Detroit.
Upon receiving the message, Jimmy Hoffa was instantly fired up. He jumped to his feet, pacing back and forth like an irritated old lion, grumbling loudly, "Damn it, he wants me to go all the way to New York to see him? Who does he think he is? Me—the former union president—having to lower myself to meet some twenty-something kid? Hell, my son could be his uncle!"
Hoffa was the kind of old man who got worked up easily. Once he got going, his hands would start flying, his voice would rise, and half of what came out sounded like pure nonsense. Emotional didn't even begin to cover it.
Still, Frank couldn't help but feel a little relieved seeing his old friend this lively. At their age, being able to jump around like that was practically a blessing.
"Luca asked me to pass along a message," Frank said calmly. "He said he knows his place in the pecking order—and as a branch president, he wants to show you the professional courtesy you're owed."
"Oh, so the kid at least knows he's still a rookie in this league."
"Maybe," Frank continued. "But rookie or not, he's got real weight behind him. This isn't about playing power games. You're the one who needs him, so it only makes sense to meet on his place."
Frank himself had no objections. As an Irishman, the fact that he had earned recognition from the Italians was already an achievement in itself.
Hearing this, Hoffa's temper flared up again. He started ranting about how times had changed, how young people had no respect for their elders anymore, and how Frank Fitzsimmons was nothing but a spineless sellout who had handed everything over.
After venting for a while, he finally calmed down and asked, "So, have you set a time with that 'Dove' Luca yet?"
It was already late February. After getting out of prison, Hoffa had taken his wife down to Miami for a bit of sun and relaxation. But now that he was back in Detroit, the snow hadn't even started melting yet.
"I'll go with whatever you decide," Frank replied. "Either way, Luca's based in New York—he's not going anywhere."
Hoffa frowned, then waved his hand. "No rush. Before we see him, let's stop by Philadelphia. I want to take a look at your union over there."
Frank nodded. His local chapter operated out of Bloomington, just outside Philadelphia, so there was no reason to refuse.
Then Hoffa suddenly asked, "Where's Peggy? Haven't seen your daughter in ages. She must be all grown up by now. Does my little sweetheart still remember her uncle?"
"Of course she does," Frank said, though his tone turned slightly awkward. "She's studying in New York now… Luca helped arrange her enrollment."
"…"
Hoffa let out a long, heavy sigh. For some reason, it felt like even the people closest to him were being pulled away—one by one—by that damn Dove.
Luca quickly received Frank's reply through the usual "middleman" channel. The message was polite: they would come to New York as soon as possible and would confirm the exact timing a few days in advance.
Exactly as expected.
Luca was never Hoffa's first choice. The old man was proud—too proud—and he wouldn't lower himself unless he absolutely had to.
In the original timeline, after Hoffa got out of prison, the Mafia had repeatedly tried to negotiate with him. There were plenty of intermediaries: Frank, the boss of the Bufalino crime family, the Philadelphia boss, Anthony Salerno—better known as Fat Tony—and even Pro, who had already been eliminated by Luca. Nearly every major Mafia figure on the East Coast had been involved at some point.
At first, the Mafia had been patient. Hoffa was, after all, an old partner. Many families—even those outside New York—had spoken up for him, pulling strings behind the scenes, worried that the New York bosses might simply have him killed outright.
Back when Hoffa was still in power, relations between the union and the Mafia had been relatively stable. So in the beginning, the Mafia chose a softer approach.
But Hoffa didn't play along. He cut ties and began using union funds to block loans to multiple families, pushing things into a deadlock that couldn't be undone—and completely burning through the Mafia's patience.
From that point on, his fate had been all but sealed.
Now, Luca had two options.
The first—and ideal—option was to continue backing Frank Fitzsimmons while convincing Hoffa to step down voluntarily. If necessary, he could apply some pressure to force the issue. Either way, letting Hoffa regain control of the union was out of the question; it simply didn't align with the interests of the American Mafia as a whole.
The second option was far less appealing. If Hoffa refused to back down and insisted on reclaiming power, ignoring all warnings, then Luca would have no choice but to resort to violence… all in the name of maintaining "peace."
Between the two, the first option was obviously safer.
Because eliminating Hoffa would come at a massive cost.
Even if he simply "disappeared"—no witnesses, no evidence, no body—the consequences would still be severe. The federal government would come down hard on the Mafia. Detroit's families would be wiped out, the Bufalino crime family would get dragged in, and even New York and Philadelphia would feel the shockwaves.
The government would inevitably see the Mafia as the primary beneficiary of Hoffa's disappearance—and that suspicion alone would be enough to justify decades of relentless investigation and crackdowns.
If it really came down to that, Luca would have to figure out how to "handle" Hoffa in a way that minimized fallout—or, better yet, find a third option entirely.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to the worst-case scenario. Peaceful resolution pays the best anyway."
"Still… I need to find a way to make that hot-headed old man back off."
Luca paused, then muttered to himself, "And hopefully he doesn't try to punch me when we meet."
He still remembered how things had gone in the original timeline—Hoffa and Pro had barely exchanged a few words before it turned into a full-blown argument… and then a fight.
Now Pro was gone, and Local 560 was firmly under Luca's control.
On the East Coast, as Luca's gasoline operation continued expanding, more and more truck drivers benefited from it. Higher income, better stability—naturally, loyalty followed.
If Hoffa wanted to take control now?
Not without Luca's approval.
Unknowingly, Luca had already become the central figure in this entire situation—a key player capable of altering the course of history itself.
With a single decision, he could determine the fate of men who once held enough power to influence presidential elections.
