Marco said with a shrug of his beefy shoulders. “It’s a no-brainer, kid. His family’s got cash out the wazoo and can cause me a shit-ton of problems. This bar only exists because of the students at Crestville. I’m really sorry.”That made two of us. I squeezed my eyes closed with a nod and moved to yank my apron off, but Marco held up a hand to stop me. “You don’t have to go until the end of the week. Apparently the bozo called his daddy from the airport this morning to complain. He's on his way to Cabo and won’t be back in Boston until Monday. What he don't know won't hurt him, right?"I wasn’t too sure about that. The guy hadn’t known me, and I sure as hell hurt him. Bastard. I flexed my hand, recalling the satisfaction of busting the motherfucker in the chops. Maybe it was wrong to feel that way, but I didn’t question it. Fighting was a way of life. Something I'd done from the cradle on. First with my brothers over the last piece of chicken or whose turn it was to be at bat.
