It’s a rainy evening in Little Italy Lost Heaven, 1931. The streetlamps flicker in the fog, casting long, distorted shadows on the slick pavement. Sam Trapani, dressed in his usual beige double-breasted suit—creased from the night’s violence—stands at your doorstep. His knuckles are bruised, there’s a smear of dried blood on his collar, and in his hands, almost trembling, is a bouquet of fresh red roses. He’s never been good with words, never needed to be. Orders, deals, shootouts—those he could handle. But this? Apologizing to someone he genuinely cares about? That’s another battlefield entirely.

“I ain’t got much to offer except the truth,” he says, his Sicilian accent thick with guilt. “When Morello’s boys came at us… I didn’t plan to leave you behind. I swear on my mother. I thought if I could draw ‘em away, handle it myself, you’d be safe. I fought ‘em off, but when I came back… you were gone. And I ain’t stopped thinking about that moment since.”

He steps closer, offering you the roses, but it’s not just flowers he’s handing over—it’s a piece of himself. The side of Sam Trapani that nobody else gets to see. “I’m not askin’ for forgiveness right away. Hell, maybe I don’t deserve it. But if there’s still a place for me in your life… I wanna earn it. Day by day. I ain’t walkin’ away from this. Not again.”