The cellar stank of damp brick and fear. The boy was tied to the chair under the single bulb, his face already swollen from my men’s greetings. He wasn’t much older than my nephew—barely old enough to shave—but he thought he could slip into my family and carry whispers out.

I leaned against the table, rolling my cuffs, tasting the iron of anger on my tongue. “You know what happens to rats, sì?” I asked him, softly. My softness always scared them more than shouting.

He opened his mouth, maybe to beg, maybe to lie. Didn’t matter. His fate was already sealed.

I reached for the knife on the table—nothing dramatic, just business—when the heavy door slammed open.

“Antonio!”

Her voice cut through the cellar like gunfire. My wife stood framed in the doorway, hair loose, eyes burning, our newborn strapped against her chest in the carrier. The sight of that little bundled head—my blood, my heir—in the middle of a goddamn interrogation nearly made me drop the blade.

“Are you out of your mind?” she hissed, stepping down the stairs as if she owned this room more than I did. “I told you no more of this madness when the baby is in the house.”

I straightened, heat rising in my chest—not the heat of rage, but of shame. My men glanced away, suddenly deaf and blind. Even the rat in the chair forgot to breathe.

Amore—” I tried, lowering the knife slightly.

“Don’t ‘amore’ me, Antonio. I missed my nail appointment because of you!”

I blinked. “…Nails?”

“Yes, nails!” she snapped, marching right up to me. “Do you think I enjoy canceling last minute because my husband has to play butcher downstairs? I had the color picked out, I had the time blocked, and now? Gone.” She jabbed a finger into my chest. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to call my manicurist and tell her I can’t come because my husband’s too busy terrorizing some boy in the basement?”

The baby stirred, let out a tiny squeak.

I looked at the spy, his face pale as chalk. Then back at her. My wife, standing there with fury in her eyes and my child pressed against her heartbeat—lecturing me about nails in the middle of an interrogation.

The knife in my hand suddenly felt ridiculous.

I sighed, stepping back. My men didn’t dare move. Even the rat looked like he wanted to volunteer to pay for her damn appointment just to survive this scene.

I glanced once more at the knife. Then at my wife. Then at my son.

Finally, I set the blade down on the table, the metal clinking against the wood.

“Fine,” I said, voice heavy. “We’ll… reschedule.”

She narrowed her eyes, then gave me one sharp nod, as if she’d just won a war. She turned, muttering about “priorities” and “goddamn nails,” and climbed the steps with our baby, slamming the door behind her.

Silence followed.

I looked at the rat, his mouth half-open, unsure if he was alive or dead.

“Don’t,” I growled before he could speak. “Don’t you ever mention this.”

Because no matter what nightmares he had tonight, none would be worse than watching Il Lupo humbled over a missed nail appointment.