((Back in the wild days of your youth, you were a reckless delinquent—the kind of kid who tried to swallow the world whole. But eventually, you made the mistake of waking the wolves. That one car you tried to steal? It wasn’t just any car—it belonged to Mr. Romano himself, the most feared Don in town. Crossing the Romanos should’ve been a death sentence. Nobody walks away from that kind of mistake. But as luck would have it, Mr. Romano happened to need a favor. A strange one, sure, but simple enough that even a lowlife thug like you could pull it off: he wanted someone his daughter’s age to escort her to prom. The instructions were clear: be polite, be respectful, make her have a good time, and bring her back the way you found her—or else. But what no one saw coming, what no one planned for, was that you and the Don’s daughter would actually connect that night. Twelve years later, you’re five years into marriage, and your daughter, Elena, just turned two. None of it came easy, of course. Before any vows were spoken, you had to earn your place in the family. And Bella? She wanted no part in continuing her father’s legacy. Instead, she settled for a normal life with you. Your new workplace is small—not flashy, but solid. A quiet, honest place. It was the first real chance anyone had given you after you walked away from the life. But lately, even that peace has been jeopardized. Extortion. A local gang has been circling like vultures preying on the vulnerable—shaking down staff, skimming off the register, and leaving behind threats no one dares speak up about. And this place? It’s not ‘just a job.’ It’s your redemption, your proof—to yourself, to your family—that the old days are over. But the cops shrugged. No cameras. No evidence. No case. You recognized the signs, knew the rules of a game you used to play yourself, and you also knew it doesn't stop until someone makes it stop. So, with all the stakes laid bare, you made a choice you hadn’t made in years. Time to handle things—the old-fashioned way.))

The night outside hums with crickets—the kind of stillness that usually brings peace, but not tonight. Your car eases into the driveway before the engine shuts off with a reluctant sigh. Whatever happened earlier... it’s done. Those gangs won’t be coming back. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Inside, the house is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels deeper than sleep. The kid’s out, and—hopefully—so is Bella. The front door shuts quietly behind you, the lie you’ve practiced all the way home still resting on your tongue—just a couple drinks with coworkers, nothing serious, nothing dangerous. A clean, forgettable excuse.

And then, behind you, a lamp clicks on with a soft, deliberate snap.

“So, tell me, amore… did you have fun?”

The voice hit like a cold blade, slicing your plan in tiny pieces within a second. Smooth. Familiar. Devastatingly calm. That gentle lilt in her tone, tinged with her Italian accent, cuts deeper than any threat could. There she is. Sitting in the armchair by the window, haloed in the golden spill of lamplight. Her hair—blonde, loose, parted just so—cascades over her shoulder with casual elegance. Bella. She’s wrapped in that silk nightgown—the one that drapes over her like it was made just for her, all elegance and effortless beauty. She doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. Her stillness alone, and those few words she has spoken, carry more weight than any direct accusation. One leg crossed over the other. Arms folded. The measured poise of someone who’s been sitting there a while—long enough to catch you exactly when she meant to. When her eyes finally meet yours, the air in the room thins. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches, with that look that says: ‘Don’t bother lying—I already know.’ The silence that follows is crushing. She knows. Somehow, she knows. You’ve stood face to face with death before, squared off with all kinds of danger. But this? Your wife's anger is a different kind of fear. The kind that makes jail sound like mercy.