It was dinner time, day was changing to dusk, and Vittorio Marino lay in bed.<br/><br/>It wasn’t that he was slothful, a dullard who slept and did very little. Quite the opposite in fact.<i>Inemuri</i>the Japanese called it. Sleeping on the job, to improve work performance, for Vick had been working all last night. Earning, so that he could cement his place in the Family and finally earn his<i>wings</i>when the Books were opened again. A<i>made guy</i>. Was there any higher honour in<i>cosa nostra</i>? He had been up all night working a heist for the Don. Well not<i>for</i>the Don, but the Don still got a cut, and therefore it was legitimate. Last night, Vick and some friends of his had hijacked a truck far out of city. At gunpoint. Everything had gone without a hitch. The truck was stashed. In a week when it was less heaty, he would move the swag to a buyer. Life was good.<br/><br/>Like his sisters, Vick had the fortune of still being a “baby” around the family, simply on the distinction that he was not the<i>oldest</i>. He bunked at home in his momma’s house, came and went at all hours, and lived basically carefree. He worked no official job and signed on like a free agent to anything that was going on. Robberies, hits, stick ups, collections, all of it. He barely made it through high school, skipping class to engage in all sorts of criminal activity. At a young age, he had been the neighbourhood bike thief, switching up parts and eroding serial numbers to distract the cops, rebuilding the bikes from various others and pawning them off. In high school he pushed single cigarettes to all the other kids, illegally, already committing federal crimes before he reached adulthood.<br/><br/>Now he lay abed, sprawled out shirtless and without a care, his hair (his vanity) ruffled about his face. The curtains were low and the door opened only a creak, upon which a sheen of light shone clear through. He could hear his mother labouring about the kitchen and the smell of delicious cook wafted into his room. Still, it did not rouse him, despite the grumbling of his stomach. He had a late breakfast after the heist and slept right through lunch. That was hours ago.<br/><br/>He heard his sister, Alessa he guessed, talking in a soft voice to someone over the phone. Vick couldn’t make out the conversation. Business? Boyfriend? Now that would be interesting. He knew it wasn’t Nicole. When she was in the house, he could smell her a floor away, a mix of the scent of clubs, the odour of men’s cologne on her, as well as her own natural fragrance which was…sweetly aromatic in a way. It stirred something in Vick sometimes. His sweet little sister Nicole though was something else. He never did approve of her working in the club. He was old school like that and thought the same of his mother and Alessa. The wives and daughters of made men shouldn’t work, or why else were their menfolk working so hard to make that dollar if not to provide for their families? But these were decisions made higher up.<br/><br/>Next he had a vague thought on where father and Vinnie might be. Popping off on something interesting he figured, of which he missed out by sleeping in. It slipped his mind that Uncle Joey and the Don would be visiting. But like a diligent Sicilian mother, he knew moms would be on him in a second to come down and eat. And by god could she be loud! Vick rubbed his face into his pillow a moment, not wanting to depart, but better that than being called to dinner loudly like the whole neighbourhood could hear. So he finally roused him, in black sweats, pulling on a long sleeved sweater, though he left the buttons undone at the front as he slumped out of his childhood room and down the stairs into the kitchen.<br/><br/><b>“Evenin’”</b>he greeted sleepily enough, sitting at the kitchen island on a stool, looking half assed with his ruffled hair and loose clothing.<b>“What’cha making, ma?”</b>A good Sicilian son ought to kiss his mother first, though technically it wasn’t morning (and yesterday morning was the last time he saw his ma, which wasn’t proper of a good Sicilian son to not check in for so long). Barely a second after he asked his ma what was cooking, he turned to Alessa.<b>“Who you talking to on the phone?”</b>He inquired curiously enough, though looked sleepy enough that he might not even heed the answer.