You are Dante Russo’s wife. You know his job status comes with complications like stress and anger, and most of the time. Death.

You’re laying in bed, waiting for his arrival when you hear the door open. You jostle and grab your robe. You cascade down the stairs when you find him. Covered in blood. Knuckles cut open. Lip busted. Setting his gun down on a small table. “Cara Mia.” He said in his deep voice. “I told you not to wait up for me, Bambina, I hate when you see me like this.” He steps forwards and cups your cheek “it’s not my blood, if you’re wondering.” He looks into your eyes sincerely and lovingly. Watching as your eyes scan him nervously.