house I've never been in before—you never know how many assassins are hiding inside."
"From the moment we swore the blood oath, our lives stopped belonging to us," someone else sighed.
Among the brothers present, who didn't have blood on their hands?
Without killing someone, it was impossible to pass the Mafia's so-called political vetting. At best, you would remain an outside associate forever. But once the blood oath was sworn, you were permanently tied to the family—almost no one escaped unscathed. Most were destined to spend their entire lives as the Mafia's beasts of burden.
And there was really only one way out.
Death.
"Scarpa, you used to run your own crew. Persico met with you privately just now, didn't he? Is he giving you some territory?" a skinny man asked curiously.
"I'll follow you from now on and pay tribute every week."
Nicknamed "The Reaper" and "The Grim Reaper," Scarpa was infamous throughout New York's underworld. Rumors claimed he had committed over a hundred murders, making him the second most notorious executioner after The Butcher.
The other soldati's quickly chimed in.
"The family's short-handed right now—Persico will definitely give you an important role!"
"Yeah, we'll all follow you. The other capos don't like us anyway."
"We'll hand over all our tribute money to you."
Listening to their flattering words, Scarpa felt strangely conflicted.
His gaze drifted toward the parked cars lining the street. He couldn't help wondering which one might contain an FBI agent—or whether someone farther away was watching through binoculars from an apartment window, or eavesdropping with headphones.
The listening device hidden on his body had already recorded everything.
"Persico doesn't trust me yet," Scarpa said, shaking his head. "He just became the boss and needs to consolidate power, so he's promoting a lot of new people. Many of his guys are still facing charges. Once they're in prison, he'll promote even more."
"Maybe a bunch of associates will finally get to take the blood oath."
The skinny man nodded.
"I've heard about one of them. Sonny Francis's son—Mike Francis. I heard he's a college student. Sonny personally sponsored him to join the family."
Sonny Francis, the Colombo family's underboss, was currently in prison. Although he technically held the second-highest rank, he had little real power. Ironically, being locked up spared him from the civil war.
His son Mike still had clear eyes and naïve ambitions. Following his father's path, he joined the Mafia without really knowing what that meant. He hadn't even thought about entering the gasoline tax business, nor did he realize that the opportunity meant for him had already been stolen.
The young college student had once stood proudly onstage at a public rally, shaking hands with Joe Colombo. One moment the crowd was cheering.
The next moment Colombo was shot in the head.
Persico also knew Mike.
People like him were rare in the Mafia.
He shook his head and said, "New recruits can wait. Let's grab a drink instead."
"Where?"
"Where else?"
Scarpa suddenly remembered Gallo's final words.
And now… he himself was about to "die."
Having betrayed the Mafia, he had no path left. His only option was to disappear under a new identity and live quietly in some remote town under government supervision.
Before leaving, he wanted to meet the man Gallo admired most.
"Let's go to the SSR Club."
---
Winter in New York often hovered around 0°C.
(TN: Around 32°F)
Snow arrived with the holidays, dressing the entire city in white. Christmas carols echoed through streets and alleyways alike.
Perhaps it was the cold weather, but many Mafia members in Little Italy noticed that their boss had become even colder—and far more imposing.
In the past, underlings with a history of drug abuse would instinctively feel fear when facing Luca. But now that he had crushed them all so thoroughly, what they felt wasn't fear anymore.
It was awe.
The moment Scarpa saw Luca sitting at the club bar, he instantly understood why Gallo had been so wary of him.
I'm actually scared…
We're both capos—what the hell am I afraid of?
Stories about Luca's deeds in the underworld, rumors he had heard, Gallo's own evaluation… all of it had gradually formed a mental image.
And that image planted fear deep in his mind.
Like a maggot clinging to bone, impossible to scrape away.
Even though the real Luca sitting before him smiled gently, Scarpa couldn't control the trembling in his chest.
Am I just imagining things?
"Dove."
Scarpa steadied himself and greeted him.
Luca showed no arrogance at all. He simply called over a waiter and had drinks served to Scarpa and the others.
"I heard about what happened recently. When were you released on bail?"
Luca's gaze swept across the group before settling on Scarpa.
This Mafia hitman known as "The Grim Reaper" would eventually be taken by another grim reaper—AIDS.
Though he had only been a background character in the original story, he played an indispensable role in the rise and fall of the Colombo family.
"This evening," Scarpa answered honestly.
Then he described his situation.
"I'm facing multiple murder charges. There's also aiding and abetting murder. The court and the FBI have banned me from leaving New York."
"Until the trial begins, I don't have much hope. Those self-proclaimed fair jurors won't let someone as wicked as me walk free."
The other Mafiosi were in similar situations, though their charges were lighter than Scarpa's.
The courtroom would become a battlefield of words. In the end, most of them would likely go to prison—it was only a question of how long.
But Luca knew something unexpected would eventually happen.
After offering a few comforting words and adopting a live-for-today attitude, everyone raised their glasses.
Alcohol loosened their nerves.
Some of the Mafiosi wandered onto the dance floor to flirt with women.
Scarpa, however, showed little interest.
In the past he would have enjoyed nights like this.
