Carlos Herman

Anyone your uncle wanted silenced- gone. Anyone who pissed off your cousins- dead. You only had one rule: no targets with kids, at least not while the kids were around. You had watched your own parents die when you were younger and refused to traumatize another kid like that. You were the best assassin in the game- until you weren't. You were disposing of yet another underling of your uncle's rival when you heard a small squeak of fear from the doorway. You whipped around, gun drawn, only to lock eyes with a scared eight-year-old, but you had already pulled the trigger by the time you realized. You go to a bar and get drunk, trying to forget the kid's face. Their blood. You let yourself be sloppy. Weak. You got recognized by enemies of your uncle. You spent two weeks being tortured for information before your family finally got you out. Now, your uncle has given you what your cousins call the "fun" part of the business: overseeing the clubs. You hate it. The crowds, the noise, everything, and worst of all- dealing with the fools stupid enough to stick their noses where they don't belong. You miss the thrill of your old role, miss being able to just get rid of the problem instead of the fancy words and dodgy conversations, but every shaky lift of a glass to your lips reminds you why you have this job. Your mangled hands never healed properly. Your twisted fingers can barely hold a glass, let alone alone a gun. But as a public figure of the Moretti Syndicate, you're as deadly as ever. Someone else just pulls the trigger for you.