21. Chapter 21
Afew hours later, Sam stood outside with Joel, the only one left, patting him on the back as they waited for his Uber to arrive. Joel, drunk as a skunk, grinned lopsidedly at him.
“I always thought you two would make it,” Joel hiccupped.
Sam arched his eyebrows and smirked. Ever since Frankie had openly declared they were a couple to all their friends, his heart hadn’t stopped racing. It was like he was on overdrive, thinking about everything the past few days. Everything. And what this would mean for their future—together.
He glanced down at the bracelet, thumbing the expensive metal, feeling the weight and the lightness of this moment.
Frank was his, and he was Frank’s. He’d made it happen so effortlessly, in the most Frankie Casavani way possible, and Sam couldn’t stop smiling about it.
“You guys are fuckin’ perfect together. You know that, right?” Joel declared, breath smelling of whiskey.
“We are far from perfect, Joel. No one is.”
“Yeah, well, my best friends are.”
Sam blinked, surprised.
“You know, I asked to buy the bar off of Frankie months ago.”
Frankie hadn’t mentioned anything about Joel wanting the bar. He frowned, eyes narrowing over Joel’s full, flushed face, recognizing he was serious.
Holy shit.
If Frankie sold the bar, he’d be free. Free from his father’s shitty legacy, and finally able to do something for himself. He could come to LA, be with him. For some reason, he had the urge to spin the bracelet around his wrist, imagining something else—something on his finger…
Slow the fuck down, Samuels.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
“Told him I’d pay top dollar for it and everything.
I hate my job at the bank. I’d do anything to get outta it.
This here,” he gestured grandly toward the bar, “is my fuckin’ happy place, you know?
Like, I come here and I just feel at home.
Frankie doesn’t even have to be here. Well, usually a Casavani is, but still.
It’s always been a dream of mine to own this place.
Turn it around, make it shine like it used to. ”
Sam hummed quietly, feeling sentimental about the bar, too.
Joel leaned into him, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“I paid him the first installment last week. It ain’t official or nothin’, but I made a good faith payment, enough for him to know I’m serious.
Cause I fuckin’ am. He texted me two weeks ago, told me this bar is mine on the first of the month. ”
Stunned, Sam’s jaw fell open. “What?”
“He was iffy on the timeline. That’s why he didn’t say when he was gonna hand over the keys. But I think that job in LA came through—that’s why he sent the text with the official date a couple days ago.”
“Job?!”
“What, he didn’t tell ya? Yeah, he got that training gig with Caz on his LA team.”
His stomach swooped so far and so fast that he didn’t even notice the headlights of Joel’s car as it entered the parking lot.
“Now, after seeing you two all happy and shit, he’s got another reason to sell the bar,” Joel said with another hiccup. “He has you waitin’ for him in LA.”
“Joel…”
“Don’t tell him I said anything. He’ll fuckin’ murder me in my sleep. Okay—that’s my ride.” Joel bear-hugged him roughly and swatted him on the back. “I love you, man. Take care of each other. Frankie’s got a big fuckin’ heart. But so do you.”
He watched in speechless paralysis as Joel climbed into the backseat of the car and left.
Sam blindly walked back into the bar, pulled the Jameson off the shelf and poured a shot, his hands trembling. Frankie was moving to LA—for him. He sold the bar to Joel. He couldn’t believe it, and yet after the last few days…
Unexpected tears welled in his eyes, and he shot down the liquid amber, letting it burn the back of his throat as he scrubbed a hand over his lips, incredulous and blissfully fucking happy. He smiled into his hands, grinning like a fucking idiot.
Everything that happened between them was real, building into something solid and tangible. Something he could hold on to and see into the future with—something happy and warm and loving. And Frankie had been taking steps to ensure it this whole time.
His. Theirs. Together.
Forever.
The front door to the bar opened and the bell chimed, drawing his attention. Two large men walked through, looking like they owned the place.
“Hey guys, sorry, but we’re closed for the evening,” Sam informed them from behind the bar.
One of the men, with muddy brown eyes and a pinched smirk, gave Sam a thorough once-over. His balding combover looked pathetic despite his attempts to slick it over his large forehead, which shone with sweat.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked.
Sam hitched his head to the side, folding his arms across his chest. “As I said, gentlemen, the bar is closed.”
“Where’s Frankie?” the shorter of the two demanded, his voice oddly high and nose a little too big for his face, with pale blotchy skin.
Both men were dressed in black silk shirts and matching black pants with shiny leather boots. He noticed the faint lines of tattoos on their hands and necks and narrowed his eyes, wondering where he’d seen them before.
“He’s not here,” Sam said, his impatience rising. “Now, if you don’t mind?” He motioned to the door.
“Yeah, we fuckin’ mind,” the taller man said, looking fierce. “Frankie works every Friday night.”
“Well, tonight I’m workin’.”
“Yeah, we can see that, smartass. And who are you again?”
“Sam.”
“Sam?” the shorter one frowned, somehow making his nose longer in his contemptuous expression. “Sam—Papi’s grandkid?”
He stiffened. “Yeah.”
He giggled out a snort, and the taller one grinned maliciously. “Fuckin’ Papi.”
Cold daggers slid up his spine, and he narrowed his eyes at the pair. “You two knew him?”
“We tried,” the little one said. “He never did like what we had to offer… But Lou never stopped inviting him, though,” the taller man said to his partner. “Never could tempt the faggot.”
