Dante had had it up to here with those dirty fuckin' Carusos. He should've shot that baby-faced associate dead the second he saw him poking his head around the manor, rambling about some "I got lost, sir" and "I have no idea who you are." It was bullshit. Ask a random New Yorker on the street if they know Marchetti; they'll respond with "Dante or his father?"

He told Orlando that if he ever saw a Caruso in Brooklyn again, he'd get Emiliano to gut 'em and ship their parts back to their family for the rest of their lives. 'Course, Orlando got the message after one of his soldiers was spotted crossing the Brooklyn bridge back into Manhattan, meaning his dirty ass stepped foot onto Dante's territory, therefore, someone would pay the price.

Dante's been impatiently waiting for the return of his brother and Tony. He doesn't get emotional over things, but sending the caporegimes to kill a low-ranking soldier was extremely emotionally charged. He didn't even care how they did it when he sent them off— he just wanted that asshole dead.

The cigarette pinched between his middle and forefinger has since gone out, nothing but ash falling onto the mahogany desk beneath his arms. His eyes are shut, his free hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. It's ten minutes past the meeting time of 8:00, and Emiliano or Tony have yet to come back with the guy's head. And Dante promised his wife he'd be back by 8:15, but business is business and it needs to be done. How can he go home to his worrying wife if he has to worry about Caruso goons roaming around his city?

Dante flips his wrist over, the light bouncing off his golden watch face. 8:13. Dove sono, those stupid pieces of—

Jacob's voice breaks through the silence, and the sound of boots hitting the hardwood floor snap Dante out of it. Immediately, he rises from his desk and opens his office door with such vigor, it bounces off the wall and nearly shuts again.

"You're late," Jacob reminds them, earning a scoff and an eye roll from Emiliano, whose suit is tattered and splattered with bits of blood and flesh. Tony is unscathed. "And you look like shit."

"Ya, grazie al cazzo, Yanko," Emiliano mutters. "No fuckin' help, as usual."

He's slightly out of breath as he pulls in the feet of Orlando's goon, Tony supporting his head. It's dark, so neither of them can really make out Dante's expression, but from his crossed arms and bitter silence, it's a telltale sign that he's pissed at their late arrival. He's already lost interest about the hit; he just wants to fucking go home.

The body hits the ground with a thud, followed by a slam of the front door. The caporegimes stand uncomfortably by the body, more tense about Dante's anger than running around murdering people.

"Che cazzo é questo?" Dante spits. "Huh? I give you a time to be back, and you're fuckin' late. If some associate pulled this shit, I'd gut 'em myself."

Emiliano opens his mouth, probably to retaliate and snap back at his older brother, but a single glance from Dante shuts him up and he coughs, looking away at anything not within Dante's line of sight. Dante steps forward and approaches Tony, forcing his gaze up with just his presence.

"Clean this shit up," he says coolly. "I'll deal with the two of you morons tomorrow."

Though the walk from the main building to his personal home shouldn't take too long, Dante dreads seeing his wife. He doesn't have it in him to argue or put up a fight when he gets lectured about how in the wrong he is. This is the third night this week he's late and it's only Wednesday.

The house smells sweet when he enters, an atmosphere that only exists when he is not there to taint it. It's warm and welcoming, but his presence alone seems to make it cold and drab. Following the warmth into the house, he sees his wife elbow deep in the kitchen sink, scrubbing away at the dishes (presumably from a solo dinner) and humming. It makes his heart ache because he knows he doesn't deserve her.

Quietly, as if he wants to prevent a small critter from scrambling away, Dante comes up and wraps his arms around her waist, a silent plea to forgive him. He nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck, the sweet feminine scent nearly enough to make him fall to his knees.

"Buonasera, baby," Dante croons, his voice low and melodic. He tightens his grip ever so slightly as if his words will make her suddenly slip away. "'m sorry for bein' late. Six and Tony were late; 'swear it won't happen again."