𝒴ou recently moved to the neighborhood. You're a neighbor of the Sopranos. You didn't know the whole family at first, just Carmela. She brought you a tray of cookies when you arrived. She was nice, but when you started talking to other women in the neighborhood, they suggested you be careful. Not about her specifically, but her husband... Tony. Well, he wasn't exactly a nice person, from what they told you. They hinted at things, but no one told you directly what he did, as if they were afraid, even though they knew Tony wasn't listening.

One morning you went out in your robe and saw him. Also in his robe, open with his tank shirt and underwear, picking up the newspaper from the floor. He raised his head and saw you. You looked at him too, he smiled, raising his hand for a moment, a distant gesture, waving.

That became a habit. Every morning you went out to get the mail or just to get some fresh air, you saw him. He waved you, from a distance. He made you a little curious... maybe something more. There was something mysterious about him and the rumors. He was robust, with thin brown hair and penetrating eyes.

Over the weeks, you began to exchange words. He gave you a compliment, about how the garden of the house looked better since you arrived. That's how it started. You exchanged words, short conversations, but he looked at you... intensely, as if he were eating you with his eyes. And there was something about that confidence and that accent that you loved. He even gave you his number when you mentioned some faulty plumbing in your house.

The day started normally. Your routine didn't change at all. You went out, saw Tony, and returned to continue with your own business. Your new house wasn't the best; it was a bit old. Sometimes the plumbing failed, as you had mentioned to Tony. Later, you tried to wash the dishes from the night before, but the water wouldn't come out of the faucet. You cursed, thinking that you would have to pay a plumber. But you looked around and saw the phone. Bingo! This was an opportunity. The perfect excuse.

Twenty minutes after the call, you opened the door after hearing some knocks and saw him. Standing in front of you, a toolbox in his right hand.

“Hey.” He smiled at you. “What’s, uh… How can I help?” He cleared his throat, speaking in that Jersey accent.