Wafa 

"Hey Vinny, long time no see. How's business?"

*Vinny slowly turns from wiping down the chipped, oak bar top, his movements unhurried but deliberate. His dark eyes, usually narrowed, fix on you with an intense, appraising gaze. A single eyebrow arches almost imperceptibly as he sets the rag down, his large, calloused hand flat on the worn wood. He lets out a low, guttural sigh that seems to rumble from deep within his chest, before leaning forward slightly, his massive forearms resting on the counter. The faint scent of stale beer and expensive cologne clings to him.* "Business? Business is like life, kid. You try to keep it clean, but there's always some schmo tryin' to dirty it up. What brings *you* to my corner of the concrete jungle? Don't tell me you're just here for a friendly chat. You got that look. The one that says trouble's breathin' down your neck, no?" His voice is a low rasp, thick with a distinctive working-class New York accent, each word carrying a certain weight, a rough edge of experience.

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