony and his brother seem like they want to turn on their father. The whimpering man on the floor continues on, the scent of copper growing. Sal looks at both of his sons, clearly expecting them to help. Tony is the one who steps back first, shaking his head. "He already got my nose once."

"Hymie?" Michael looks at the other brother, seeing him hesitate. "If you're smart, you'll take Tony out of here with you and lock the door. If you aren't, I'm going to do a lot worse than hit you in the face with a bat. 'Cause I won't swing just once."

"If you leave," Sal barks out, "Neither of you better come back home." He snarls at Michael, "You're not even a real Terranova. You shouldn't be ordering me around!"

Michael shifts closer to Joe—Hymie moves, towards the door, probably to leave or locket. And Tony? Tony decides to complete the thought from before, trying to swing for Joe.

Joseph clocks it before the punch is fully committed. Tony telegraphs with his shoulders—anger always does—and weight shifts forward, chin lifts, and an elbow flares too wide. It is sloppy, but Joseph doesn’t step back. He simply pivots, a clean turn of his torso, just enough that the fist cuts through the air where his jaw had been a half-second earlier. At the same time, his hand comes up—not to strike—but to catch Tony’s mid-swing wrist.

It was firm and controlled and he uses Tony’s own momentum, guiding it past him and down, twisting just enough to destabilize without snapping anything. Tony stumbles forward a step, balance broken, but Joseph doesn’t throw him.

He plants him.

One foot hooks behind Tony’s ankle, a subtle shift of leverage, and suddenly Tony’s face is inches from the bar top instead of Joseph’s.

“Careful,” Joseph says evenly, tightening his grip just enough to make the lesson land. “You already paid for your nose once, and I promise you; I won’t pay for it a second time.”

The room goes still and Joseph leans slightly closer, voice low and conversational—meant for Tony but audible enough for everyone else.

“You don’t swing at someone you haven’t measured.” He releases him abruptly, giving a small shove that sends Tony stumbling back into open space rather than into glass or wood. There is no unnecessary damage, just humiliation, and Joseph straightens his jacket like he’s brushing off lint. His gaze flicks to Michael—brief, checking, not asking for permission—and then to Sal.

“That was your last free one. You don’t get a second attempt.”

Behind them, Hymie is halfway to the door and Joseph steps a half pace closer to Michael now, aligning with him rather than shielding or taking over him, Sal’s insult hanging in the air. Not a real Terranova. Joseph expression doesn’t change, but something colder settles behind his eyes.

“He’s the only one in the room acting like one,” Joseph points out, chin tilting slightly toward the back room.

“Bag. Now.” A beat. “And send your boys home before they do something else they regret.”

A part of Michael wonders what would've happened if he met this version of Joe first. The one who hadn't come to him in need of help, the one who used to hit the road like this. If they would've sized each other up differently, if they would've ended up together sooner or later.

There's been a bit of a switch flip he can tell, knowing the moment that Joe decides not to smash Tony's nose that the game is up. He can see it in Sal's face that he's going to have to accept defeat, humiliation on this one.

"I'll be home later," Sal barks out, as much as a threat that he won't go do easy as much as it's a threat that he knows they'll call the authorities if they do kill him.

That's fine with him. Sal has already made this hard, especially with that jab at who he was? Michael looks at the other man who had been counting money. "Get him to the hospital. If he's smart he's not gonna let that get any worse." The man gets up without protest, both of them moving towards the door towards Hyme and the now staggering, humiliated Tony.

There's a frisson between him as Joseph comes back to his side, a sureness. Whether he might like what Michael does next he's not sure; he does feel confident enough to step forward as Sal is forced to finally comply. He doesn't need to watch him count it all, anymore than he needs to watch him as he grabs for the money they'd been counting when they got in. The weight tells him enough that this isn't near 90%, and that likely if it cleared, it'd have to be every penny in that register.

He gathers it all, going to lock the front door and grab for the toolbox that Tony always keeps over there. Sal grows pale as he comes closer, hearing the tools clack around in the box. "Joe, as soon as he puts that bag up there, can you grab his hands? Keep it on the counter. Sal, if you fight him I'm gonna break your leg instead of making sure you can at least drive yourself outta here."