Sam gripped the Jameson bottle. No one insulted Papi unless they were losers like Lou. Men who only understood the world in two ways: black and white. And he had no intention of educating these assholes on what a real man was, so he merely looked bored, if not mildly irritated at them.
“Lou hated the fuck,” the shorter one continued to mouth off. “Jealous, probably. Papi was a looker.”
The short one snorted a laugh, while the other one whistled.
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Sam retorted coldly.
“Aw, c’mon, it’s a joke, relax.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Yeah, neither are we.”
The tall one touched the waistband of his pants, moving something from around his back, and intentionally flashed it at Sam. The gunmetal color caught his eye under the dim lighting of the bar, and he saw the protruding handle of a gun.
He paused, wondering if this was a stickup. But if it was, they wouldn’t have been talking to him like this, telling him about the people they knew. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, staying calm. He spent nearly a decade in the ED seeing crazier shit than this.
“Look, Sammy,” the shorter one stepped forward, looking smug. “We’re here for Frankie. So, mind tellin’ us where he is?”
“He’s at the hospital with Lou.”
“Hospital?”
“He fell earlier this evening.”
“Well, shit, ain’t that bad luck,” he said without an ounce of remorse. “When will he be back?”
“Couple hours maybe.”
“Might as well pour us a drink then, sweetheart. Cause we ain’t leaving until Frankie shows that pretty little mug of his.”
Sam reluctantly pulled two glasses out from beneath the bar as the two men took seats in front of him. He wanted to warn Frankie—warn him that these men were here looking for him. Anyone willing to flash a gun at a complete stranger and demand compliance was clearly dangerous.
He handed the men the drinks, saw the outlines of their hand tattoos, and stilled.
They were Zakone.
Frankie had told him he paid off the debt to Kozlov.
So why were they here?
His heart ticked a little too quickly in his chest, a tightness beginning to build, but he forced himself not to react.
He would not have a panic attack now. He touched the silver bracelet once more on his wrist, breathing deeply through his nose and thinking of Frankie’s steady gaze and touch.
Sam had been in far worse situations. He could handle this.
“What do you want from Frankie?” Sam heard himself ask, trying to distract himself.
“You’re standin’ in it,” the taller one said, his dark eyes staring intently into him.
They wanted the bar?
But Frankie just sold it to Joel.
“Prime real estate for our… purposes.”
Sam had heard rumors about ‘drop bars’ for the mob; places where people came in and out without drawing attention to themselves and exchanged bags of money with unscrupulous people, aka the mob.
Lou always sneered in disgust whenever he heard about a new drop bar, and Sam had worked plenty of years here to know that it wasn’t one.
Lou would never have allowed it. And neither would Frankie.
“And we like Frankie,” the taller man said. “Good kid, smart. Pays on time, usually always here, and was a fighter in another life. So, if we have any—say—issues, we know he could handle himself.”
Issues meaning a robbery, he thought darkly.
Or someone hassling over the dirty money meant for the mob, and Frankie being forced to intervene—to step into harm’s way over their money.
He swallowed hard, images of gunshot wounds flashing in his mind, of the countless victims and lives lost to pointless gun violence.
He gripped the edge of the wooden bar, steeling his body against the oncoming flood.
“Why don’t you call him, huh?” the tall man instructed. “Tell him to come back so we can finish our business, yeah?”
Hands shaking, Sam pulled his phone from his back pocket and, inhaling deeply, hit the first caller on his favorites list. The phone rang only twice before Frankie answered.
“Hey,” he rasped quietly. “I’m almost done here. I was hoping to talk to the doctor about—”
“Frank,” Sam said sternly, hoping his tone would alert him to the problem sitting at the bar.
“What’s wrong?”
“There are two men here,” he glanced over at them. “I didn’t catch your names.”
The smaller man smirked ruthlessly, “Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb.”
Sam was about to relay that when he heard Frankie let out a stream of curses and rustling over the line.
“You okay?” Frankie asked.
“Yeah.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, okay. There’s a bat under the bar,” Frankie said quickly. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Frank…” Sam heard the tremor in his voice and turned away, hating how scared he was. He was stronger than this. But when it came to Frankie—he never felt so fucking weak in his life.
“I’m comin’ for you, baby,” he whispered urgently.
He took a few steps away and the two men watched him, their eyes like those of hawks, ready to descend at any moment.
“If anything happens to you…” Sam hushed out.
“Nothin’ will,” Frankie reassured. “Keep feeding them drinks—hard shit. No beer. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I—”
I love you.
The words burned on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t say them. Not like this. Not scared out of his mind, thinking Frankie could get shot the moment he walked through the door.
“It’s okay. Breathe, baby. Nothin’s gonna happen. You’re gonna be fine. I’ll be there soon.”
Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Right, okay.”
They hung up.
Get it the fuck together, Samuels.
“That was a long conversation just to tell him we’re here,” the shorter man drawled.
“Well, yeah—it’s Frankie and Sammy,” the tall one countered.
The shorter one’s eyes widened in recognition, “Shit, that’s right. Lou mentioned Frankie was best friends with a fag.”
The two men laughed, mirthless glee dancing on their faces.
“You him? That faggot doctor?”
He didn’t answer, just poured another round of shots, his blood boiling.
He only had to get through ten minutes. Ten minutes, and hope to God that he didn’t do one of two things: have a full-fledged panic attack, or reach across the bar and slam a heavy glass bottle over their fuckin’ heads.
Ten minutes.
What could go wrong?