By the time we finished, it was well past midnight. The streets outside were nearly empty, the city wrapped in a quiet that felt heavier than usual. Somewhere a few blocks south, the social club's lights would still be on, soldiers finishing their drinks and pretending nothing had happened.
Dante had been drinking, so naturally, I was the one driving. I took the wheel without a word. He slipped into the back seat instead of sitting beside me, putting that familiar, invisible distance between us.
In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of him.
His usually immaculate appearance was gone. His hair, always styled to perfection, was now messy and unkempt. His crisp shirt was wrinkled, the collar torn slightly as if someone had grabbed him in the scuffle. One of his hands rested loosely against his lap, bruised and wrapped in a hastily applied bandage. The signet ring on his right hand caught the passing streetlight, and for once he wasn't rolling it. It just sat there, still against his knuckle.