Thomas Simone always smoked after he killed someone, and today was certainly no exception. He pried his attention off the fresh Chinese corpse, hastily shoved his handgun into his jacket's inner pocket, and lodged a blunt between his lips. Snatching his lighter from another pocket, he took another look at his work, frowning in disgust.

The victim had been a young Chinese man. The story Tommy had been given was that he had been dealing drugs on the territory of his employers and had decided giving them a cut wouldn't be necessary. Two holes in the immigrant's head had taught him the respect numerous offers and invitations hadn't. Tommy shook his head at the waste of life.

The honk of a car horn, followed by the noisy barks of a few dogs, brought Simone back to his senses. Fumbling with his lighter on the way, he made his way back to the car that Paulo Rafitti had running.

"It's taken care of, then?" the Italian asked, noting the burning weed his partner loosely held between two fingers. He turned his head away from the smoke emanating from the tip of the blunt in disgust.

Tommy nodded. "Mr. Shuyan won't be bothering our friends anymore. Let's get going."

Paulo complied, shifting the car into drive. He cracked the passenger side window open slightly to allow the thin trail of smoke to escape from the car. "You need to stop smoking that stuff. It messes with your mind," Paulo said as he turned out of the docks and onto the streets.

Tommy closed his eyes and took a long drag on his blunt. "I'll stop smoking when I have a job that doesn't involve mobsters." he said solemnly. Paulo decided not to respond. In silence, the car's headlights cut a path through the Chinatown streets.