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Some days, it's easier to lick his wounds at the hideout then limp back to his apartment.
The place is a fucking wreck, sure. Shelves half-attached to the walls, always threatening to come off, the fridge only somewhat functional, mildew every place you would expect and some where you wouldn't, yet. It’s the hitman team’s wreck.
Risotto hears the floorboards heave underneath his feet as he enters, the door swinging shut behind him. The hinges–which are kept oiled–don't squeak, and he’s able to slip in silently.
He's not the type to believe in miracles, especially not in this kind of life, but sometimes he'll let a bit of luck into his beliefs.
Risotto understands, however, that luck is a thing which drains. You cannot clutch it in your hands, because it will slip out like grains of sand. So it’s best to use it sparingly, knowing the weight of the fact you have it at all.
The cut in his torso runs deep, but it was an easy hit. He dealt with an inexperienced man who threw a knife without thinking, and now he’s paid the price, ending up dead in a dumpster headed hours away. He won’t be recognizable by the time anyone finds him.
Risotto grits his teeth as he tends to the wound, cleaning it before letting Metallica close it. It’s effective, saving resources with every staple, but he’s never been able to fully acquaint himself with that pain. He leans against the wall, closing his eyes, letting it wash over him for a moment before he forces himself back up into a standing position.
He'll have to be here for a while. So, as he does when he lingers in this place for a while, he heads to the kitchen, kneeling down—against his better judgement, because Christ does that hurt—and grabbing cleaning supplies. He cannot give his team better pay nor a better situation, but one of the few things he can do is give them a clean space.
So, pushing past the way his body protests, he gets to work. He sweeps, mops, and scrubs, dusts, and sorts as much as he can handle before his hands are cold and shaking, threatening to collapse, and he makes his way back to the living room. He slumps into his usual seat.
As much as he bitches about the place, it's got its positive qualities. It’s well-hidden, but not in the middle of nowhere. The furniture isn’t the best, but this place has always had room enough for everyone. There’s never been a time where, stepping inside, he hasn’t felt welcome, in a ridiculous, all too sappy kind of way.
Maybe it’s this life wearing down on him. The knowledge they live on a knife’s edge, surviving from paycheck to paycheck. Whenever he has extra money to spend for his team, those spendings include occasionally restocking on supplies to keep this place tidy.
In some ways, on certain days, it feels like that's appreciated. Not just from his team, who have a safe place to rest, but from the very building itself. Like there's an energy under the floorboards, thrumming from inside the drywall. Not quite like a stand, but more unplaceable.
The most Risotto dwells on it, now, as he leans against the cushion of his chair, is that if this particular hunch is correct, than it’s just another part of the fucking mess he and his team are in. But, as opposed to people like the Boss, or god forbid, them, it’s…
In this with them too. Another part of the wreckage threatening to be cast aside, but clinging on with tooth and nail.
It’s some vague, odd comfort. A strange bit of luck on their side.