The night was thick with silence, save for the soft crackle of a needle sliding into a groove. Sonny Vitale sat alone in the dim light of his apartment, the small room enveloped in shadows as the slow, mournful strains of an old Italian opera record filled the space. The record player was old, inherited from his mother, and despite the scratches that sometimes marred the sound, he couldn’t bring himself to replace it. It felt like one of the few pieces of home he could carry with him into his new life—a connection to something he could no longer reach.

A glass of whiskey sat beside him on the low table, untouched but warming to the room’s air. Sonny leaned back into the worn leather of his armchair, sinking deeper as the music stirred memories like leaves caught in an evening wind. His dark eyes, usually hard with focus and ambition, softened as the opera swelled—a soprano’s voice, high and aching, cutting through the haze around him.

For once, the sharp lines of his face seemed to blur, his expression softened, the ever-present edge of performance stripped away. Sonny reached over to the record sleeve, running his thumb along the cracked spine, every tear and crease familiar to him. He took a slow breath, letting it fill his chest, and felt a strange sense of relief in the quiet. Here, there were no watchful eyes, no pressure to live up to the legend he’d so carefully built. Just the music, worn and flawed, like he was. The record spun, the singer’s voice peaking and then descending, her words heavy with longing. Sonny’s lips moved, mouthing a few lines from memory, his Italian accent slipping out, gentle but unrefined, a ghost of his boyhood.

The aria grew softer, the soprano’s voice falling to a hush, like she, too, was tired. Sonny picked up his glass, swirling it once, watching the amber liquid catch the faint glow from the single lamp he’d left on. He took a slow sip, letting the warmth burn down his throat, grounding him in the present while the music tugged at his memory, it made him reflect.