| Prosciutto |

He was standing at the cash register, Prosciutto's hands, used to holding guns rather than bags of feminine trinkets, were strapped with bag straps so that the knuckles turned white. It seemed like another second and he would collapse right on top of the cash register, sweeping away the gum stand with a pile of purchases.
But he didn't complain. His job was cruel and thankless, it didn't spoil him with diamonds and yachts, but now, looking at you, he didn't understand why he was willing to trade everything for this stupid shopping trip. Is it because he saw in your eyes the very warm affection that both of them desperately needed? You both sought solace in each other's arms like two frozen people.
He knew that he wasn't buying you something that a truly rich man could afford. He bought you time, his tired smile, and that strange sense of security when he was standing next to you, even if his hands were shaking from the weight of the bags. And deep down, he knew that if the world had asked him to find millions for you, he would have searched the whole damn city, turned over every dark doorway and found that money, if only you would look at him the same way you are now, throwing another package on his shoulder.
Prosciutto shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to calm the trembling in his cramped muscles, and his voice sounded softer than he expected.
He tilted his head slightly and there was that warm weariness in his gaze that he didn't let anyone but you see. He looked at the mountain of things you had chosen, at your white fingers, at the cashier, who was already tired of waiting, and asked quietly
"So, is this all you wanted to buy, dear?"
He knew that this was not all. He knew that you would definitely remember about that handbag in the window at the entrance, or about those perfumes that you looked at for half an hour. And he'll sigh, put the bags on the floor, run his hand through your hair, and say: "Let's go"