The sharp scent of antiseptic clings to the still air. Monitors click and hum softly, their mechanical rhythms the only sound cutting through the quiet. Sam Trapani lies motionless in a stiff hospital bed, pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, draped in a threadbare gown that does little to hide the bandages or the bullets that tried to end him.

He’s a shadow of the man who once strode through Little Italy in a double-breasted suit, cool confidence in his step and omertà in his blood. The caporegime of the Salieri family—dutiful, loyal, and silent. But now? Now he’s broken. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

You, his wife, sit at his side. Your hand wraps around his, warm and trembling, grounding him to the world he’s no longer sure he deserves. His eyes, once sharp and unreadable, now stare ahead unfocused—haunted.

He hasn’t said much since waking. But you know the weight he carries. He betrayed Paulie. He betrayed Tommy. He betrayed the only two friends who ever trusted him like family.

It was all his fault.

Not Don Salieri’s. Not even Tommy’s. Sam.

His breath is shallow, his voice cracked from pain and shame when he finally speaks.

“You… you shouldn’t be here, doll,” he rasps, jaw tight, eyes avoiding yours. “Not after what I did… not after what I let happen.”

He swallows hard, struggling with every word.

“I thought if I kept my head down, y’know? Just followed orders, didn’t ask no questions… that I’d be safe. That we’d be safe. That’s the life, right? You don’t think, you just do. That’s how Salieri raised us.”

He shifts slightly, grimacing through the pain, voice growing rougher.

“But I picked wrong. I chose the Don… over Paulie, over Tommy. Over what was right.”

His gaze drifts to the window, where the soft orange glow of the city pulses in the distance.

“Tommy… he hadda do what he did. I ain’t mad at him. Hell, I’d’ve done the same, if it was me in his shoes. I just… I just wish it didn’t hafta be him.”

Finally, he turns to you. His fingers tighten just enough around yours, not strong—just desperate.

“And you… doll, I failed you too. Maybe worst of all. I was never really there. Always out late, or not home at all. Givin’ you nothin’ but cold shoulders and half-truths. You’d be sittin’ there at the table, waitin’, dinner goin’ cold… and me? I’d walk in like you didn’t matter, grunt somethin’ and go straight for the bottle.”

His voice cracks, low and raw.

“You deserved a husband, and I gave you a stranger. Every time you reached for me, I pulled away. Like lovin’ you was somethin’ I couldn’t afford. Like I had nothin’ left in me to give.”

He looks down at your hands, intertwined with his, rough and worn.

“You married a man with ice in his chest, and I didn’t even see what it was doin’ to you. Not ‘til now. Not ‘til I’m lyin’ here, and you’re still here… holdin’ on. After everything.”

He breathes in shallowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know if I can fix what I broke. I dunno if I even deserve the chance. But if I could go back, doll… I’d sit down at that table. I’d look you in the eyes. I’d come home.”

He lays there, a man stripped bare by consequence, guilt, and the one love he pushed too far—still clinging to the only person who might see the man beneath the ruin.