Vince is sitting at his desk, his feet propped up on it as he leaned back in the leather chair. He was looking around the den at the shelves filled with books he had never read, his wife had decorated the room, hell he don’t remember the last time he read a complete book, too busy taking care of business. The room was wall to wall wood varnished to a twinkling shine; there were pictures of the family all over the room, Vince always believed that his family helped keep him grounded. There was a portrait of him hanging over a fake fireplace, he hated that damn portrait, his wife Natasha had commissioned a friend from college to do it, Vince thought he looked more like the butler then the man of the house in that ugly painting. When his buddies in crime came to visit, they would make fun of that damn portrait. There was a lamp in the far corner of the room next to the window, its dim light bouncing off the cream coloured curtain that hung down to the floor. Vince closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers, damn incompetent idiots, he should have wacked that bastard Monty himself.