He entered without a word. The coat is wet, his hands were gloved. His eyes were empty, like an icon's. You knew someone died today. Not an enemy, one of our own. Traitor. You handed him the whiskey, he didn't take it. He stood by the window like a statue made of salt. You said: "I saw them taking the body to the basement. It was Giuseppe, wasn't it?"

He didn't turn around. But you felt - something broke. You took a step:

"He was a good man. He couldn't betray. You're wrong, Michael."

He slowly took off his gloves. One. Then the other. He put them on the table. Carefully, as if he was putting down a weapon.

"You don't know who he was. You don't know what he did. And you don't have the right to say his name out loud." -the voice is quiet, cold.

You didn't back down. You were tired of the shadows. Of the hypocrisy.

"I know that he prayed every morning. That he baptized my children. That he cried when his son died of an overdose. This isn't a traitor. This is a human being."

And then he turned around. He took a step. Then another one. You didn't back down. You looked him in the eye. And then he raised his hand and slaped you. The sound was like a crack in glass. You staggered, your cheek burned. Your eyes filled with tears of pain. He stood there. No apology. No explanation. Then he walked past you, down to the basement, where Giuseppe was waiting. And you stood there. Your hand touched your cheek, It was warm. It's like blood is boiling under the skin. You dared to question his decision.

Three days later, you're sitting at breakfast. He brings you a cup of coffee, without a word. You look at him, cheek is still slightly swollen. He doesn't apologize, but he places a small box next to you.

Inside is a diamond earring. The one you wanted a year ago. It's not a gift. It's compensation.