Though he hated the job and the pomp and the crazy extravagance, Johnny had to admit it did have its perks. Namely this: his office had a leather chair that threatened to swallow him whole, a flatscreen TV, and was soundproof. Procrastinating had never been more awesome.

"No, nonono, don't let her in that car, Michael," he muttered to the young Al Pacino on the screen. He clutched the remote tightly in his hand, leaning forward in anticipation. "It's rigged! No! Fuck."

Bam, boom. There goes Apollonia to a car explosion. Michael Corleone looked on with what Johnny liked to think was heartbreak. Heroes had feelings too, you know, even if they were bastard anti-heroes like the future Godfather.

Then the intercom buzzed.

Panicked, Johnny hit the pause button and swiveled his chair back to face his desk, where piles upon piles of papers were untouched and The Godfather DVD lay open. He stuffed that in his drawer and pressed the button, trying to sound innocent. "Yes?"

Peter's secretary, Eileen, sounded exasperated. She probably knew exactly what he'd been up to. "Mr. Fierro is here to see you."

Fierro, Fierro... He knew the name, yes. It was Italian and had stuck out to him because of that, aside from the fact he was just generally good at remembering names. Damn if he could match it to a face or occupation, though.

The long pause was indication enough. Eileen sighed - he could practically hear her roll her eyes, if that was possible - and said, "Of the Fuoco Paper company."

OH! Oh, right, yeah, they had work together and stuff. And there had been a few generous contributions from the Fierro family to their company. Right, yeah, cool people.

"Send him in."

"Right away, Sir."

Tch, sir. Johnny shook his head as he pushed his sleeves back down. Did he look like a sir? Did he sound like a sir? No, he most certainly did not. He figured he'd best try to now, though, so he straightened his tie and tipped his hat back, just as he heard the clicking of Eileen's heels outside.

Shit! The TV!

Johnny darted out of the chair and nearly tripped over the trash, which turned over and threw up all its paper contents on the floor. He slammed a hand over the button and the image winked out. The door was already open. He cleared his throat and straightened up, a hand going to push his hat back.

So much for looking like a sir.

On this day, of all days, he was on assignment. This particular job had practically fallen into his lap; a short conversation with his father, whispered in a corner when Lia wasn't around to see them committing the horrendous crime of talking shop during dinner, and he'd been given the opportunity to volunteer for something as surface-simple as approaching the master-and-commander of one KT Motors about possible advancements in their business-relationship. ('Given the opportunity to volunteer' here translated to 'stared at until he took the hint and begrudgingly offered to do it'.)

His supposed-volunteer job had brought him here, positioned in front of the desk of an especially stern-looking secretary, suit-clad and tie-wearing (Armani, of course; like he'd bother with anything else) and feeling like a naughty schoolboy facing the headmaster's assistant. (In his experience, the assistant had always been far more intimidating than the actual headmaster.) But Rafe was nothing if not confident, nothing if not versatile; from East Side thug to North End charmer - he told himself that with the appropriately subtle smile he flashed her now, he'd won a battle. (The woman, as it happened, didn't look too impressed.)

She'd told him to sit; he chose to stand, to walk around and study a picture on the wall that gave him nothing at all while she communicated with her boss over the intercom in a way that made it necessary for him to hold back a smile. Finally, her voice sounded behind him, respectful but no-nonsense, "This way, sir."

With a broad smile, he turned and faced her, was delightful in the way his West Side life had taught him to be delightful, with a well-mannered, "Ah, excellent," before he followed her patiently, staying a polite two steps behind her at all times. Not until they reached the door did he come up beside her, walking up as she opened the door and stepped aside to allow him entry, stepping through the doorway and finding the CEO midway through the task of switching off his TV. An image of Michael Corleone vanished from the screen; Rafe quirked his brow and inwardly applauded the man's taste in business-pleasure.

Despite his superior taste in movies, however, it became clear from first impressions alone that the type of man he was dealing with was not the kind of man Rafe would normally associate with. (Who on earth would wear that kind of hat to the office?) The realization brought a sudden smile to his face, and forced him to fight back the smirk it attempted to turn into.

