Carmine Falcone entered into the Iceberg Lounge, a couple of his men indiscreetly following behind. His step was well-postured and imposing, typical self-assured conduct for a man as dangerous as him. Yet, to some, not said aloud, oddly impressive due to his ascending age. He had a solemn frown plastered on his bitter lips, and beneath his crimson-tinted glasses beheld his rigid, lackluster stare, as if his eyes very well mirrored the darkness of his heart.