"When the negotiation table's full of heavy hitters, you'd better keep your temper in check—no matter how pissed you are."
"And while I'm at it… might as well learn something new."
That was a skill Luca had obtained earlier but never used—until now.
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"System, redeem Labor Extortion Skill"
[Skill Fragment -40]
[Skill Acquired]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 132]
[Skill: Labor Extortion]
Description: Mastery over the levers of industrial power. From rigged elections to pension fund "loans," the union is your personal piggy bank.
Intimidation Effect: Increases deterrence against truck driver union members by +10%.
Financial Laundering: Increases money laundering efficiency through union channels by +10%.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---
In mid-March, New York finally began to warm up as the Atlantic winds brought in milder air.
Luca had been living fairly comfortably lately. Aside from keeping an eye on the furniture store project, he had also invited Yuri and his wife over to the club to talk business—mainly arms supply—and strengthen their partnership.
Yuri was doing fine. International authorities could harass him, sure, but they couldn't really touch his operation. His only real concern was his wife getting caught up in it.
After all, people like them rarely got to have a peaceful family life.
Meanwhile, Elle Driver had grown tired of New York and headed back to New Orleans—the same place she used to share a hideout with that bald mechanic. Apparently, she had received word from Bill and had business to take care of.
Luca counted on his fingers, briefly wondering if the so-called "Female Bruce Lee" had run off because of a pregnancy scare… but since O-Ren Ishii hadn't heard anything from Bill, it probably hadn't reached that point yet.
And speaking of pregnancy—
"Dove! My wife's about to give birth!"
That day, David Mills burst into the club, grinning from ear to ear as he shared the news.
Luca blinked, slightly caught off guard. It had been almost a year since they first met. Back then, during the religious murder case, David's wife had just gotten pregnant—and now the due date was already here.
Time really flew.
"Dove… when the baby's born, would you baptize him?"
David sat across from him, looking unusually serious.
Luca raised an eyebrow. "You're Catholic?"
David took a sip of his drink and let out a quiet breath. "I wasn't. But after that case… things changed."
He was talking about the religious serial killer—the fanatic who had nearly targeted his wife and branded David himself with the "sin of wrath."
Even now, the memory still sent a chill down his spine.
Luca remembered it too. That lunatic had labeled him with greed and arrogance.
"I'd say I've mellowed out a bit since then," David added with a shrug. "Money and status help with that. Back when I was just a rookie, I was desperate to prove myself. Now? Not so much. I've even started going to church. Trying to… fix what's broken. Be a better person and a better father to my coming child."
After a long conversation, David finally got to the point.
He wanted Luca to be the child's godfather.
A cop… asking a Mafia figure to take that role.
It said everything.
Luca smiled faintly. "I'll put my name behind him. No one touches that kid."
A simple sentence—but it carried weight.
To David, it felt heavier than anything else.
---
The next day at work, David shared the news with John McClane.
"You sneaky bastard," McClane laughed. "You really know how to play your cards."
"With a guy like the Dove as your kid's godfather—and you as a cop—the kid's basically born with access to both sides of New York."
He shook his head, half-joking, half-jealous.
"Hell, maybe I should talk to my wife. What do you think—third kid, same godfather?"
David snorted. "You can barely handle the two you've got."
"Hey, once you've got a godfather like that, you don't exactly get abandoned."
"All you're doing is dumping trouble on him."
Laughing, McClane pulled out a report and handed it over.
"Take a look."
"What is it?"
"Citywide stats. Over the past month, crime in the Bronx is down 7% year-over-year. And that's general crime. If you isolate organized crime—gangs, drugs—it drops nearly 15%. And Little Italy?" He tapped the page. "Down 20%."
David stared at the numbers.
"Seriously?"
The Bronx—once known as the "Red Bronx"—had always been rough.
"Compare it to Harlem," McClane continued. "Used to be about the same. Now? Not even close."
David scanned the report again. Harlem's numbers were still sky-high… but Little Italy had become the safest neighborhood in New York.
He let out a low whistle. "I knew things were calmer over there, fewer calls and all—but this? This is insane."
McClane leaned back, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's the Dove. Has to be. I don't know anyone else who could pull something like this off."
"More and more people over there are actually following the rules."
David stared at the data, stunned.
Could someone really reduce crime just through sheer presence and reputation?
No wonder they called him the Dove of Peace.
And suddenly, the idea of having him as his child's godfather felt like the best decision he'd ever made.
---
Meanwhile, Jimmy Hoffa continued traveling across the East Coast, trying to gather support.
Before approaching Luca—the Mafia's representative—he chose to reach out to other union leaders first. Most of them weren't actual Mafia members, just collaborators at best.
True insiders like Luca—sworn, blood-oath members—were rare.
There had been another one before.
Pro.
But after his death, only Luca remained.
Hoffa believed he could still rely on these "old allies."
He was wrong.
From New Jersey to Philadelphia, Atlantic City to Baltimore, and even Washington, D.C., he received nothing but vague promises and polite smiles. Everyone claimed they supported him—but when it came to specifics, they hesitated, dodged, stalled.
No one wanted to take a side.
And all along the way, he hadn't even seen Frank Fitzsimmons once.
That alone made his blood boil.
Finally, at the Teamsters headquarters in Washington, Hoffa gave an interview.
He went all in—publicly attacking Frank Fitzsimmons, throwing around words like "crime," "corruption," and "fraud" without holding back.
Once the broadcast hit television, the internal war within the union officially began.
And Fitz's response?
Simple.
He had one of Hoffa's friend's yachts blown to pieces.
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