They didn't wrap up until after 9 p.m. before Luca finally took Matilda home.
Mariggio walked the siblings to the door. Before they left, he pulled Luca aside and lowered his voice.
"Luca, I'm really glad you have a sweet little sister like Matilda in your life. You used to care about nothing but contracts and killing. But this past year, you've changed."
He smiled faintly.
"You opened a club. You're actually doing business. That's a good thing. I hope this change makes your life less empty. More human."
Killing is final. No negotiation. No appeal.
For a long time, that was the only method Luca knew.
"At least now," Mariggio continued, "you're learning to solve problems without pulling a trigger."
---
In the car, Luca steered with one hand and pressed lightly against his temple with the other, his mind still running numbers on the mission.
Richie.
The drug war.
His own future.
Promotion.
The family's long-term survival.
Stalling the hit wouldn't be hard.
But even the Butcher can miss a swing sometimes, right?
The real issue wasn't delay.
The issue was whether Richie would survive.
Would Dominic or the Commission escalate?
Would they question Luca's ability to "deliver fish"?
If the higher-ups were determined to kill Richie—and Luca was determined to protect him—conflict was inevitable.
Short-term compliance wouldn't solve anything.
It would only deepen the rift.
Henry had proven that already.
And even if Richie died—
Would Washington stop?
Luca's fingers tapped unconsciously on the steering wheel.
The family would never know.
Even if Richie were killed, Luca would continue helping David, other officers, and federal authorities go after Frank.
Behind Richie wasn't just Washington.
Behind him stood the Dove of Peace.
Luca's gaze slowly turned cold.
Second Boss, I'm adapting to the times, updating with the version shift, and you insist on going against the tide.
Unbelievable.
And yet—
Everyone was simply doing what they believed was right.
"Luca?"
Matilda tilted her head.
"Yeah?"
"You seem distracted. You were quiet when we left."
"Is Lucky Matilda psychic?" Luca chuckled. "Yeah. I'm thinking about how to improve your grades. All C's this semester. Your teacher even called me. Not studying hard enough?"
He smirked.
"You're an SSR-tier character and you bring home a full set of Cs? That's beneath your rarity level."
Matilda rolled her eyes.
"I started the semester with all D's. By the end I had C's. That's progress."
"Then I guess I owe you an ice cream as a reward."
"You're not thinking about grades," she said immediately. "Otherwise you would've complained to Uncle Mariggio at dinner."
"Alright. You caught me. I'm dealing with something."
They stopped at a red light.
Luca pointed left.
"Let's say I want to go somewhere. Two roads ahead. I've studied one carefully. I know the terrain. Beautiful scenery. Friends traveling alongside me."
Then he pointed right.
"The other road? Unpredictable. Roadblocks. Traffic cops everywhere. No guarantee I'll even reach the destination."
"Then take the first one," Matilda said without hesitation, pointing left. "That's the one you want, right?"
"The problem," Luca sighed, "is I don't fully control the steering wheel. There's a group of die-hards who insist on going right. They claim there's gold in the dirt along the way. They're determined to pick it up—no matter what's waiting at the end."
Matilda burst out laughing.
"Gold on the road? This isn't the Gold Rush. New York isn't old San Francisco."
"The traffic police are there to stop them from picking it up."
"Then remove the driver and take the wheel yourself."
She said it casually.
As if that were the obvious answer.
Luca stared at her for half a second.
Kindred spirit detected.
He had indeed considered removing Dominic. The Underboss was a walking problem. Eliminating him would cripple the family's drug operations—and open a clear promotion path.
If Luca could take down Carmine Galante, killing his own underboss wouldn't technically be harder.
The difference?
Galante's hit had Commission approval.
Killing Dominic without authorization?
That meant execution.
No appeal. No debate.
If exposed, Luca would be finished.
His own name would be next on the list.
He'd get to experience Baba Yaga-level consequences.
The risk was enormous.
