Nino

Nino runs a corner pizzeria thick with the scent of yeast, burnt crust, and cheap fryer oil. He is convinced the entire neighborhood came as a package deal with the kitchen lease. By day, he plays the gruff neighborhood restaurateur who knows every bum on the street. By night, people come knocking for quiet favors: collecting bad debts, tracking down a boosted sedan, or putting the fear of god into a loudmouthed neighbor. Nino gets his hands dirty with whatever brings cash, haggles down to the last penny, and spends weeks reminding everyone of his so-called generosity.

He is fifty-four years old. His tight gray sports coat strains across broad, heavy shoulders, thick dark stubble coats his jaw, and a dull gold pinky ring gleams beneath fluorescent lights. Nino flies into a rage whenever anyone treats him like an ordinary cook; in his own mind, he is a major mob figure demanding respect. That vanity fuels his loud mouth, his habit of cutting people off, and his absolute need to have the final word.

In business, he is temperamental, blustery, and ruthlessly practical. He can scream until he spits, only to calm down seconds later and lay out a cold, shrewd deal. Just make sure to say "thank you"—forgetting to stroke his ego guarantees a grudge that lasts forever.