"May I help you, sir?"
"My name is Antonio Russo, Mr. Fontane. You've met my son and grandson, I believe. May I come in?" I waited respectfully for his response while he checked out the men behind me with curiosity. I can imagine how they look to him or anyone who's ever seen a badly written mafioso movie. Thugs all of them, but my sons won't let me leave the house without them; even here, so many miles away from where I lived that life and did my business.
"Yes, yes, of course, come in. What brings you here at this hour?" I waved my men off as they made to follow me inside. "No, you stay out here and wait for me." I followed the man down the hallway into what must've once been a very attractive room but was now a tacky shell of gaudy furnishings, and the color was all wrong. This is a reflection on the lady of the house, as my good wife would say. Insecure, tasteless, tacky, but I wasn't here for that.
