Inherently selfish

Dealing with Gangsters is nothing new for Vlad, but this isn’t his crowd of lovable hoods. These are bad men with bad intentions and he’s there to get his hands dirty. Its mobster, guns, counterfeit money and hellfire when the Russians decided to teach Vlad a lesson. You are no longer what you were.

Excerpt

Why on earth did mobsters always insist on meeting in restaurants? Was there some kind of cliché contract they signed when becoming made men? And why ugly restaurants? Fake wood paneling and ugly art decorated the walls. Fake flowers centerpieces for tables any idiot could see were wobbly. A few sprigs of wilted holly were the only things to say that it was the morning of Christmas Eve. Well, that and the snow gently falling outside, but snow wasn't necessarily Christmassy. How was this place full?

The track-suited pair of guard leading him to his meeting looked about as low rent as you could get. Like they were auditioning for the roles of goombas number three and four in a bad Scorsese rip off. Nondescript, but hulking. Not to say they weren’t dangerous in their own way. Vlad didn’t miss the irregular bulges in those suits. He wasn’t intended to miss them.

Walking between the Russians, Vlad probably didn't have much room to talk about clichés. A black suit with a black shirt and tie was hardly novel, after all. His brown hair was combed neatly back and boyish features had shred kind of amusement to them. He looked like an overdressed kid being led by underdressed adults. The difference, he told himself, was that he was playing a deliberate role, satire. These people lived like this. No, he most certainly did not think he looked cool. Plus he was wearing Gucci. Gucci couldn't be cliché. Could it?

Sous chefs and waiters studiously avoided noticing their passage as Vlad was led through the kitchens. Vlad did not need the reminder that, in human terms, these men had power.

Perception of power, is power, the voice of instinct told him. But perceptions can be changed.