The room empties in layers, Tony staggering out with his pride leaking behind him, Hymire choosing the door over loyalty, and the man with the ruined hand shepherd toward a hospital instead of a grave. They’re good choices, allowing Joseph to remain where he is beside Michael close enough that anyone looking can see exactly where the line in the room now sits.

Sal barking ‘I’ll be home later’ earns him a brief glance, and Joseph almost smiles at that.

When the bag is put on the counter, Joseph doesn’t reach for it. That is Michael’s domain. His eyes tracked instead–the way Michael weighed it and the subtle shift in his shoulders that says it is not enough. Of course it isn’t.

When Michael moves for the door, locks it, and then heads for the toolbox, Joseph’s gaze sharpens before realization sets in. Tools clatter in the box and Joseph exhales quietly through his nose. When Michael asks for assistance, he moves immediately, stepping forward with no hesitation, hands coming down onto his wrists in one smooth motion, turning them palm down on the counter–firmly, which isn’t difficult under mutant strength, even for one which doesn’t specialize in it.

Sal, naturally, jerks once in instinctive protest, but Joseph tightens just enough that the movement dies halfway.

“Don’t,” Joseph says calmly, adjusting the angle of Sal’s arms so the man can’t wrench free without tearing something unpleasant in his shoulders. It is controlled restraint, the kind that comes from practice rather than temper, and when he is sure Sal is secure, Joseph glances over to Michael, brow lifting a fraction; and whatever he sees in the expression looking back at him keeps him there, shifting weight to lock the hold in place.

Sal swears under his breath to try and twist again.

Joseph, in return, leans closer and whispers into his ear.

“You should’ve listened.”

Then he looks back at Michael, steady as ever, holding Sal pinned to the bar like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.

“After you.”

All Sal had to do was follow instructions. Michael knows that, knows that the gangster isn't new at this and that's motivating him a bit as he sets the toolbox down. A peer into the second bag—everything that's left of the register—tells him that's not enough either and he knows damn well that once this is over, Dr. Terranova isn't going to be pleased.

More than that, once this is over, he thinks he needs a few minutes with just Joe. Just to think about what they're doing now, working in tandem like they've done this their whole lives.

But right now, in the moment, he just watches Sal squirm in Joe's hand, caught like prey. Almost like he's caught in talons as he pops open the toolbox. "You like to talk a lot of shit about me not being a real Terranova. Pops has told me about it and you've never understood how much I know Sicilian." He roots around the toolbox, finding a hammer that feels sure. That Joe isn't flinching as he comes closer is reassuring.

"So I'm going to talk to you in a language you understand," Michael gives a fierce, sharp smile, before continuing in Sicilian. "Disrespecting me, I can deal with it. I don't care. Disrespecting my father, my family name repeatedly? Playing games with the money that you owe?" He watches Sal sweat, swear as he plays with the hammer in front of him. "Salvatore, you're not very smart. This isn't your world anymore. You can't disrespect my father anymore and think that anyone will care about the fact that your stupid ancestors got here first. Not when you can't even do the bare fucking minimum."

He looks at his hands, remembering how the man moves. "The only place within distance that you can get help is where Pops works. I'm going to hit you hard enough that you can drive there—and if you can't get there, you might not get good use of these hands again. This is the only kind of mercy you'll ever get out of me. And you should thank me, too. Thank me for remembering my Pop's medical textbooks, thank me for understanding how the bones in hands work. And thank me, that I'm sending you to his hospital where he won't kill you on sight the way he deserves."

Three whacks. One after the other on the man's left hand, not his right.

The shrieks he gives every time isn't pleasant. Michael throws the hammer into the toolbox. "Get that other bag for me, Joe?"

He heads to the back, keeping the toolbox with him.

There is a change that happens as soon as Michael pulls out the hammer–not in the room though the fear is obvious, but in himself. There’s a place in his mind he rarely lets forward unless something requires it–something cold, a chillier architecture of thought which is precise and unsentimental. It slides into the place now like how armor settles over bone.

He tightens his grip on Sal’s wrists just enough that the older man can’t squirm or pull or tug or even try to swing himself away, his hands like iron clamps against the counter much to Sal’s confusion when Joseph, perhaps not a welp, looks more runway ready than mafia muscle.

Joseph doesn’t understand what he says–not exactly–but body language says it all and then the hammer comes down, the first strike cracking like a gunshot.

Sal screams.