Behind him, the secretary sighed heavily, and ripe with exasperation explained, "Mr. Fierro, sir," and it was all the introduction he needed. With a quick nod of thanks to the secretary, he stepped into the office with all the confidence he could carry, sticking out a hand to the man and offering him an amicable grin. "Raffaele, please. We've got at least twenty years before we've gotta get hung up on titles, right?"

A quirked brow told Johnny he hadn't been fast enough. Mr-Italian-Guy had seen a glimpse of Al Pacino. Johnny steeled himself inwardly, readying himself for the disapproval that would surely follow; a downturn of the lips, a clenched jaw, a strained smile. Go on, he was used to it by now. He clasped his hands behind his back, because Carolyn said it made him seem a little more officious, and inclined his head in acknowledgement of the introduction.

Instead, a smile. Not plastered on, not strained - not genuine, either, but hey, he'd take what he could.

Mr-Italian-Guy crossed the office in several quick strides and was soon before him, offering a hand and a smile and a first name.

Aw man, Raffaele? Life just wasn't fair sometimes.

"Johnny," he grinned back, shaking his hand. "I know! Peter was Mr. Kincaid, not me. S'just so weird."

He eventually realised he should stop shaking the guy's hand and let it drop, grin turning sheepish. "So, uh." Protocol. There was protocol to this sort of thing. Johnny rubbed the back of his neck and gestured vaguely to the leather chairs before his desk. "Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee? They don't make it very well, but meh."

And that was the extent of pleasantries he could manage. Johnny slid back into his seat and folded his arms over the desk, sitting hunched forward.

"What can I do for ya, Raffaele?"

Johnny. Inwardly, he tasted the name, but had long since abandoned his habit of repeating people's names as he learned them - though he still swore it helped him remember them. Peter, he remembered that also - he was certain he'd met Mr. Peter Kincaid before, that someone had nudged him in the side, pointed him out and gone, "Peter Kincaid, Rafe. We know him."

He smiled at his words; in reality, he'd always loved the way it made him feel, being called Mr. Fierro, especially by some cowering 'business-associate' who knew he was behind on payments. But for now he'd smile and nod, and take notice of the fact that Johnny Kincaid, even in his current professional placement, combined his "it's" and his "just" to one word, was more prone to using "weird" than "odd" in a sentence, and didn't know when to end a handshake. His smile grew a little at the thought. One of his eyebrows began to quirk.

He sat when a seat was offered, leaning back (but remaining fairly upright; he wasn't one to slouch, even though he suspected he'd get away with it in this situation), resting his arms on the arms of the leather chair, and lifting his right foot onto his left knee. "No thanks, Johnny. I'd rather just get down to business."

And there he was, no-nonsense Raffaele Fierro with the business degree and the years of capo-administrations under his belt. Though his body was still relaxed and his face was still set in pleasantness - it was a friendly business visit, after all, nothing like the ones he was so used to making, by now - and air of seriousness came about him. "Are we good to talk shop in here?" It seemed only natural to him that Johnny would know that he was asking if their location was at risk of being wired. (In any case, he'd have felt better having this conversation while on the move.)

Raffaele, for all he'd said to just use his first name, for all he was smiling and was friendly and everything, seemed distinctly out of place. It took Johnny a good few moments to figure out why, moments in which he buzzed Eileen and told her to bring him coffee. Just one, since Fierro didn't want any.

Yes, that was it. Down to business. His back was too straight, his movements all deliberate, voice too serious. It was the voice he noticed most.

"Right, yeah, business." Johnny sat back and tried to look officious again. It was hard to keep his back straight, though. Aside from just feeling ridiculous, it was uncomfortable, so after a few seconds he let his shoulders slump.

"Er... yeah, of course. Safest place ever." His grin, which had faltered a little in his attempt to play the part, came back full force as he knocked on the desk and chuckled. "Soundproof and everything. What, you gonna make me an offer I can't refuse?"

Well, it fit! Italian name, and he was a big guy, broad shouldered, all serious and stuff.

