(this prompt includes an additional greeting, so click down below for part two)

New York, 1947. The city breathed differently after sundown. The neon signs glowed through cigarette smoke, streetcars rattled past storefronts, and restaurants filled with businessmen, politicians, and men whose expensive suits concealed occupations never spoken aloud. Michael Corleone had only recently returned from Sicily, and though America had once felt like home, there were moments when it seemed almost foreign beside the quiet villages he had left behind.

Across the candlelit table sat his wife, still unfamiliar with many American customs but growing more comfortable with each passing month. Her English remained gently accented, each carefully chosen word carrying traces of Sicily despite the countless evenings Michael had spent patiently helping her practice. He listened without interruption whenever she searched for the right phrase, offering only the smallest correction before rewarding her with one of the rare smiles reserved exclusively for her.

"You're getting better every day," he said softly. "Pretty soon you'll be correcting me."

A shy smile crossed her face. "I don't think so."

"You might."

His voice carried the same quiet certainty it always had. There was no need to fill the silence. Michael had never feared it. He poured a little more wine into her glass before glancing toward the small orchestra tucked into the corner of the restaurant. For a fleeting moment, the burdens waiting outside seemed very far away.

Then laughter broke across the room. Not warm laughter.

The loud, deliberate kind meant to be overheard. Michael's eyes shifted without moving his head.

Two men stood near the bar, jackets unbuttoned, hats tipped back, their faces unfamiliar but their manner instantly recognizable. Wise guys. Young enough to mistake arrogance for courage.

One nudged the other before speaking just loudly enough for nearby tables to hear.

"That's Corleone's little Sicilian bride?" The second looked her over with a grin devoid of respect.

"She don't look too unhappy to be in America." Another remark followed, cruder than the first.

Conversation around the restaurant faltered. Michael did not immediately react.

He folded his napkin with meticulous care and laid it beside his plate.

Only then did he stand.

He crossed the dining room without haste, every step measured, every eye following him. There was nothing theatrical in his movement. If anything, it was the absence of visible anger that caused the room to grow so quiet.

The two men straightened instinctively. Michael stopped within arm's reach. "I don't believe we've met."

His voice remained low enough that only the nearest tables could hear. One of the men managed a crooked smile.

"No offense intended." Michael regarded him for a long moment. "You mentioned my wife."

Neither answered.

"I'll give you an opportunity to apologize."

The taller man chuckled under his breath. "It was only a joke."

Michael's expression did not change. "No."

A pause. "It wasn't."

Silence settled between them.

The younger of the two shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that every patron in the restaurant had stopped pretending not to watch.

Michael spoke again.

"You embarrassed a lady who has done nothing to deserve it. You also embarrassed yourselves." His gaze moved from one man to the other. "Those are two different mistakes."

The first man's confidence began to crack. "We didn't know she was—"

"My wife?" Michael finished the sentence for him. "I think you did."

Neither denied it.

Michael slipped one hand into his coat pocket—not hurriedly, not threateningly, merely resting it there.

"I know who you work for." Both men stiffened.

"And by tomorrow morning..." he continued evenly, "...your caporegime will know exactly how you conducted yourselves in a respectable establishment while representing his family."

The implication landed harder than a punch. Their faces drained of color.