A Bonanno family soldier nicknamed "Lefty" walked into the restaurant with "Donnie," an associate he had only recently sponsored.
"When I introduce you later, I'll say, 'He's a friend of mine.' That means you're under my protection. If I say, 'He's a friend of ours,' that means you're fully connected. You understand?"
Donnie, who had recently "transferred" from the Colombo family, nodded. "Understood. Friend of mine. Friend of ours."
He listened carefully to these rules.
As an FBI agent, he had assumed the alias "Donnie" years earlier, reinventing himself as a jewelry dealer. He came to New York to "build a reputation" from the ground up, spending years earning recognition in the underworld. Later, he worked errands for a Colombo family associate. A few months ago, he had been introduced to Benjamin "Lefty" Ruggiero, a made member of the Bonanno family.
Now, he could barely be considered a junior associate.
Donnie felt infiltrating the Mafia was incredibly difficult. These Sicilians were deeply suspicious, instinctively distrustful of outsiders. If not for Lefty's loyalty, his love of friendship, and—most importantly—his constant financial desperation, Donnie would never have gotten this far.
—He was the first FBI agent to successfully infiltrate the Mafia at that level.
Donnie then asked, "So how do I refer to you when others ask?"
Lefty snapped, "Don't fucking mention me unless you have to."
Donnie mentally added: foul-mouthed.
Lefty extended his hand casually. "You bring any cash? I've got something tomorrow. Need it bad."
Donnie stared.
They weren't the Mafia. They were the Hand-Out Gang.
The Bureau's funds were bleeding fast.
He reached for his wallet—but Lefty snatched it away and scolded him. "Don't hand it flat like that. Roll it up. Never flash it."
Lefty rolled the bills and tucked them into his own pocket.
Donnie felt both annoyed and relieved. At least it was government money.
Still, he couldn't help feeling excited. Tonight he would finally meet more Bonanno members. Real criminals. Only by getting close could he collect evidence.
Moments later, Lefty led him inside.
There, Donnie met Sonny Black and several other Mafia members.
"This is a friend of mine—Donnie," Lefty announced.
Everyone understood. That phrase meant Lefty vouched for him.
Donnie greeted each of them politely, building rapport.
One member proudly introduced the restaurant. "My wife read about it in a fashion magazine. Said this asian food's thing is the big thing now!"
It was their first time at a Chinese restaurant. They looked around curiously at the decor and customs.
Then Donnie froze.
Guests were removing their shoes.
His wire was hidden inside his shoe.
He hadn't known they were eating Chinese tonight. He knew nothing about the customs.
What now?
Lefty had already removed his shoes and sat on the mat. Donnie stood stiffly.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and struck a tough-guy pose, face practically saying: I'm not taking off my shoes.
"Sir, please remove your shoes," the waiter said politely.
"You kidding me?" Donnie scoffed. "Why? What is this? You want my pants too?"
"It's our custom, sir."
Lefty and Sonny Black urged him as well.
"We're here to eat," Sonny said quietly. "Take 'em off—or we'll take your feet."
Donnie's mind raced. Then he improvised.
"You want me to listen to the Chinese? My family got kicked out in Tianjin. They nearly destroyed us. You think I'm taking orders from them? No."
The group paused.
Sworn enemies. That explained it.
Sonny Black, fiercely protective of his own, immediately put his shoes back on.
"My friend's not taking his shoes off," Sonny told the waiter. "That's his principle."
"I'm afraid that's not possible," the waiter insisted. "It's restaurant policy."
"And we're not stripping either," Sonny replied coldly. "Now seat us before I lose patience."
Before the waiter could react, Sonny grabbed him by the collar. Others seized his arms, dragging him toward the restroom.
Donnie knew what was coming.
Inside, they beat the waiter viciously.
Sonny even handed Donnie his shoes. "Go on. Hit him with 'em."
Donnie hesitated.
His "brothers" were defending his honor. He had to play along.
He swung.
For the first time, he fully felt the Mafia's brutality.
And something else.
They were violent. Irrational. Tribal.
But they protected their own.
And right now, he was one of their own.
Afterward, Lefty patted his shoulder. "That's what happens when someone disrespects us. If that ever happens again, I've got you."
Sonny punched Donnie lightly in the chest. "Satisfied? They killed plenty of Americans back then. We don't forget."
Donnie felt hollow.
It was all a lie. His identity. His story.
The group swaggered out, leaving the bloodied waiter behind.
But as they entered the corridor, they froze.
A line of Japanese enforcers in haori and hakama stood waiting, each gripping a katana.
The restaurant manager sneered. After the place had been wrecked once before, he had reinforced security. Tonight, it paid off.
"How dare you cause trouble on Japanese ground!" he barked.
One side shouted "Baka!" The other responded with "Motherf—!" Cultural exchange at its finest.
Just as weapons were about to clash—
A door flew open.
A kick slammed into one of the enforcers.
"I told you this paper-thin door wouldn't last," a voice said calmly.
Luca stepped out.
"Luca the Dove?" Lefty and Sonny exclaimed.
They recognized him instantly.
Luca glanced around, baffled. He'd come hoping to share a meal, build connections.
Instead, chaos.
In moments, he disarmed several men, seized a katana, and slammed it into the floor.
"Enough."
The manager stormed forward. "Who the hell are you?"
The blade quivered inches from his shoes.
"If you haven't heard of Luca the Dove," Luca said lightly, "maybe you've heard of the Butcher."
The manager's face drained of color.
He had heard both names.
He hadn't realized they were the same man.
"This isn't your territory!" the manager protested.
Luca's eyes hardened.
"You're breaking my rules in front of me."
Silence fell.
"You want to keep running this place? Or have your family collecting your bodies tomorrow? By this time next year, cherry blossoms will be blooming over your graves."
The warriors hesitated.
Even Donnie felt it.
Authority. Absolute dominance.
As an FBI agent, he should have felt threatened.
Instead…
He felt protected.
Stronger than he had in the restroom.
Something unsettled him.
Damn it.
He was bonding too quickly.
Was he born for this life?
[Bond: Attention]
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