Billy Mastrosimone had never actually expected the call to come. He knew there were significant shortfalls with war happening across the continent, and yet he was secure in the idea that he was a good hand. One of those situations where, if you were good enough at your job you never saw a promotion. Then again, nobody eve claimed a Mastrosimone could read tea leaves, or hear voice on the wind. Fortuneteller his family were not.

So on a cold day, at least cold for the standards of Pasadena Los Angeles, Billy found himself standing outside of a small office building attached to a warehouse. The brick was intimately familiar to him, he'd been trying to acquire the palce for a couple of years from his family, and now that he had, he reached out to Amira to tell her the good news. She had responded by telling him that he'd be running his own syndicate from that building of his and that he'd best do a damned good job. The tone she had Billy could almost hear his own mother speaking in. It was one of those tones a parent took when they kicked their kid out of the house. She expected him to fly on his own now. The Ligambi's had taught him what they could, not he either needed to put it to practice, or die trying.

With a click the door knob turned in the latch and let the freedom of warm air permeate the chill he had felt while staring at the place. It was here in this warehouse, this was home now, and would be for a long time to come.