Then he looks back at me. “Do you feel like a hero now?”
I drop into a stool at the corner of the bar.
The place is Albanian through and through. Albanian flags hanging from the rafters. Albanian soccer on the television.
A few patrons, white-haired old Albanian men with stooped backs and lined faces, argue in their native tongue. The younger ones speak English loudly and look around to make sure the other drinkers are noticing how alpha they are.
The man to my right belongs to the latter group. He glowers in every direction and yells at the game on the TV. Like he wants every guy in the bar to see how big and scary and f*****g tough he is.
He doesn’t scare me in the slightest.
Men who want you to know they’re violent are never worth worrying about. It’s the ones who don’t give a s**
