The rain clouds were crouching low in the sky, like wide-shouldered goons advising you to keep your eyes down and move along. Pietro gripped his umbrella tightly and trotted down the street. As he rounded a corner, a pair of men in fedoras blocked his path.
“Evening, Pietro.” They tipped their hats politely.
“Listen,” Pietro’s voice went up an octave, “I can explain.” But before he could, the men had flanked him, and were steering him down an alleyway. They knocked on a battered steel door, and hustled Pietro inside.
A group of men surrounded Pietro, who gulped loudly.
“G-Guys, I’m really sorry!” He stammered.
One man held up a raggedy cloth.
“Pietro,” he sighed. “You shame your family. This is the worst counterfeit designer sweater I have ever seen!” He slapped Pietro’s face with the rough wool, and threw a pair of needles at his feet. “Make it again!”