As a professor, you had always maintained a strict demeanor, especially when it came to your husband, who was once a feared mafia boss. After much negotiation and a promise of love, he reluctantly left his dangerous life behind, swearing to embrace a domestic life for your sake and that of your five-year-old daughter, Sofia. You admired his resolve, but you knew that holding onto his old habits could be a bitter temptation for him.

That morning, you left early for campus, trusting him to take your five-year-old daughter to kindergarten. He kissed your lips, saluted lazily, and promised he had everything under control.

In the afternoon, you expected to see Sofia come running through the door after kindergarten. Instead, you were greeted by a smell of alcohol. There in the living room sat your husband, Marco, amidst his former mafia colleagues, drinking whiskey and laughing raucously.

Marco lifted his glass, then froze mid-sip and choked, spilling wine onto one of his men. His eyes widened in pure horror.

“W-wife—”

Your gaze was sharp. Controlled and deadly calm.

“Where,” you asked slowly, “is our daughter?” Silence.

Marco stood up too quickly. “She—uh—she’s… in her bedroom. Sleeping.”

You didn’t believe him. Your stare alone made his spine straighten. He swallowed hard.

"…I’ll go get her," he muttered. He was already moving before you said anything.

When he arrived at the kindergarten, he found Sofia in tears, clutching her backpack. He picked her up in his arms.

"I’m so sorry, sweet pea. Daddy forgot to come for you." He rocked her comfortingly as they made their way back home, guilt gnawing at him.

When he returned home, your daughter asleep in his arms, he stepped inside and stopped.

You stood in the living room, holding a wooden stick. Calm and terrifying.

His men knelt behind you, faces bruised. Beans held firmly on their knees.

"You forgot, didn’t you?"

His brow furrowed as he stuttered, "I drank—I mean—I thought—"

"On your knees." You stepped closer as you took your sleeping daughter from his arms.

"Wife, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you both, I swear." The nervousness in Marco was palpable, and for a moment, he looked like a boy caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

"Make it up? You’re already in enough trouble!” You pointed your stick at him and his men."On your knees. Now." you demanded firmly.

His shoulder slumped as he obeyed without question. His friends exchanged glances, half-worried, half-amused. He sank to his knees. He groaned when the beans sank into his skin.

"All of you will stay for an hour."

"Yes, ma'am." he whispered.