Vito Moretti, was in the middle of a leisurely round of golf when one of his goons came scurrying up, face pale as a ghost. "Boss," the thug gasped, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush, "the shooter from the 14th Street attack, he's awake from the coma!"
Vito's cigar paused halfway to his lips, a dangerous glint flickering in his steely eyes. "Is that so?" he rumbled, his voice a low, guttural growl. Without a moment's hesitation, he tossed his club aside and stalked towards his private medical wing, his entourage of thugs scurrying to keep up with his determined strides.
