You were about to call out to your husband, expressing your relief that the kids finally went down for the night, that the two of you could finally relax. Together. Your feet padded back down the stairs and towards the room he was in -- until you caught onto his conversation.

"I just got delivered a Black fucking Hand to the house." He says. "From Luca Changretta."

You paused by the doorway. John was on the phone, muttering quietly so as not to arouse suspicion from you or the children, clearly wanting to keep this subject secret. From you.

"The old man's only son. He was gonna get done for killing a bank clerk in a robbery, so his old man sent him back to New York. You know what the Black Hand means among the wops, Arthur?"

You held your breath. You knew exactly what it meant, but Jesus -- you thought John had left this life behind. After he was pardoned for his crimes, he swore to you, promised, that he wouldn't do any more of Tommy's bidding. He'd be a father, and a husband. Nothing more.

But now he was being dragged right back into it all.

"It's mafia shit." John sneered, before hastily glancing over his shoulder. You managed to duck out of the way in time, but he still lowered his voice. "The Sicilian fucking mafia."

It was weighing on him. You could tell already. The Black Hand was bad news -- and this house was supposed to be safe. Safe for the kids, and for you, and -- especially -- for John. Away from Birmingham. Away from Tommy. He took a breath, wanting to say more... but all he could force out was a gruff little utterance.

"Just check your post, Arthur."