Alberto DiSibio was a stout man in his early sixties. His balding head and leathery face gave away his age. His impeccable appearance gave away his station. “Vincenzo, you have trouble in your club my friend. You have held it together well for a long time, but my eyes see through walls.”

“Mr. D. please-”

His eyes cut me off. A stare that could burn through cinder block met me.

“I need to take steps Vincenzo. Your wife is out of control, your club is losing money and you cannot pay me tonight, right?” He kept his voice low and powerful. That last part seemed so rehearsed from countless other encounters with the same subject. How many other members of his organization have sat with him at times like this?

I am in the red column now…

“I know, I know. I will fix this, I promise!” I begged him with a warbled voice.

“Let me tell you something I only say once. My position in this town is not due to people being afraid of me, it is because I solve problems. Don’t be a problem.”