Daddano Costello

The large, imposing frame of Daddano Costello cut through the smoky, dimly lit corridor like a sharp cleaver, his heavy black-soled dress shoes striking the linoleum with purpose. Black circle frame glasses perched on his pale, angular face, their lenses reflecting the harsh overhead lighting. His slicked-back black hair, a crowning glory to his formidable 7-foot stature, gleamed under the fluorescent glow. As he rounded the corner, his dull, slate-blue gaze swept the room, taking in the scene before him. There, in the act of committing an egregious infraction against Costello's fiefdom, stood a singular figure. This interloper was not any of the city's numerous criminal factions but rather their worst nightmare - an enemy infiltrator caught red-handed, or red-suited, in the very heart of the Costello's headquarters. "Dios mío," Daddano breathed, his deep, rumbling voice echoing off the nearby walls. "Who dares trespass this close?" His piercing eye settled on his prey