After my burger is gone, I shove my plate aside and gaze at the screen. I know nothing about sports. There's a green team and a blue team and they smash into each other like the waves of a tumultuous sea, mixing and mashing and doing whatever the hell they do to score points.
I don't know.
I don't get it.
"I need a job."
My attention darts right to Naz when he says that. "What?"
Sighing exasperatedly, he leans back in the booth, his eyes shifting to me. He stares at me, hard, but his expression remains passive.
After a moment, he shrugs.
"A job," he says again. "Something."
"Do you…? I mean, if it's about money, I…"
He cuts me off with a laugh and takes a swig of his beer. "We're good on money. Our children are good on money, as are their children, and their children's children. It isn't about money."
I gape at him. That was a whole hell of a lot of hypothetical children he just threw in there for a man who hasn't uttered a word to me about us potentially having a family since the last time we stepped foot in Sin City. "If it's not money, then…"
"I just need something," he explains, not looking at me now, his eyes drifting along the wooden tabletop between us. "You have school. You're going to have something someday, a career, and I've got nothing."
"You have plenty," I say, although I know exactly what he means when he says he has nothing. He has no focus, no goal, nothing he's working toward anymore. The man spent his entire adulthood hunting something, and now that it's been caught, he's just standing there, stagnant, unsure which direction to go.
"You asked me once what I would've done with my life had I not lost everything," he says. "I was thinking about that earlier… thinking about what kind of man I'd be if Johnny hadn't turned on me."
"Did you figure it out?"
"I don't know," he says, finishing off his beer before setting his bottle down. "I was a punk kid. Sure, I was in college, but who knows how long that would've lasted, considering I was already working odd jobs for Ray back then. I just wanted to be everything my father wasn't… I didn't want to have to work myself to the death just to pay the bills. I didn't want to turn out like Giuseppe Vitale. So I think maybe, regardless, when all was said and done, this is exactly who I'd still be. Even if Johnny hadn't done what he did, somebody, somewhere, probably would have, and I still would've become this man."
His voice has a dejected tone to it, like that realization knocked the wind from his sails.
"You think it was fate? That you were just born to be this way?"
"No." He meets my eyes again. "I'm saying my choices would've eventually led me this way. I can only blame myself, and I'm sorry what me being this man has done to everyone I've ever loved."
Those words send a shockwave through me.
Never, in a million years, did I expect to hear him say that.
I'm not sure how to respond.
"So yeah…" He motions toward the waitress, requesting our bill. "I need something."
He pulls out some cash, tossing it on the table, before standing up. He reaches for me, and I stare at his extended hand for a moment, shell-shocked.
Did he seriously just say that?
Holy shit.
Ignazio Vitale actually accepted blame.
Naz lets out a light laugh as I shake off my stupor and take his hand, climbing to my feet. He links our fingers together, squeezing gently, as the two of us stroll out of the busy sports bar and onto the floor of the MGM Grand.
I didn't expect to come back here, to see this place again so soon after our last visit. The casino is busy, and it's still pretty early on a Friday night, but instead of hanging around down here with the crowds, we head up to our Skyloft penthouse.
Same exact room as last time, too. It all feels familiar, yet so utterly different. This time, there's no Brandy, no Ray, and no guy Naz is going to murder at the end of the day (one can hope, anyway). There's no business to attend to (that I'm aware of), nothing planned (that he tells me about), no expectations except just existing in the moment.
No expectations except for being together.
I like it so much better this way.
As soon as we reach the room and Naz opens the door, I see a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice sitting on the table, a platter of chocolate covered strawberries beside it. Smiling, I stroll over to the table, plucking a strawberry from the platter and holding it up, waving it toward Naz as he approaches.
"For someone concerned about my impending diabetes, you sure spoil me with this stuff a lot."
He smiles as he pops the top off the bottle of champagne and grabs two glasses, pouring a bit in each. He holds one out to me, keeping the other, as I take a bite of my strawberry. "I'm not in the business of denying anyone anything. I definitely don't deny myself. Sure, it might kill you someday, but I'm certainly not one to judge. Everything I do is bound to catch up to me, and when it does…" He shrugs, taking a sip of the champagne before smiling playfully. "I'm sure there will be hell to pay."
"For you?"
"Or them."
"Who's them?"
He steps toward me and I instinctively tense, glass of champagne in one hand and half-eaten strawberry in the other, as he grasps my chin, pulling my face up toward him, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. His expression changes right before my eyes, the playfulness draining as that look creeps into his eyes. That look.
The monster.
He's peeking out at me.
"Them is anybody who dares get in my way," he says, voice low, and I can't help but shiver as those words wash over me. Fear. Excitement. Terror. Exhilaration. The sensations battle for control of my body, twisting my insides and making my knees weak. I'll never for a moment doubt he means that, and as frightening as it is, knowing what he's capable of, knowing what he wouldn't hesitate to do, my sickness relishes the security. He'd kill the whole world, burn it to the ground, but that part of me believes him when he says he'd protect me from harm.
He's not bulletproof. I know he's not. But I think, now, he's grown shatter-resistant. After everything, Naz isn't an easy one to crack. Someday, when he dies, whether it happens tomorrow from a bullet or sixty years from now from old age, Naz will go out standing, fighting. Nobody will ever break him again.
His eyes scan my face, slowly and methodically, like he's studying every contour, before his gaze settles on my mouth. He licks his lips, and mine part in response, releasing a shaky exhale. My eyes drift closed as he kisses me softly, and I moan from anticipation, expecting him to deepen it, but instead I'm met with laughter against my lips.