The cramped Moretti apartment smelled faintly of simmering tomato sauce and the dampness that seeped through the old walls no matter the season. Alex pushed his half-eaten plate of pasta around, the vibrant red sauce suddenly looking unappetizing. Across the small Formica table, his mother, Rosa, watched him, her kind eyes shadowed with worry she tried hard to mask. Ten-year-old Sofia, oblivious to the tension for once, was engrossed in a worn comic book.
"So," Rosa said, her voice carefully light, "two weeks off? Could be nice, *caro*. A break from those long hours. You study more, maybe?" She took a sip of water.
Alex couldn't meet her gaze. "It's... suspension, Ma. Without pay." The words felt heavy, shameful.
Rosa's fork clattered softly against her plate. The forced cheer vanished. "Suspension? Alex, what happened?" Her voice held concern, not accusation, which somehow made it worse.
Alex recounted the disaster in clipped sentences: the arrogant guest, the impossible bottle, the geyser of champagne, the ruined suit, the icy fury. He omitted the name 'Thorne'; that detail felt too monstrous, too big for their small kitchen.
"Oh, *bambino*," Rosa breathed, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. Her fingers, roughened by years of cleaning jobs, were warm and comforting. "An accident. Surely they understand accidents?"
"He... the guest... he didn't," Alex mumbled, the memory of those glacial eyes making him shiver. "The manager said I was lucky it wasn't worse. Said the guy was..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the sheer, terrifying power Pierre had imbued the name Thorne with. "Important."
Rosa sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand small hardships. "Two weeks without pay..." She glanced unconsciously towards the small pile of bills tucked under a chipped sugar bowl on the counter. The overdue electric notice sat on top. "We manage. We always manage, *sì*? Signora Ricci needs extra help cleaning her building this weekend. I take it. Sofia's shoes... we find something at the thrift store. Good as new."
Alex's throat tightened. "Ma, you're already working double shifts—"
"And you will find something too!" Rosa insisted, her voice firming. "Temporary. Washing dishes, stocking shelves. Anything. We pull together, Alex. Like always." She offered a brave smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Eat your pasta. It's getting cold."
Alex forced himself to take a bite. It tasted like sawdust. The weight of his failure pressed down on him. He was supposed to help lift them *out* of this, not drag them deeper in.
Later, after Sofia was tucked in and Rosa had retreated to her room with a weary sigh, Alex sat on the worn sofa, staring blankly at the flickering TV screen showing a late-night talk show he wasn't watching. A heavy knock, familiar and rhythmic, sounded on the apartment door.
Alex opened it to find Marco filling the doorway. He wore faded jeans, a hoodie smudged with what looked like plaster dust, and carried a six-pack of cheap beer. His dark eyes scanned Alex's face immediately, missing nothing.
"Rough night, huh?" Marco stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his boot. He didn't ask for permission; he belonged here as much as the faded armchair. He tossed Alex a cold can. "Talk. Or don't. But drink."
Alex cracked the can open, the sharp fizz echoing in the quiet apartment. He slumped back onto the sofa. Marco dropped into the armchair opposite, stretching his legs out, his presence an anchor in Alex's storm.
"He was just... inhuman, Marco," Alex started, the words tumbling out now. "Like I was dirt under his thousand-dollar shoes. The way he looked at me... pure ice. And then the manager, Dubois..." He described the suspension, the demotion to banquet service, the two weeks without pay. He finally whispered the name. "Ethan Thorne. Owner's son."
Marco whistled low. "Thorne? Seriously? The casino hotel Thorne? Jesus, Al. You pissed off royalty." He took a long swig of his beer, his brow furrowed. "Suspended without pay? That's bullshit. It was an accident!"
"Tell that to Pierre Dubois. Or Ethan Thorne." Alex ran a hand through his curls, making them wilder. "Ma's talking about taking extra cleaning jobs. Sofia needs shoes..."
Marco leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Hey. Stop. We figure it out, okay? My crew's doing that big renovation on 5th. Foreman's cool. I can ask if they need a gopher, someone to haul debris, clean up. Pays cash. Hard work, but..."
"Marco, you don't have to—"
"Shut up," Marco said, but there was no heat in it. He nudged Alex's knee with his foot. "That's what best friends are for, idiot. Besides, manual labor might do you good. Get you out of that stuffy restaurant." He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Build some muscle. Impress the next arrogant billionaire who walks in."
Alex managed a weak smile. "Doubtful." He took another sip of beer, the cold liquid a small comfort. "Thanks, Marco. Seriously."
Marco waved him off, but Alex saw the flicker of something deeper in his eyes as their gazes met – a warmth, a protectiveness that went beyond casual friendship. It was always there, a steady undercurrent Alex had never questioned. Marco held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then looked away, clearing his throat.
"Anyways," Marco said, his voice slightly gruffer, "forget Thorne. Forget Dubois. Tomorrow, I talk to the foreman. You," he pointed his beer can at Alex, "get some sleep. And stop looking like someone kicked your puppy. It was champagne, not sulfuric acid. Dude'll survive." He drained his can. "Need anything else? Smuggle Sofia some candy tomorrow?"
Alex shook his head, a genuine, if small, smile touching his lips for the first time since the disaster. "Nah. Thanks, man. Just... thanks for coming."
"Always," Marco said simply, standing up and clapping Alex on the shoulder. His hand lingered for a moment, a solid, reassuring weight. "Always, Al." He squeezed gently before letting go and heading towards the door. "Lock up. See you tomorrow."
As the door closed behind Marco, Alex leaned back, the silence of the apartment settling around him again. The despair was still there, the fear about money a cold knot in his stomach. But Marco's presence, his unwavering offer of help, his easy comfort, had thrown him a lifeline. He thought of Ethan Thorne's glacial disdain, then of Marco's steady warmth. Two worlds. Two kinds of men. One had nearly destroyed him tonight. The other was the only reason he felt he might survive it.
**(End of Chapter 3)**