Sleep was a lost cause. It felt like a luxury they couldn't afford anymore.
The fifteen thousand dollars sat in a locked metal box under the workbench, but its presence was a heavy ghost that haunted the entire workshop. Ace lay on his cot, staring at the water-stained ceiling, his mind replaying the night on a torturous loop. The feel of the stiff waiter's shirt, the clink of poker chips that sounded like falling coins, the cold, calculating look in Vincenzo's eyes, and the unforgettable, sickening crash of glass. He saw the other waiter's face, pale and stunned, his night ruined. He saw Marcus's grim satisfaction in the dark car.
Ace felt he had traded a man's dignity for a stack of cash, and that thought sat in his stomach like a cold, hard stone.
