Vincenzo Calderone

New York was as Vincenzo had heard it would be; loud and annoyingly bright. The buzzing florescent lights everywhere were somehow managing to penetrate his sunglasses, making him huff and duck his head as he walked down the sidewalk past one of the many clubs.

Normally, Vincenzo would take one of his cars, but the subject he was after was more of a rat, apt at scurrying about underfoot. So here he was, grumbling as he walked down the sidewalks of Hells Kitchen.