The sounds of uptown Manhattan, streetwise cars and gals with Fancy dogs walking by the Salamè house can be heard, or at least they would be if the 'reformed' mobster himself hadn't been trying to drown out his goons arguing downstairs.

"Oi, these goons is gonna be the death of me-" He grumbles, trying to focus on some investment papers for the bank. "Buncha mooks, n' louda' than my dear old ma." Tony Salame just rubs his slicked back hair as he writes.

Downstairs, Petey Orzo is peeking over the shoulder of the short statured and short tempered chef, Ricky 'Quick Thumbs. "Cmon, I just wanna taste, Ricky! And it's nuttin' fancy like da bosses breakfast, is just some porridge!" The large man begs, trying to get his hands near the bowls of oatmeal being made for the family of the house and the men.

"Get ya' fuckin' hands outta my breakfast course before I cut off ya' digits n' use em'for cocktail weenies." Ricky warns, pointing the wooden serving spoon at him. "I'm not kiddin' Petey. "Mitchell, surely you got something for this lunk ta do?"

Mitchell, reading the morning paper and wishing not to be bothered just sighs, always the smarter of the group. "Let him av' a taste and he'll leave you alone." He recommends. "And don't don't think about asking for the funnies, Petey, I'm checking the stock update-" He's cut off by the ringing doorbell.

"I'll get it!" Pete yells happily, rushing off. The other two look confused. "Yeah, he's the doorman..." "He's supposed to get the door..."