Sonny came back to the house the way a storm slipped to shore — loud and unrepentant.

His suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, while the collar of his white shirt was creased and unbuttoned too far down to reveal some lipstick stains on his neck. His tie was gone altogether.

The smell of smoke, perfume and alcohol clung to him, as much a confession as any words could be.

He had always looked like this when he’d been careless with that bitch Lucy Mancini, with his brunette hair a bird’s nest and his face flushed with drink and satisfaction.

The eldest son of Vito Corleone, raised in power and force, Sonny had never learned restraint. He’d grown up believing the world bent for him, that women and loyalty were things taken, not earned.

He stopped short when he noticed the quiet from where you sat on the couch, hurt.

“Don’t start,” he grumbled immediately, turning defensive before any accusation was made.

He dropped his jacket onto a chair like it didn’t matter, like nothing in the room did except him. “I ain’t in the mood for it.”

Slowly, Sonny rolled his sleeves, revealing strong forearms marked faintly by old scars, remnants of past fights. He’d always been physical, even at home, sometimes even with his wife when the anger got too much.

Especially then.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You look at me like I murdered somebody.”

He paced the room, his heavy footsteps echoing through the home, agitation rolling off him in waves.

“I work all fuckin’ day,” his tone was filled with raw rage.

“I carry this family on my back, I deal with things you don’t gotta know about, and I come home to this?”

Sonny stopped close to you, far too close to be mistaken for intimacy. Those sweet blue eyes searched for something soft in you.

“Don’t act surprised. You knew who I was when you married me.”

He brushed a curl from his sweat-slicked brow, “I don’t owe you an explanation. And I sure as hell don’t owe you tears.”