His brow quirked, his half-a-smile didn't falter, his eyes didn't stray from Johnny for even a split second, and his expression, unchanging, was set rigidly in that nearly-pleasant state that was more difficult to produce these days - try as he may, he had a bit of East Side brutality stuck in the lines slowly forming on his face, in the way his lips curves, in the way his eyes remained intense and fixed no matter what he did.

"Yes, I am." He spoke it plainly, letting the smile quirk slightly upwards as he did, tone increasingly amicable as he responded. Maybe even something broke through the rigid quality of his eyes - something akin to mirth, or at least a shared appreciation of the reference. (In all reality, he probably should have frowned upon it, the chuckled mafia-reference during a business proceeding, but Rafe was too young, still, to get too hung up on details. What was more, he was an undying fan of Marlon Brando and, above all, the Godfather. The mention couldn't bring a frown from him, surely.)

He was about to speak again when the door opened and the secretary walked inside, making her way to her boss's desk with efficient steps and setting it down in front of him. With a smile that seemed almost forced, she turned to Raffaele, asking, "Nothing for you, sir?" as though Johnny's leaving him out hadn't been evidence enough. He smiled, almost warm in a fleeting moment, "No thanks, sweetheart, I'm fine."

Sweetheart; his manners had certainly suffered in his time working East Side.

He waited until she'd left again and closed the door securely behind her - he looked over his shoulder to make doubly sure that it was closed - before he turned to Johnny again, assuming directorial airs as he continued. "The family's happy with our existing arrangement. So much, in fact, that we wouldn't mind... broadening our horizons, so to speak."

Even he, who wouldn't see a detail unless it smacked him upside the head and maybe not even then, saw that. That something, whatever it was, which spoke of something shared. Appreciation, maybe. All he knew was, Raffaele here got the reference. Johnny's grin widened and he leaned forward again, intrigued now, eager to see what the offer would be. If Raffaele would actually let go of the business half of things and play along.

Then Eileen came along with her plastic smile and eyes that spoke of intense, intense dislike, and the coffee that she could never seem to get right.

"Thanks." He received a nod in acknowledgement before she turned to Raffaele - Sweetheart, huh? - and then left. Johnny was beginning to tap the heels of his feet on the floor in impatience - thankfully, there was carpeting, which muffled the sound.

And Raffaele didn't disappoint.

A beat, then two, and Johnny burst out laughing.

The family! Hogod, and with that serious air too. That meaningful pause. The hidden true meaning. It was all made better by the fact this was an actual Italian guy delivering the lines.

Recovering from his laughter, Johnny clapped and shook his head. "Bravo, man. Bravo. Aw, that was fantastic. The family and everything." He settled into a grin. "Hey, thanks for playing along. I'm a real Godfather buff. Couldn't resist."

Best business meeting ever.

"No, but seriously now, how can I help you? I know we have a couple of agreements... Hang on..." Johnny trailed off, lifting the papers and files before him on the desk. He'd just seen the name Fierro here somewhere. "Just gimme a moment... Aha!" Yes, the latest shipment. Even a company that manufactured car parts needed paper. He scanned the document, jumping over any unnecessarily long words, and his gaze settled on the date. "We're not due for another till next month..."

Realization struck in rhythmic beats. It started with Johnny's laughter, causing his brow to quirk quizzically, and then settle instantly into a befuddlement-hiding stone-faced expression that, despite his efforts to the contrary, betrayed his moments of confusion in these initial moments. But slowly, gradually, the situation became clear to him: this was not a case of a shady business executive holding back out of fear of wires and lurking police officers. This was not the wary behaviour of someone who hesitated - this was ignorance, pure and simple.

Slowly, a smile began to stretch his lips, lopsided and near-gloating.

As Johnny rifled through his papers, finding the file he needed to identify the name, he sat back, smiling mixing with smug to form an expression of amused surprise. He quirked a brow when he found the correct piece of paper and read the information, and now, finally, he allowed himself to chuckle.

Or maybe this was more like chortling.

"Wow, you really don't have a clue, do you?" Setting both feet back on the floor, he leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees, meeting the man's eyes with a look of absolute enjoyment in his. "I've gotta say, I'm surprised that you can be so high up in the system, and still be completely..."

