She Defended Him in a Bar Fight — Unaware the Mafia Boss Would Never Let Her Go скачать в хорошем качестве

She Defended Him in a Bar Fight — Unaware the Mafia Boss Would Never Let Her Go

The neon sign above Murphy's Bar flickers twice before dying completely, plunging the entrance into shadow. I barely notice. My feet ache, my lower back throbs, and I'm running on four hours of sleep and gas station coffee that tastes like liquid regret. But the tips tonight were good—really good—and that means I can actually pay the electricity bill this month without choosing between that and groceries. Small victories. I push through the heavy wooden door, and the familiar smell of beer, fried food, and decades of cigarette smoke hits me. Murphy's isn't fancy. The floor's perpetually sticky, the booths have duct tape holding the vinyl together, and the jukebox only plays songs from before I was born. But it's close to my apartment, the bartender lets me sit in the corner booth for hours nursing a single drink, and nobody bothers me here. Tonight, I just need to decompress. Ten hours on my feet serving entitled customers at Giovanni's—the upscale Italian restaurant downtown—has left me wrung out. My manager, Patricia, spent the entire shift breathing down my neck because I accidentally gave table twelve the wrong wine. A forty-dollar mistake that she'll probably dock from my paycheck even though the customers didn't complain. I slide into my usual booth in the back corner, the one with a clear view of both the entrance and the emergency exit. Old habits from living with Marcus. Always know your exits. Always have an escape route. "Rough night, Ava?" Tommy calls from behind the bar. He's worked here for twenty years, has a grey beard that makes him look like a biker Santa, and remembers everyone's drink order. "The usual kind of rough," I call back, managing a tired smile. "Vodka tonic when you get a chance?" If you're enjoying this story so far, don't forget to hit the like button and subscribe! Drop a comment telling me where in the world you're watching from—I love hearing from you!] He nods and starts making my drink. The bar's about half full tonight—typical for a Thursday. A group of construction workers occupies the pool table in the back, their laughter punctuating the low murmur of conversation. A couple sits at the bar, leaning into each other like they're the only people in the world. And scattered throughout are the regulars, the men and women who come here to forget whatever they need to forget.