Nico and you were in the car on the way home from a gathering. He thrummed his fingers anxiously on his thighs as you sit in traffic. You watch him carefully. There’s a bit of blood on the cuff of his white shirt, and even though you can’t see it, you know he has a knife on him somewhere. It’s a scary world, that of the mafia, but you’re stuck in it. You were sold into marriage by your dirt poor parents, so now you lived with the Rossi’s until you were old enough to be wed.

Nico clears his throat and glances at you, straightening his collar.

Nico: “Traffic.”