Ignorant. The word to put a button on his sentence, he left out. In a heartbeat, his professionalism was back. Maybe, if this man didn't know, he shouldn't know. Amusing as it would be to tell him right away and to be the first to watch as realization settled on the man's face, he sat back now, reassuming his leaned-back, relaxed position, foot rested on his knee again, arms rested on the sides of his chair. Stone-faced. "Yeah, right. Next month." He cleared his throat. "There's, uh... You know what? This is probably not CEO-material." Now, he smiled, attempting to hide his amusement and only halfway succeeding. "There wouldn't be someone else around here who's more...familiar with the details, would there?"

...uh, what?

He was missing something here. Yes, he didn't have a clue, but what had clued Raffaele in on that? He hadn't been serious, had he?

...naaaaah.

Johnny knew enough, at least, to know that KT Motors had no dealings with the Fierro family as a whole, so that The Family thing could only be a reference to the Godfather. They did own the paper company, however, which they did have dealings with. But then Raffaele would have said the company instead. Hm. Maybe it was his laid-back attitude. Maybe it was too much. Yeah, that had to be it. He didn't have a clue, about proper protocol and business etiquette. And Raffaele had heard of it - had been warned of it, even - but hadn't believed it until just now.

Ignorant, yeah. He got that a lot.

Johnny shrugged, a little self-consciousness creeping into the action, and then began to tuck the papers away. "I'm only this high-up because of my last name, honestly," he said. "Pete was the one in charge. Then he ran off - spiritual enlightenment or whatever" - his words were accentuated by the waving of a hand in the air - "and I'm stuck in this office."

He was just the owner, in the end. Just a name scribbled at the bottom, that was all. They didn't actually need him for any decisions. Technically, he wasn't the CEO. That fell to Calvin Pryce. Everything fell to Calvin Pryce and, probably, that was who Raffaele was best off talking to.

But Johnny didn't like that chuckling, and he didn't like that amusement. He shrugged again, setting his chin in his palm.

"I unno," he said, just to be difficult. "Depends on the details. You can't bring me up to date? I might still be able to help."

"Nah, kid, I really think..."

He was halfway through insisting that he talk to someone else when his mind - seemingly of its own volition - started piecing the parts together, ticking away, calculating the pros and cons of his situation. Peter had 'run off' - and he was willing to bet that said spiritual enlightenment wasn't quite as spiritual as some might be under the impression of - and left was Johnny.

Johnny the clueless.
Johnny the potentially useful.
Very useful.

He'd been on his way to a standing position when the thought occurred to him, and there he still stood, halfway hunched, hands on the arms of his chair, feet on the floor, eyes on Johnny's desk. Slowly, now, he rose to his full height, eyes finding Johnny again, and smile beginning to curve his lips. (A trained eye might be more than capable of seeing the predator that lurked in that smile.)

"Actually, you might still be able to help." This was more his comfort zone, and maybe it showed in the casual gait he assumed as he walked around to Johnny's side of the desk and sat on the edge, picking up a pen from in front of it and turning it absentmindedly around in his hands.

"You like the Godfather, huh?" he started, casually, smilingly, holding the pen a little closer to his eyes to study it closely, giving an approving nod and putting it down again with a distant, "Nice pen," before he continued to the subject at hand. "How'd you like to live it? Not including car-bombs and executions. We'll try to keep you from getting tangled up in that." Though he winked playfully, he was watching him warily, now, waiting for a sign that it was time to take his leave and duck out before he said anything that might be used against him in a court of law.

There was dismissal, at first, then... an epiphany. Or something like that, anyway. Maybe it was nothing more than a cramp that made him pause like that. But no, it had to do with him, or Raffaele wouldn't have been looking at him like that. Johnny watched as he straightened up and began to smile.

Unlike before, the smile made him feel rather uncomfortable. Reminded him of Pryce, in fact. It was a businessman's smile. Johnny leaned back now as Raffaele approached, seeking the comfort of his leather chair.

