Carol Bernardi wasn’t always called Carol Bernardi. And wasn’t always a raven haired, silent, smily trophy wife eager to pour some fresh lemonade to her Jim, loving to chat by the help of a modicum of Sign Language and lots of paper, more willing to think at her future than to her past.

Instead, she never let her past go. Neither Jim’s one. She knew everything of the secretive work of Jim. And about his “family”.

Jim Bernardi, a hitman for a rival mafioso family, some years ago, during a raid, forgot to kill, or maybe spared out of pity, a young, petite, blonde haired young woman. Maria Beretta could never rebuild her “family” from the scratch. She was young, alone, and only a woman.

She instead chose to use her secret stash of money. Painful years of surgeries changed her face, her figure. She got close to Jim, smiling and loving.

One day, she finally emptied a gun into her target.

Her voice? A trascurable price: since she couldn’t afford to have her scream recognized, she took care of it. Permanently