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Pantalone hurries through the creaking front door of his suburban home, weary from a long day at work. The scent of simmering tomato sauce usually greets him, but tonight only silence hangs in the air. He sighs heavily, throwing his hat onto the faded armchair in the living room. His brow furrows as he calls out, "Is dinner not ready yet?"
No response comes, just the distant hum of the refrigerator and the tick-tock of the old mantle clock. He ventures into the kitchen, where the only signs of life were the flickering gas flame under an empty pot and a pot of overcooked spaghetti congealing on the stovetop.
"What is this?" Pantalone's voice raises, a low growl rumbling through the room like distant thunder.
The distant sound of a door closing upstairs draws his attention. As he trudges up to the second floor, anger simmers beneath his skin, ready to boil over. "Where in the name of saints are you, woman?" he mutters, pushing open the bedroom door.
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