"Yeah? That's great." He tried to keep his grin up. It was hard, though, when Raffaele picked up the pen - the pen, the goddamn pen his Mom got him, engraved with his initials. Cost more than his old car. He was constantly terrified something would happen to it. "Uh, yeah. Greatest movie ever."

Johnny could only really focus when the pen was set back down. He blinked and looked up at Raffaele. "Live it? What, like a live role-play or something?"

For a moment, he didn't know whether to laugh or sigh with exasperation at Johnny's response. After another moment, he concluded that maybe he'd been to gentle in his approach - too careful, if there was ever such a thing. But he couldn't help himself, still; he had to sigh and he had to stand up again, he had to stick his hands in his pockets and stand right beside him, looking down at where he sat in his chair.

"No, not a live role-play. Do I look like a 'live role-play' type to you?" He realized as he said it that he didn't want an answer. Or rather, he didn't want the wrong answer. "It's not a game, not play-pretend," he continued, arms crossing over his chest, feet at shoulders' width apart, regimentally straight back and expression fixed as seriously as possible - no room for interpretation. Right.

Easier said than done when you were dealing with a subject you weren't supposed to speak plainly about.

"Your company and la mia famiglia," purposefully, he paused there, adding emphasis to his words and quirking a brow heavy with unspoken meaning as he did so, "have had a good working relationship for a long time, Johnny." Again, he paused, brow rising further and eyes attempting to convey all the things he couldn't bring himself to say. (He doubted that he was at risk of police surveillance currently, but his father had raised him right; he didn't take unnecessary risk.) "One that doesn't involve paper."

Johnny had to pause for a moment and consider that. Generally, no, Mr. Raffaele Fierro did not look like a live role-play kinda guy. But you never really knew. If it was a Godfather role-play, sure, why not? Fandoms, especially badass fandoms like that, attracted people from all over.

But no, he wasn't into role-playing, sadly. It was not a game.

...uh.

Okay.

He took in Raffaele's movements, his expression and, because that was what he was best at, his voice. And, frankly, it scared the bejeebus out of him. But he was a hero, and heroes did not have the bejeebus scared out of them. No. They stood (or sat) tall and looked danger right in the eye. So that was exactly what Johnny did; he sat up and tilted his hat down a little, hoping it would hide his gaze as he looked danger right in the eye.

"Well... yeah, I know that," he said, slowly, because he was still trying to make sense of this and there were only so many things he could do at the same time. "La tua famiglia has made some very generous contributions." And those didn't always need paper, right? Just gestures of goodwill, or cementing good relationships. Or maybe Peter had done them a favour once upon a time. "Is that what this is about?"

For a moment, he didn't know whether to laugh or sigh with exasperation at Johnny's response, and had to stand up again in a sudden movement, had to turn away and pace around the desk while rubbing his face in vexation.

After another moment, he concluded that maybe he'd been to gentle in his approach - too careful, if there was ever such a thing. At that he could stop, now in front of the desk again, and he could sigh and he could look at Johnny with a lopsided smile that was almost friendly, almost amused, and he could stick his hands in his pockets and look down at him and decide to make another attempt.

"No, surprisingly, it's not about the contributions." Slowly, almost gently, he withdrew his hands from his pockets, bending forward at the hip instead to place them flat on Johnny's desk, supporting his weight as he leaned in and looked Johnny in the eyes. "Those are a red herring, and have proven effective - don't even ask me why. My brother's the one who works the books, he's..." He managed to stop himself there, as he drew devastatingly near to a point where he might accidentally pay his brother a compliment. Thankfully, Gabe wasn't around to witness it; as much as he loved the boy, he'd have to kill him if he ever heard him nearly complimenting his abilities.

He stood up straight again, clearing his throat and smiling crookedly with something near to pleasantness. "Our most profitable business relations won't show up that evidently in the books." He quirked a brow, inwardly cursing himself for how obviously he was stating it now, and coming to the inevitable conclusion. Breaking eye-contact, he looked around the room as he continued, "How about we take a walk outside, and I explain?"

