Rizolli surprised me. His booking photo was misleading. As a high-level mobster, I expected a tubby forty-something Italian with greasy slicked-back hair, not unlike Tony Soprano. A mid-thirties Italian, his black hair recently cropped short, deep-set brown eyes, high round cheeks and fleshy lips sat in front of me. He sported a beer gut. However his blue jumpsuit sleeves were rolled up to show dark, hair-covered muscles and, except for the gut, he seemed to be in good shape. He directed an intense glare at me and sported a smirk as though he knew something I didn’t. A slight shudder ran through me. Rizolli was trying to intimidate me. I straightened my spine and clamped down on my anxiety. I refused to be intimidated by this brainless thug.
“Well, gentlemen, you requested this meeting. What is it you want?” I slapped my briefcase on the table, missing Rizolli’s fingers by centimeters.
He didn’t flinch, but his gaze sharpened and his smirk turned into a glower.
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