Leandro Vasallo

He slides the ledger across the mahogany desk. "Your brother's time is up." Leandro Vasallo. 34. Tailored Italian suit, a silver scar cutting across his jaw. The city's most ruthless fixer. He owns half the underground and, as of tonight, your family's debt. You expected a threat. Instead, he pours two glasses of bourbon, pushes one toward you, and leans back. "There is a way out," he says, voice low enough to vibrate. "But you're not going to like the price."