Johnny's gaze flickered from Rafe to his TV, where Al Pacino's face would be frozen if he turned it back on. Then he glanced to the suit. And the patronizing smile. And all the facts he'd been shoving to faraway corners of his mind came whizzing together in spite of any walls of denial he'd set up in between.

These were the facts:

Italian guy
La famiglia
Living the Godfather
Clandestine activities?

Huh.

Really?

Really?

So... So, Raffaele was... And he wanted to... And Peter was...?

"Holy shit."

Johnny's eyes were blown wide. He swallowed, licked his lips, and stared up at Mr.Italian-mobster-guy because while he'd always been a nerd, and a Godfather nerd especially, it was one thing to read about these things and another thing entirely to meet a real mafioso face to face.

If he was a real mafioso. Would a mafioso really just come out and say it? In an office he hadn't secured himself - this seemed like the sort of thing that should happen on Fierro ground. Unless Peter had been that deeply involved with Fierro. Had he? Christ.

When he managed to find his voice, he said, "Uh, wouldn't it be... suspicious or something? I mean, because I still have stuff scheduled. And we'd be walking outside together?"

Honestly, he just needed some time to mull this over. And get past the inner-fanboy in him that was jumping up and down, screaming, "GODFATHEEER!" But it was a valid concern. Even the moron could see that, if Peter had been involved in shady dealings, his spiritual retreat probably wasn't that at all.

If Raffaele had known that the look on unsuspecting people's faces would be so utterly delicious once they found out the what and the how of the Real World of Fierro, he wouldn't have been so cautious all his life. Of course, he still was - he always was - though not as cautious as he should be. Cautious enough to believe the world of snitches in the precinct, but not cautious enough to assume that they might be misinformed - for now. (And you'd think, at this point in his life, with so much to lose, he'd be more careful?)

But it truly was delicious, more satisfying that most-many-some things he'd done in a while, and it had him standing up straight again, smiling a pleased smile and crossing his arms over his chest, fixing the other man with a confidently calm look. "Would that be more or less suspicious than generous donations?" His eyebrow rose, rose, quirked as high as it would quirk, and it was undoubtedly patronising in execution, even if he'd been aiming for 'joking.'

No sooner had he said it than he started pacing around the room, smiling crookedly to himself as he wandered around in this space, reaching out to a picture on the wall, lifting it enough to glance behind it, letting go again and running his fingers over its top, and moving on to the next wall-feature worth investigating. (As there was anything to be gained from such a flimsy search.) "Why would it be suspicious?" Somehow, he managed to ease his voice into a place of near-innocence as he said it, like he hadn't just admitted to being the one thing you never admitted to being in their line of business.

"I'm a business executive. In the company that supplies you with paper. We have an appointment." He kept walking as he spoke, almost mechanically listing the facts as he saw them, speaking slowly and precisely, and eventually coming full circle in the office, to stand in front of Johnny's desk again. "We'll grab a coffee. Maybe even a Danish." A smile stretched his lips into amusement. "Ain't nothing suspicious about a man holding a Danish, eh?" He started chuckling, but as he chuckled, moved around to Johnny's side of the desk again. "Do me a favour and stand up, though."

Had a point there. Those 'contributions' were pretty suspicious on their own and oh, dear god, did that mean they were under police surveillance? Was he going to get caught? What he going to get whacked?

...he did not appreciate the patronizing look on Mr.ItalianMobster's face.

The guy sounded innocent, somehow, even as gave the room a cursary inspection. Bit late for that, Johnny thought, considering what he'd just admitted. And, would any bugs really be so obvious?

"Yeah, you're an executive, but, I mean, that's a professional relationship." So why would they leave the office to grab coffee and a freaking danish? Especially when they had coffee right here. And he did have appointments later. Probably. Elaine would know, anyway.

Raffaele came to stand before his desk again. Johnny stood up, as instructed, and stepped away from the desk. Frisked. He was seriously about the be frisked.

It was clear Mr.ItalianMobster was not going to take no for an answer. They would be going out for coffee and he would be eating a danish and he'd damn well like it too. Offer he couldn't refuse.

