But he looked at his dad, standing there with slumped shoulders and tired eyes, the rock-star charm suddenly looking worn thin and pathetic in the bare room—and the words died in his throat.
Yelling wouldn’t bring the kit back.It wouldn’t fill the fridge or replace the couch or fix the fact that they’d have to start over from scratch.Again.It never did.
Vic exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the anger down into something quieter.Something manageable.
“I’m gonna call Maggio’s in the morning,” he said, voice low and steady.“See if they need extra shifts this week.”
Rosie looked over at him, guilt flickering across his face.“Vic...”
“It’s fine, Pop.”Vic forced a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.“We’ve done this before.We’ll figure it out.”
***
At sunrise, he steppedout onto the porch, the early-morning air cool against his skin, and dialed the deli.While the phone rang, he stared at the empty driveway where his dad’s latest “big break” had once again turned to dust.
The high from the studio sessions still hummed faintly in his veins—that intoxicating feeling of being able to become whatever the music needed.
He clung to the memories.
Because if he could make music feel that good, even for three short days, then maybe the rest of this shit didn’t have to define him.
Maybe one day he’d find a place where he could play exactly like himself...and still be enough.
“Maggio’s, this is Tony.”
“Hey, Tony, it’s Vic.Any chance you need extra coverage this week?”
Chapter Two
10Years Later
The heat hit him at the same time the light registered through his closed eyelids, and he dropped his chin, giving them the top of his head.He knew instinctively that the spotlights were trained on him, the house lights dimmed.Vic gave it a four-beat, then lifted his leg, feeling the quads in his thigh tense and bunch with coiled energy.Then he stomped on his bass.
Once.
That’s all he gave them.One resonating pound that he knew they could feel in their chests, and then an echoing silence.
