The newly painted sign said just what this place did. Paintjobs. Nicki had gotten hold ogf some of Detroits finest spraypainters. He wanted a place that could make fancy cars look even better. 

The place had capacatity for three cars to be painted at the same time. 

The best thign about this palce was that apart from making cars into art...stolen cars could also be repainted and replated for use in some of Nicki and his associates more shady activities. 

Nicki took a walk around the place, he had always loved the smell of oil and rubber. So garages was up there for him at the same place as bars and whorehouses. Finally saticfied everything was up to order, he went and opened the door and switched the sign unto

OPEN FR BUSINESS

As business had brougth Nicki to Motor City, it was only natural that he swung by his paint shop. He checked on his workers snd made sure they was happy and thriving and had whatever they needed.

He had brougth some good whiskey and cigars and ordered the shop closed for the rest of the day and had some fun times with the guys.

The stolen 1926 Packard Coupe purred as Domenico rolled it into Trabotti Paintjobs, its midnight-black paint gleaming under the flickering garage lights. The scent of grease, fresh rubber, and cigar smoke hung thick in the air.

Behind the counter, Nicki Trabotti looked up from a half-dismantled engine. His eyes flicked from the car to Domenico’s gloved hands.

"Nice ride," Nicki said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Shame it ain’t yours."

Domenico smirked, tossing him a wad of cash. "It is now. Let’s make it… unrecognizable."

Nicki thumbed through the bills, then nodded. "What’s the order?"

"New paint—something dull, forgettable. Brown, maybe. New tires, too. And the seats—finest leather you got."

Nicki raised a brow. "That all?"

Domenico’s voice dropped. "Bulletproof glass. All of it."

A slow grin spread across Nicki’s face. "Ah. That kind of job." He snapped his fingers, and two mechanics emerged from the shadows. "Boys, give our friend here the Trabotti Special."

By dawn, the Packard was reborn—dirt-brown paint, butter-soft leather seats, and windows thick enough to stop a .45.

Domenico ran a hand along the hood. "Perfect."

Nicki lit a cigar. "Remember, pal—cars like this don’t stay clean forever."

Domenico slid behind the wheel. "Neither do men like me."

The engine roared to life. Another city awaited.