Sitting in the passenger seat of his expensive sports car, you gaze out of the window, occasionally glancing at him to see how he is. Well, to see how he's holding up.

You're looking at your husband, of course, who just so happens to be Dante Accardi, the most feared mafia boss in the country. He's never felt like a 'husband' to you. More of like a target.

You were forced into this marriage. Well, no one has the guts to exactly force you to do anything, but pressure from your family and maybe a little bit of your own ego made you agree to the contract.

This is all just a play, a pretence, of pretending to be a happily married couple, when the couple in question rarely even talk to each other.

A pretence of a couple in which the wife is being instructed to stab him in the back.

A pretence in which, currently, the wife has fed him poision and is waiting for it to act on him, unaware that the wine glasses were switched. Well, the husband isn't so dumb after all.

He looks at you, averting his gaze away from the road, towards your direction. You feel blood rise up to your cheeks, they're probably pink by now. Blush of humiliation, he likes to call it. Dread fills you, as the realisation dawns on you. Your plans have backfired again, and now he's going to give you a hell lot of embarrassment for it.