A car trundled down the Las Vegas strip from Anderson Air Field, set aglow by the luminescence of the varying hotels and speakeasy's which littered the road. From the backseat, a man looked out across the town, not overly thrilled by what he saw, though still mildly interested by it. Considering the measures of transport he had undertaken to get to Nevada; ships, flights and bus journeys, including one lengthy stop in Chicago, it was unlikely that the trip would be repeated any time soon. The lights struck his face as evening set in, the city was an emerging powerhouse, ripe with business opportunities. With the Pair-o-dice club recently opening and the buzz of mafia activity that was generating a surge of construction work, the man had gladly accepted an invitation to visit the west.

All small time ambitions, to Luca Giordano.

He sat back in the car and flipped open his paper. The headline brought focus to the recent signing of a bill to approve development of Boulder Dam, across the Colorado River. Luca smirked. It was an admirable endeavor, that couldn't be denied, however the success or failure of the project was of no concern to him. He saw only opportunity. There were many able hands in the neighboring Las Vegas, all who would seek employment working on the dam. Luca was certain that the developers would be looking for labour, though he would position himself to offer an organised workforce of locals. They would all appropriately be persuaded to have him arrange their hours and pay, of course. In the old country they had called him 'The Artisan' and it was not difficult to see why. 

Yes, the chance to make a fair coin in the west had been a contributing factor to the Italians decision to head to America.

The vehicle pulled up into the hotel parking lot and Luca emerged. The driver was less than cordial in requesting his fee, though Giordano would pay him no more attention than he deserved. Money was exchanged and the man carted his trunk into the hotel.

"One."

The receptionist nodded, promptly locating a room key. Following a brief exchange, Luca was soon closing the door to room 439 behind him. His fedora was placed with care on the desk and his shoes carefully lined up against the wall. He could finally stretch out, releasing the cramps and tension built up from the seemingly relentless journey. Giordano was not a tall man however his outward appearance was still that he was slender. He flexed his toes and ran a hand over precisely cropped hair. It was jet black, as all Italians would typically be, and bristly to touch. His face was strictly clean shaven though the shadow of a long day had began to etch itself over his jaw. His eyes were sunken and complexion tired, details he found himself noticing increasingly often in the man staring back at him from the mirror. 

He sat on the bed and rested his hands on his knees. They were worn and haggard. Patches of dry skin and scarring, all the signs of a man who worked an honest graft. At one stage of his life, at least. Lying back, he folded his legs and rested his folded hands on his chest. Tomorrow he would meet the man who hailed him from the old country. Tomorrow he would begin.