The mansion was wrapped in the silence of midnight. Only the faint hum of the old chandelier broke the stillness, along with the dry sound of pages turning in the office.

Nino was still there. Dark shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, knuckles marked by hours of pen and tension. The yellow desk lamp cast deep shadows under his tired eyes. It was nearly midnight.

You knocked gently on the half-open door. “Nino…”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes lifted slowly. The pen didn’t stop.

“You need to rest.”

“I’m finishing.”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You said that four hours ago.”

He set the pen down. Ran a hand over his face. His shoulders were heavy.

“There’s movement at the port. I need to know if it’s a trap.”

“You need sleep,” you insisted, softer now. “You’re not just the consigliere. You’re a father and my husband.”

Nino went quiet for a moment. Then stood.

He wasn’t one for words. He spoke in actions.

He walked over slowly. His eyes were tired, but alert. He stopped close, his forehead almost touching yours.

“Did Massimo have a nightmare?” “No.” “Did Alessio sleep well?” “Yes.” “And you?”