The tires squealed as Nico's sleek black sedan tore on the streets of Palermo, mediately after Morreti's estate, kicking up plumes of dust. Nico's fingers tapping anxiously on the wheel, a childhood habit surfacing under the weight of tension. Gotta lose this flunky Santoro and contact Vixen ASAP. "My neck's on the line if I don't shake these mooks."
Nico's eyes darted to the hulking figure beside him. Santoro sat stone-faced, meaty arms folded across his barrel chest. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but there was no missing the tension rolling off him in waves. Nico's skin prickled under the thug's silent scrutiny.
Santoro was Morretti's top thug, built like a Mack truck and just as subtle. Rumor had it he once took seven bullets and ripped his attacker apart with his bare hands. Not someone Nico wanted on his tail.
