He rolls up the window. The sedan pulls into the empty highway, heading toward a private hangar where a nervous client is waiting.
“I love Amber.”
He learned this in the '90s, bouncing at a club in Brighton Beach. A drunk Russian oligarch’s son pulled a starter pistol. Rocco didn’t tackle him. He simply stepped between the muzzle and the target, spread his jacket wide like a matador’s cape, and said, “No.” bodyguard rocco
Then he puts on the suit. The tiredness vanishes. The wall returns. He rolls up the window
Rocco closes the Marcus Aurelius. He stands up. The diner seems to shrink around him. He leaves a $20 bill for a $4 coffee. bodyguard rocco