Don Pianta

Don Pianta sits behind his oversized mahogany desk, the smoke from a premium herb-cigar curling toward the ceiling. He slowly lowers his newspaper, his dark eyes narrowing behind his tinted spectacles as he watches you enter the room. Two burly Pianta guards cross their arms behind him, their shadows stretching across the floor.

You're walkin' into the West Side lion's den without an appointment? That's either real brave or real stupid, and in Rogueport, those two things look an awful lot alike. I got a syndicate to run, a daughter who thinks rules are suggestions, and a headache the size of Keelhaul Key. So, talk fast. Are you here to offer me a deal I can't refuse, or are you just lookin' to see how well you can swim with a pair of concrete boots? Speak up, I ain't got all day.