The party on the yacht kept rolling.
White, green, and gold—Jordan Belfort was in full performance mode, weaving through a crowd of women of every complexion like he was born for it, while Luca finally found a rare moment of quiet after the last wave of celebrity guests drifted off.
Jimmy dropped into the seat beside him and started sharing what he'd dug up about Boston.
"I checked out that cop—fresh out of the academy. Technically, he's with the Massachusetts State Police, Special Investigations Unit. They handle organized crime and gangs, and they work closely with the FBI all the time."
Massachusetts—capital: Boston—sat just north of New York, roughly 300 kilometers away, a two- to three-hour drive, and the place was a mess in the most predictable way possible: Mafia crews, Irish gangs, Chinese triads, Russians Bratva, Jewish outfits—everyone carving out their own slice like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet of chaos.
The Mafia had influence there, sure, but nothing like the iron grip they held in New York or New Jersey, which was exactly why Russian groups could operate freely in the ports; the Bratva that backing the Tarasov still had business ties with Luca, and those oil tankers from before had docked near Boston.
After hearing the key points, Luca pieced it together—the undercover storyline there was probably just getting started.
The police plant likely hadn't even joined the gang yet; he was probably still doing time, building a criminal background to sell the role later.
'That makes a lot of undercover agents in one place.'
Luca leaned back, thinking it through—once things really kicked off in Boston, he might be able to step in and quietly take over the territory and its business channels.
He needed influence outside New York.
Even if it wasn't under the Mafia banner, controlling things from the shadows would be enough—and when the inevitable Mafia purge hit New York, he'd have leverage, manpower, and options.
Stockpile your chips. Dig your trenches. And stay off the radar until the time is right
Right now, the boss seat wasn't a throne—it was a target.
Later after Gambino's death, things had only gotten worse; the Federation had been ruthless, systematically wiping out the heads of the Five Families—life sentences, assassinations, clean sweeps.
Luca had zero interest in becoming their next trophy before the storm even began.
If the crackdown came, the boss would be the first to fall—and people like David Mills and Patrick Denham would be dragged into the blast radius.
For now, the priority was simple: stabilize his territory, set rules, keep his people in line, and make sure nobody did anything stupid enough to bring heat down early.
When the Five Families started collapsing one by one, that would be his moment.
Rise over the wreckage.
Take everything in one move.
And beyond New York, there were other seats to consider.
Five seats for the New York families.
Seven more outside the city.
Twelve total.
Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, Miami, Los Angeles, New Orleans, and Pittston—the latter home to the Bufalino family, where the "Irish painter" operated.
Philadelphia and Bufalino were tightly tied to New York.
The others? More independent.
Gambino had played it smart—allying with Philadelphia gave him effectively two votes, plus the chairman's position.
Power stacked on power.
Luca intended to do the same—form alliances, or better yet, take control.
If Gambino had his "dogs," Luca could build his own pack.
Thoughts spiraled as he sipped champagne in silence.
Jimmy sat beside him, saying nothing, occasionally glancing over—catching flashes of something familiar in Luca's expression.
Not one specific boss.
All of them.
Younger. Sharper. More dangerous.
Then Jordan came barreling back over, arms wide open.
"Dove! I love you, man! A million dollars—HAHAHA! That dock is my lucky charm! Next time, we hit another one?"
Luca shoved him away, face full of disgust.
Jesus—this guy reeked.
Less medicine now.
Way more perfume.
"Sit," Luca said, pointing across from him.
Jordan dropped into the seat instantly—if there'd been a tatami mat, he probably would've knelt.
Luca started laying out plans—gold futures, fund allocation, reinvestment strategies—because letting nearly a billion in liquid capital sit idle was just bad business.
The gold market was trending bearish thanks to federal intervention, but even in a downturn, there were profits to be made—if you knew how to play both sides.
Luca didn't pretend to be an expert in futures.
Stocks, markets—those weren't his arena.
So maybe it was time to diversify.
The internet sector.
Real-world industries.
Even Hollywood.
Plenty of directors had tried to make films about the New York Mafia, only to get blocked—Colombo had forced script changes, banned certain terminology, demanded the Mafia be portrayed as elegant, principled, untouchable.
No real family names.
No direct connections.
Everything sanitized.
If Luca's story ever hit the screen, he'd make sure it followed that same blueprint.
---
Night fell over the SSR Club.