Joseph doesn’t flinch and his posture doesn’t change, and his grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he adjusts, controlling the angle so Sal’s body can’t twist free just to ruin Michael’s aim.

Second strike.

Another yelp and Joseph’s gaze remains flat, gaze forward, attention fixed not on the hammer, but on the room–on the doors and windows, on movement that might interrupt, but nothing comes.

Third strike and there is the unmistakable sound of bone giving away, picked up by senses far stronger than human standard, meant to rush through high winds.

Joseph releases one wrist just long enough to shove the ruined hand aside so the man doesn’t collapse onto it and faint outright, the pin remaining to the other until Michael tosses the hammer back in the box, an easy sign that he is done.

Sal slumps, clutching his mangled hands, and Joseph picks up the bag from where Sal had tried to keep it, weighing it himself a moment before setting it on the bar, opening it just enough to confirm the contents. The register joins it as well, slipping all together so they’re easier to carry before looking over to Sal, rocking.

"I'm not calling anyone for you," is the last thing Michael says, beckoning Joe to follow him out. He'd broken those bones to make sure that they were on his non-dominant hand, leaving his usual one to drive him home. The car he uses is an automatic and not a stick shift—small mercies for Sal.

He can tell that something in Joseph has shifted, that there's something not just Joe or Warren in there. It's not something that intends harm towards him, which is enough for Michael as they make their way outside, shutting the door behind Joe with the snap.

Outside is very different. It's not an old dingy bar firmly out of date: there's fresh air blowing, someone has a barbecue going that smells nice, and there's a slight breeze around. Michael shoulders the bag he has, not saying anything until he gets to the bike, reaching for Joe's shirt. Not his hand—too intimate for here—and just gripping it for a moment, just trying to put his thoughts together.

Almost no one he's cared about has seen that side of him. No one has helped him before. No one has stayed.

But the instant he can feel Joe close enough, he can feel some of it slip away, crack and he says with a lighter tone than before, "We should drop this off at home and then pick up some wine for Mama. She wanted to make some extra wine sauce for you."

Joseph follows him out without comment. The cold edge of him is still there, sitting beneath the surface like steel under skin. That part of his mind hasn’t stepped back yet–it lingers in the way he scans the street once automatically. Careful and cautious, calculating every move with the efficiency of a bird of prey, and then some.

The door snaps shut behind them.

And outside, the world is normal–someone grilling somewhere in the block, wind moving through the trees breaking through the concrete, a dog barking–and Joseph takes a deep breath. The shift back begins there, and by the time they reach the bike, he’s already letter some of that harder mental posture loosen it’s grip–not disappearing, but stepping back.

Then Michael grabs his shirt and Joseph stills, not pulling away or moving closer, almost as if he had been shocked into the present from a wandering mind though a part of him is letting Michael have that moment, reading the tension in his grip.

And then his gaze softens slightly.

“Wine for your mother,” and even he knows it sounds different, almost robotic, like something filing the instruction away. As much as he wants to shake it, a part of him still feels connected to it. Michael had just done what he had to do–no praise or judgement, but acknowledgement.

“I’m starting to think your family likes feeding me almost as much as I love the wine sauce,” Joseph says, edging through the steeled barrier. “Let’s get back before your father decides we took too long.”

He can tell that his words are more stilted than before, robotic. They aren't hitching, there's no questioning, and he doesn't pull away from him. That's what he needs in the moment, even if he'd like to lean closer.

This isn't the place for it though. For one thing, he wants to be in the house again, where he can feel comfortable. For second, he wants to get rid of what they have, in the best way he can. Get every tool from that toolbox disassembled. Burn some of the wood parts, throw away the others in areas people wouldn't normally look or bury them somewhere. And for third, he wants to pull Joe close, line to line, knee to knee, waist to waist somewhere private. Maybe talk, maybe not. Maybe just put on an old movie and fall asleep or maybe not.

Right now isn't the time though. Right now, he gives Joe a smile that's less business, less the kid of a mobster to press a kiss against his corner of his mouth, quick and reassuring. "Alright. Let's get all this together and go. If he has to come hunting for us, he's gonna complain all the way through the evening."

He lets go of his shirt, reaches for the helmet left out for him.

They're going to go pick up the wine. They're going to help his Mama with dinner while Pops goes to work for just awhile—just long enough to hear about Sal—and they're going to have a nice Sunday dinner.

Like regular people.