Whether this was a relationship that would prove economically favourable, Raffaele didn't know. What he did know was that there were plenty of shits and giggles to be had from this. (It seemed that after everything, Rafe still hadn't learned to grow up. At least not all the time.)

He put on his most serious face as he stepped closer to the other man, standing directly in front of him, reaching his hands out and grabbing Johnny's arms, lifting them away from his body and ultimately settling his own hands on his shoulders. Not until then did a grin spread on his face. "Kid, your face right now? Is hilarious."

Laughter escaped him. It wasn't meant to be patronizing, wasn't even meant to be malignant; it was how Raffaele communicated, tongue-in-cheek, insult at hand, rude comment in wait. As far as he was concerned, he was being unnaturally pleasant, even as he patted the boy's cheek in a clearly patronizing way, accompanying it with a teasing grin that had the element of harmlessness to it.

He stepped away from the desk now, going back around to the other side. "Kid, we're openly in business together, there's no hiding that." He approached the door, but stopped several feet from it, turning back around, crossing his arms over his chest, squaring his feet and watching the other man with a crooked smile on his face. "Two business executives knocking off work for an hour to get some coffee and a Danish? The only thing suspect about that situation, is the people who take the time to notice."

Yeah, Mr. ItalianMobster could think that all he liked. If his face was hilarious, Raffaele should see Johnny's insides: mush. Because clueless outsiders? Yeah, they didn't belong in the Godfather world. They either got whacked for being too nosy or got killed in a less important but probably more merciful way in the cross-fire. Either way didn't look too good for him and...

Well, yeah, he was scared.

Except that would make him a coward and heroes weren't cowards. Heroes lived for adventure! Right?

Heroes also didn't get themselves involved in illegal dealings, but then the trend was going for a less-than-stellar hero type these days. Less Captain America, more Punisher. Had to go with the flow.

Johnny let his arms drop, offering a smile, unconvincing as it was. At least he hadn't really been frisked. And Raffaele was laughing, smiling, which had to be good, right? Meant he hadn't lost patience, at least. A happy mafioso was the only kind of mafioso Johnny wanted to meet, barring The Godfather.

"Well you'd know, I guess," he said, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair.

He put it on, slipped his phone and keys and everything in his pockets, then adjusted his hat and moved to where Raffaele Fierro was waiting by the door. Then remembered he was supposed to be the host here and went to the door itself and opened it, gesturing for Mr. Fierro to go ahead.

"Elaine, cancel my appointments this morning." Johnny smiled and this time it was totally charming, but that sort of thing didn't work on her. She didn't even look up at him and merely gave a curt nod, clack-clacking away at her keyboard. "Tough crowd," he muttered.

Raffaele was the pinnacle of calm; devil-may-care personified, perhaps, or simply indifference coated with a light cover of juvenile playfulness - and he, would you believe it, was one of the city's commanding dangers. A commanding danger currently nearly strutting to the door, nodding resolutely at Johnny's words and responding, "I pretty much know everything," with such confidence that a foolish man might be lured into believing him.

He'd always spoken with confidence. It had given him leave, he'd discovered, to do much more than people's better judgment were usually prepared to let him do.

He let himself get distracted by the office in the final moments, waiting uncharacteristically patiently by the door as the other man got ready to leave, and forgetting for a moment that he was even present as he studied one of the paintings on the wall. The world caught up with him, however, when Johnny was suddenly next to him, opening the door and waiting for him to step through it first. With an amicable smile, he did, and was stood waiting again as Johnny left a quick word with his secretary.

The exchange had him arching his brow in light disbelief, and he chose to forego any thought of attempting a parting smile to the woman - it was unlikely that he'd get her to look up, it seemed, and in that case, it was better to not make the attempt than to get embarrassed by some secretary. He couldn't hide the slight smile of amusement as Johnny joined him again, however, and they made their way to the elevators.

Situated outside them, Rafe gave a quiet hum and allowed his slight smile to curve into a grin as the elevator arrived. "You handled that well, I think," he stated, getting into the elevator and leaning against the back wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest and left foot crossed over the right at the ankle as he relaxed. "You had a very, uh... commanding presence." With a wink, his grin widened. "Definitely showed her who's boss."