He hadn't made that decision.
"Interesting idea," Luca grinned, ruffling Matilda's hair. "So young, and already showing my old decisive streak. Not bad."
"I just want to understand you better and help with your worries," she said, hugging his arm.
"Luca, even though you're a Dove, you fly in a world where there's no sunlight. Your wings shield me from the storm. But one day I'll grow up and fly on my own. That's what you want, isn't it? I'm willing to face things with you."
Luca rubbed her head again.
"That was very touching," he said calmly. "Still doesn't excuse those C's."
Matilda: "…"
This Dove is so annoying.
This clueless Italian!
---
Late that night, unable to sleep, Luca sat at his desk thinking.
According to Mariggio, Richie had refused their bribes and instead aligned himself with the Bonanno family—forming a rare front between law enforcement and certain criminal factions to target Frank's drug empire.
Negotiations had failed.
Persuasion had failed.
Thus—the execution order.
"In that case," Luca murmured, "Dominic and Frank have been cornered."
He actually felt relieved.
The more pressure on the Second Boss, the better for him.
Richie was doing excellent work.
In truth, Luca didn't want Galante dead too soon.
The Bonanno influence under Galante could assist Richie in dismantling Frank's network.
If Galante had to die—for system rewards—it should be after the drug war ended.
Maximize returns.
"The mission is in my hands," Luca muttered. "So let's stall. Buy Richie time."
Shocking headline:
Top assassin "Butcher" fails his mission?!
How could that happen?
Well—
Every good performance needs a stage.
And actors.
The stage was ready.
Now he needed the right co-star.
Three days later.
Broadway. Trinity Church.
John McClane staggered toward the entrance, clutching a bottle.
White tank top. Loose shorts. Face flushed red. Hair wild in the wind.
His head was foggy.
His steps were steady.
Coming here felt like coming home.
He moved through the corridor with familiarity and sat in the last row.
One sip for tomorrow.
One sip for yesterday.
Life's too short to carry all the past—but somehow it always tags along.
He thought of his wife.
Holly.
His son. His daughter.
No visitation rights.
Won't even open the door for me?
The priest sat beside him.
"McClane, no more free meals starting today."
"…I'm not a beggar," McClane snapped. "It's quiet here. Nobody bothers me when I drink. I'm not here for food. I'm here for peace."
"You disturb people's prayers. And you ramble when drunk."
"I'm not drunk. And I don't ramble."
"Everyone here knows your wife's name is Holly. Your son is Jack. Your daughter is—"
"Okay, okay! I get it."
"I'll behave next time."
"You should talk to your wife," the priest sighed. "Running won't fix it."
McClane lowered his head.
There's no fixing it.
Twice, he survived near-death situations.
Twice, his wife nearly died with him.
Maybe I really am cursed.
He had barely left the church grounds when several Black gang members rushed him, swinging baseball bats.
"Didn't I tell you not to come back to Broadway?"
"Teach him a lesson!"
"If we see you again, you're finished!"
A bottle shattered over his head.
Dazed, drunk, McClane dropped to the ground and curled inward as blows rained down.
Some time ago, he'd interfered in a street drug deal. Taught a few dealers a lesson.
Now they were returning the favor.
Sometimes he wondered why trouble followed him.
Why he always got involved.
He was suspended already.
Why not ignore it?
Like that time in Times Square—
He'd promised to meet his kids.
A case delayed him.
By the time he arrived, they were gone.
If I had another chance…
He thought about it.
No.
He'd make the same choice.
Once you see something wrong, you can't just pretend you didn't.
Even if the world ended tomorrow—
He'd still plant an apple tree today.
Suddenly—
Silence.
McClane looked up.
The gang members were sprawled unconscious across the pavement.
A man in a black trench coat stood in front of him.
Hands in pockets.
Smile calm.
Luca looked down at him.
"McClane," he said lightly, "drinking alone is boring."
"Want another round?"
"My treat."
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