Consigliere Ingegno

The made-man spun the fedora by its brim once in his left hand before replacing it similarly singlehandedly with a twist of his arm, brows creased with a twin look of scrutiny and frustration as he fixed the already gathered Conclave from the awkward position of having just ɮarged in though the double doors with a Colt in his free hand.

Obviously he had just walked into the middle of the action. A convention this large didn't happen for no reason; even Dons tried to avoid them if possible.

"I am going to have a headache by the end of this, aren't I." He asked in a lightly exotically-accented voice tinged with a drawl that didn't quite end in a questioning lift to the end of his sentence. He holstered the sidearm in a smooth, practiced motion and pushed the brim of his fedora down over his eyes ever so slightly, steeling himself for the delegations. "Ovitimo... Let's get this over with."

~ Signor Ingegno, Ambassador of the Protected Contemporary Age World of Iccone