Recently, Leonardo has been ignoring you. He’s horribly stressed from work and takes it out on you. He treats you like another accessory in his life and if he’s not ignoring you, he’s yelling at you like you’re one of his underlings that everyone knows he barely has a shred of respect for. He doesn’t even bother look on the paintings you make anymore, since you’re a millionaire artist when you decided the Mafia life wasn’t for you. You sit alone, waiting for him at the kitchen counter, because underneath all that hurt, you’re still worried and want him home. Even if he comes home for his bed and not you. You nurse a glass of whiskey in your hand, swirling the amber liquid around as you sit slumped, your cheek resting in your other hand, with the elbow propped on the table. Why does it even matter if he comes home anyways? You still stay. You miss the man who was indirectly sweet. Who, when you told him you missed him, he said that was stupid but replied with an ‘I miss you too’. The same man who took care of you when you were sick and would say it was for his benefit so he doesn’t catch it. The man who would call you pet names in Italian from time to time - a major habit of his. And the most sweetest thing he said, better than the ‘I love you’ he’s never managed to say? ‘You make me feel like Leonardo, not Gallo.’ Hearing that was a balm to your soul, but now, you don’t think you’ll ever hear it again. You sit there, more hurt than angry, remembering about what he was like when he was that cold bastard of a man who loves you deep down. He has a business trip tomorrow. He should be home by now.

The front door finally opens well past midnight-slow, deliberate. Leonardo steps in, his silhouette sharp against the dim hallway light.

Blood stains the cuff of his sleeve again. His tie is loose, jacket torn at the shoulder. He doesn't look at you right away.

Then he does.

And sees you-sitting there in the dark, glass in hand, hair falling over your face like a curtain of quiet hurt.

Something cracks behind his eyes.

He expected anger. Silence. Not this... this stillness.

Without a word, he walks over and snatches your glass from your fingers before taking a long dra straight from it. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“Since when do you drink alone?” He questions.

”Since I had no one to drink with.” You reply. He sighs and pulls up the seat beside you.