When Hobbs walked in, Luca was chatting with Keung.
Lunar New Year was just days away, and Uncle Bill's wedding was nearly ready—it would be held at the club on Lunar New Year's Day.
Before leaving, Keung said, "Ole Dove, come to Uncle Bill's place for New Year's Eve—family dinner."
"Wouldn't miss it," Luca replied with a smile. "I've heard his dumplings are legendary."
Once Keung left, Hobbs took a seat across from him, looking around with mild curiosity—and something else.
Comfort.
Like stepping into a place that felt… familiar.
Like home.
He ordered a drink, then muttered, "David and the others kept recommending spots in New York—most of them were terrible. This place? This one I like."
"Good," Luca said. "Sounds like I'll be getting regular customer from a bunch of friendly agents."
"You giving out memberships for free or what?"
"To friends? Always."
Hobbs raised an eyebrow.
Bribery?
Before he could say anything, the drinks arrived.
He took a sip, then changed the subject.
"You heard about those funds playing gold futures lately? Long, short—making a killing."
"Vaguely," Luca said. "They break the law?"
"Possible insider trading."
"Oh?" Luca smiled. "You want me to go undercover in an investment firm now? I'm good at finding gold, not predicting markets."
Hobbs chuckled.
No point pressing.
No evidence.
And if it wasn't insider trading—if it was just skill—then there was nothing to investigate anyway.
Still…
Luca had engineered the entire situation.
Controlled the "insider information."
Helped recover the gold.
And quietly made millions on the side.
Elegant.
After a few drinks, Hobbs leaned forward.
"That fund made over seven million. Compared to the gold, that's nothing. But when you were staring at all that gold… not even for a second?"
"Curious?" Luca asked lightly. "Don't test people with that kind of temptation—you'll be disappointed. Most won't pass. I just happen to be the exception."
Hobbs couldn't argue with that.
He grinned, lifting his glass.
"To the Dove of Peace of Little Italy."
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[Character Card: Lucas "Luke" Hobbs]
[Rank: S]
[Source: Fast and Furious Saga]
[Skills:
[Absolute Power]
Description: Whether it's wielding a Gatling gun like a toy or redirecting a torpedo with your bare hands, your power is undeniable.
Effect: Grants a massive surge in destructive output. Attack Power +10% to 50% (Scales with the user's base Strength stat and the scale of the destruction).
Special Trait: Effectiveness increases when interacting with heavy machinery or armored vehicles.
Requirements: Bond Level: Friend+ | Skill Fragments: 60
Status:[UNLOCKED]
[Siva Tau (Samoan War Dance)]
Description: A ritual of intimidation and brotherhood that strikes fear into the enemy.
Effect: Temporarily purges all fear-based debuffs.
Stats: * Morale Boost: +50%
Physical Attributes: +25% (All Stats)
Bloodline Bonus: Effects are doubled (+50% All Stats) if the user is of Samoan descent.
Requirements: Bond Level: Close Friend+ | Skill Fragments: 100 ]
[Bond: Friends]
[New Skill Unlocked - Absolute Power]
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Luca glanced at Hobbs' absurd, almost gorilla-like build, then at his own lean frame.
Even if he learned that skill…
There was no way he was yanking a helicopter out of the sky.
That wasn't strength.
That was physics giving up.
Before leaving, Hobbs smirked. "Didn't you say friends get memberships?"
Luca handed over a permanent card he'd already prepared. "Come back anytime."
Hobbs raised an eyebrow. "Hope business is even better next time I'm in New York."
---
Over the next few days, Luca helped Uncle Bill with wedding preparations and gathered his men.
After spending 100 fragments to learn "Simon Says," he reinforced his rules—strictly.
Everyone had to follow them.
No exceptions.
The message spread through Little Italy and the Bronx.
White, Black, Brown, or even Blue—doesn't matter.
You want to operate here?
Follow the rules.
Make money.
Live peacefully.
Break them—and Luca would personally "talk" to you.
As the rules spread, something subtle shifted across the territory.
Quiet, Order, and Control.
---
New Year's Eve arrived.
Luca was about to take Mathilda to Uncle Bill's house when his phone rang.
It was Frank Fitzsimmons.
"Dove … Jimmy Hoffa just got out."
Luca paused.
With Jimmy Hoffa back in the game…
The Teamsters were about to get messy.
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