The Power of Paperweight
You move into the familiar office. There are more expansive looking statues of musicians in here, but these are limestone rather than bronze, as they don't have to worry about the Out door weather. There are four leather couches facing each other in the center of the room, each loaded with two or three triggermen a piece. All of whom are looking you over, but none of whom move.
In the back center of the room is a large ornate wooden desk that you have cleaned many times. Sitting at it is Civero Sivero himself. A thin man, and shorter than you'd think he is, but with tired piercing eyes that remind you more of a predator than a person. His black and grey speckled hair is slicked back against his head and he's smoking a cigarette with a long filter. His maroon suit and Italian leather shoes might seem effeminate on another man, but Sivero's cold malevolence ememinates any hint of that criticism from your mind.
Sivero is flanked by two men sitting on high bar stools. The one on his right is a boy you recognize. His name was Paulo Marittzi. He was a runner for Sivero back when you were his assistant, just as you had once been. He sits clutching a ledger book to his chest as if it was an infant.
On Sivero's right though is a man you don't recognize. He's a big fella, easily 6'5 and probably 300 pounds of solid steak eating muscle. Though his eyes are covered by a thin domino mask and his hair by a green newsboy cap, there's a certain boyish mischievousness about his face that unsettled you. He's one of those people that looks like he's smiling even when he isn't, like he's knows a great mean joke about you that was said just before you came in the room. From the neck down he's wearing a green and white striped sweater and a pair of plum covered overalls. On the pocket of the overalls is a patch that looks like the letter S with arrows going out from it in every direction. He's tall enough that as he sits on the stool one foot is resting flat on the floor, and his arms are crossed across his enormous chest. You also note that he's the only man in the room not wearing a gun.
Sivero greets you with a look that could chill shrimp, and a twitch in the left of his cheek that was the closest he ever came to a smile. He takes a long drag off his cigarette and speaks. His voice is low with just a hint of a civilian accent, and an edge that confuses the polite way he speaks. You always got the impression he spoke quietly intentionally, as if daring someone to ask him to repeat himself. Of course, no one ever would.
"Harold. It's been minute. I've missed you. I wondered when my prodigal son was gonna make the trip home."