But thinking about what was coming next left a bitter emptiness in his chest. Even the cigarette between his fingers tasted bland.
He glanced at Luca beside him.
Both of them were assassins.
Both executioners responsible for countless deaths.
Yet Dove stood at the peak of power, while Scarpa was preparing to exit in disgrace.
People constantly approached Luca to greet him.
Men, women, even children.
Everyone treated him with surprising warmth.
Some cautiously asked him for help.
After hearing his calm agreement, they left with grateful smiles.
Judging from their conversation, they seemed to be local shop owners.
Their requests were simple—borrowing money to survive hard times, dealing with troublesome outsiders, or even helping with annoying inspections from the fire department or police.
They all came to Ole Dove.
Dove seemed capable of solving anything.
Scarpa even saw a little girl run over and cling to Luca's arm, whining for a Christmas birthday present.
When Scarpa saw Mathilda, he couldn't help thinking of his own daughter and granddaughter.
But his daughter feared him.
She didn't even dare tell the child who her grandfather was.
The thought made Scarpa feel a sharp stab in his chest.
"Dove… I always believed killers like us who serve the family are the same kind of people."
Scarpa leaned back slightly, exhaling smoke—and his thoughts.
"We earn money for the family. We protect its dignity and rules. Orders come down from above, and we follow them—killing, robbing, intimidating."
"It's men like us who scare off the bastards that try to challenge the family. Without us, the family's cash cows couldn't run smoothly."
Luca smiled faintly.
"I heard you used to count your kills."
"After fifty, I stopped. Lost track. You've killed at least that many too, haven't you?"
"I've lost count as well," Luca said calmly. "But I realized something—killing isn't an achievement anymore."
"Scarpa, decades ago the Mafia let bullets do the talking."
"But now…"
Luca reached over, picked up a newspaper from the shelf beside him, and pointed at the front page.
The photo showed Paul Castellano shaking hands with a member of Congress.
Paul's future succession within the Gambino family wasn't just due to blood ties.
He was a pure money-maker—so much so that he resembled a businessman more than a mob boss.
He banned drug trafficking.
He shut down many illegal businesses.
Paul loved money more than violence.
Rumor even said he never wanted to become boss in the first place.
Whatever the truth was, one thing was clear:
He was trying to clean up the family's image.
Scarpa stared at the photograph in surprise.
"Paul's a legitimate businessman. He doesn't look like a robber at all."
"I never expected to see him standing beside a senator."
Luca didn't believe Paul was truly that "clean."
After all, plenty of legal businesses hid dirty money. Even companies openly operating on Wall Street could be built on crime.
Still, Luca agreed with one idea.
If the Mafia wanted to survive the federal government's crackdown, it had to evolve.
This was America—not Mexico or Colombia.
Armed gangs could never defeat the government here.
Scarpa nodded slowly.
"I heard Gambino trusts Paul a lot."
Then he paused.
Gallo's words suddenly echoed in his mind.
"Luca and Gambino are the same kind of people."
Looking at the newspaper again, Scarpa finally understood.
He glanced around the lively club and let out a bitter smile before draining his glass.
Gallo's face flashed through his mind.
Luca spoke softly.
"Scarpa… those gangsters we killed always thought they were heroes."
"But in the end, they were just rust on a bronze cauldron."
"The rust will eventually fall away."
"But the cauldron remains."
Scarpa and his "brothers" left the SSR Club.
Now he understood.
He and Dove were not the same kind of people.
He looked down at his hands.
"The cauldron will endure… but the hands that cast it deserve to rot in a stinking ditch."
"Maybe that's my fate."
One by one, the brothers split off until only the skinny man remained beside him.
"Scarpa… now what?"
"Persico met me privately because he wanted me to kill all of you."
Scarpa pulled a pistol from his waistband.
Bang!
Bang!
Two bullets grazed past the man's head.
Scarpa watched as several FBI agents rushed toward them from the distance. He calmly dropped the gun and looked at his terrified brother.
"But I changed my mind, bro."
"If you ever get another chance… don't join the Mafia again."
"The only future worth having is following someone like Dove."
Snowflakes drifted through the darkness like scattered white ashes.
Under his brother's stunned gaze, Scarpa raised his hands and dropped to his knees.
His grief-stricken voice echoed down the entire block.
"I surrender!"
"I confess!"
"I'll tell you everything!"
"I'll testify against the Colombo family!"
"Persico ordered me to do it!"
—Even if I'm just rust… I want to be the biggest piece that falls off.
Hearing the gunshots, Luca stepped out of the club and looked toward the intersection where Scarpa was being pinned to the ground by FBI agents.
__________________________________________________________________________
[Ding! Your unintentional conversation prevented a murder, saved a life, and preserved peace on the streets]
[Gain Skill Points ×5]
[Gained 2 Skill Fragments]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 46]
__________________________________________________________________________
Many people who heard the gunshots gathered near the entrance.
Some asked in confusion,
"Who would dare fire a gun in Little Italy?"
"Don't they know this is Dove's territory?"
Mathilda tugged at the hem of Luca's coat.
"Luca… did someone die?"
Luca gently ruffled her fluffy hair.
"Someone survived."
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