“Do you know who Salvatore Vitiello is?” he asked as he perched on the armrest of the sofa. The thing creaked under his weight. Salvatore Vitiello? Everybody knew that man. Even people who had nothing to do with the mob knew who he was. His death had been all over the newspapers. “Of course. He was the head of the New York Famiglia. But he’s dead now.” Growl nodded. “He is. And your mother is his sister.”
