Carmine Russo sat in at the end of the bar, puffing on a cigarette from under the brim of his black fedora. His white suit was absolutely immaculate, which was fitting of a<em>Caporegime</em>of the Russo crime syndicate. He wasn't drinking, this evening; he was watching the whole room like a predatory beast, his narrow eyes taking in everyone and everything. Partially, it was because Carmine was in charge of running the joint, and he knew the<em>consigliere </em>liked to come poking his beezer in Carmine's drum. Being the youngest son of Don Russo, Carmine felt the stronger need to prove himself to the family.<br/><br/>After a while of tedium, Carmine caught a glimpse of a pair of tomatoes slipping in together. They looked close -- real close. And they weren't sisters, that was for sure. They were either running some con, or looking for trouble. He kept his eyes on the ladies for a moment, watching their behaviors, then smirked. Without saying a word, he tipped his head to the bartender, who sent the a cocktail waitress over to the two flappers, informing them that Carmine Russo would like them to join him at the bar.