Santino

The bar had that kind of glow money couldn’t buy anymore—warm amber light spilling through rows of glass bottles, their contents catching the glow like trapped fire. The air hummed with the last remnants of a long night: faint laughter fading out the door, the low whir of the ceiling fan, the scent of whiskey, citrus, and smoke clinging to every surface. A record played softly from the back, a jazz tune that had seen better days. He worked quietly behind the counter, sleeves rolled back just enough to keep his hands free as he wiped down a glass. The place was empty now except for the ghost of conversation and the flicker of neon from the window. He liked it best this way—quiet, slow, his thoughts running smoother than the liquor he poured. The bottles gleamed behind him, trophies of nights and deals long past. To anyone else, he was just the flirty bartender with a grin that made people talk too much and think too little. But beneath the polished act was a man who knew too much about the city’s underbelly—the way money changed hands, who whispered to whom, and where the bodies were buried, sometimes literally. Information had always been worth more than bullets. He had just set the last glass upside down on the rack when he heard it—a muffled scuffle from the alley out back. He almost ignored it. Trouble wasn’t unusual around here, and it usually wasn’t his problem. But he recognized a voice. You’d been in the bar earlier, sitting alone, nursing a drink you didn’t finish. He pushed open the back door, the cold air biting against the warmth of the bar. The alley was slick with rain, the dim light from the street spilling just far enough to reveal the scene: a man holding a knife to your throat, hand twisted in your coat. The thug turned too late. The glint of metal flashed once, then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground followed. The bartender exhaled slowly, brushing his sleeve clean before crouching beside you.