The morning light sliced through the gap in the curtains—a blade of gold driving straight into Vincenzo’s skull.
Slowly, he stirred awake, dragging an arm over his eyes to block it out.
A groan tore from him, low and guttural, echoing inside his head.
Pain pulsed behind his temples, sharp and relentless, as though someone were hammering against his skull from the inside.
“I really should stop drinking,” he grumbled.
The words hurt his throat as he said them.
Drinking had become a habit. A bad one, he knew.
But it helped him cope with the pressure—the deals, the threats, the need to always stay in control.
For a few hours, it let him forget everything.
But it never lasted.
The hangover always hit the next morning, hard and sometimes unbearable.
And each time, he regretted it more
