Cigar room.
Frank reached out and gently brushed the Silver Queen plant in the flowerpot beside the sofa. There were still droplets clinging to the green leaves, which meant it had just been watered.
This wasn't his first time at the club. Over the past six months, whenever he came to New York to deliver fish, he would sometimes stop by to visit his daughter, who was studying there. Strangely enough, the two of them talked more comfortably here than they ever did at home, and their conversations weren't nearly as sharp or tense. His daughter was also more willing to open up about her life in New York.
Even though they lived apart and sometimes went ten days—half a month—without seeing each other, Frank realized they were actually talking more than before. That made him feel like he had made the right decision. At the very least, by keeping his daughter away, she wouldn't have to see him doing those violent things again.
And he also felt grateful to Luca for taking care of her.
She was living in a suite in the hotel above the club, and Luca had never once mentioned money. After so many years in the Mafia, Frank understood exactly how this worked—when people like Luca helped someone like him without asking for anything in return, it wasn't about money. It was about earning respect.
And respect always had a price.
Frank knew that one day, when Luca needed him, he would have to repay that favor. And when that day came, he would be ready.
As the favors between them piled up, this muddy swamp would slowly close around him until there was no way out, until it turned into something he could no longer control.
Just like now.
Frank withdrew his hand from the Silver Queen and glanced over at Hoffa and Luca, who were exchanging greetings and getting acquainted.
Hoffa casually complained about the New York weather, saying it was too cold compared to Florida. Then he went on about how a club this big only had one type of plant, and even questioned where this so-called "peace" meaning of the Silver Queen came from.
He talked like he'd known Luca for years, launching straight into complaints without holding back.
Luca, already familiar with Hoffa's temper, lowered his voice and said calmly, "I'm sitting right here, and the Dove represents peace."
Frank watched the scene unfold and couldn't help but feel like the roles were reversed—the impulsive one should've been the young man, and the calm one should've been the old man.
Hearing that, Hoffa frowned slightly.
There was something in Luca's tone—something subtle but forceful—that made him uncomfortable, like an invisible pressure pushing him to yield.
He had been calling him "Jimmy" out of habit, but after a brief pause, Luca adjusted his tone.
"Mr. Hoffa, New York is a bit cold, not as warm and sunny as Miami," he said, his voice steady, as if they were just making small talk. "You're not young anymore, but you're still burning with energy like a flame. After getting out of prison, shouldn't you slow down a bit? Enjoy life, spend time with your family—wouldn't that be better?"
Jimmy let out an "Oh," then leaned back in his seat.
"Are you telling me how to live my life?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Where'd you learn to talk like that? You sound like some old guy waiting to become a grandfather. Did Anthony Salerno teach you that? I heard Carlo Gambino comes here a lot. Did he teach you too?"
"Mr. Gambino gave me some guidance," Luca replied calmly. "As someone younger, I'm still learning how to deal with seniors like you."
Luca remained cautious. Toward someone like Gambino—the highest-ranking Mafia boss still alive—he felt respect, curiosity, and a lingering sense of wariness. As for those who were already dead, the feeling was different. Stories were one thing, reality was another.
The same applied to Hoffa.
In the original trajectory, Hoffa would die before Gambino, and one by one, the old giants would disappear.
Thinking of that, Luca glanced at Frank, who was sitting beside them with a rare, peacemaker's smile, trying to soften the tension caused by Hoffa's sharp tone.
Luca couldn't help but think—
When the day comes and you're the one sent to kill Hoffa… will you still be able to smile like that?
After chatting for a while, Hoffa showed no intention of changing the subject, so Luca decided to cut straight to the point.
"Frank went to a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting," he said. "So tell me—how can I help you?"
Both sides already knew why they were here, but Luca wanted Hoffa to say it himself.
It was about attitude.
When it came time to ask, Hoffa hesitated. His eyes flickered as he looked at Luca's young face, and for several seconds, he couldn't bring himself to say the word.
Frank chuckled. "Jimmy, come on. What are you hesitating for?"
"I hope you—"
Hoffa stopped mid-sentence.
The moment the words left his mouth, he felt humiliated.
He was actually asking a Mafia kid for help.
A man the President himself had once relied on… now in this position?
"I hope you'll support me," Hoffa said, avoiding Luca's gaze. "And take part. You know what I mean."
"I don't."
"I'm running for chairman," Hoffa said bluntly. "I want your support in this election."
Frank noticed a trace of melancholy flash across his old friend's face.
He sighed inwardly.
The man who once stood tall and unyielding… now lowering himself in front of someone younger.
A brief silence filled the room.
Luca looked at the gray-haired man and spoke softly.
"You think New York is too cold… so why not just stay in Florida?"
"If I go enjoy the sun alone, what about the workers who support me?" Hoffa shot back. "Do they just keep freezing through winter?"
"I know you care about them," Luca said, his tone sharpening slightly. "But take a good look—have their lives gotten worse since you went to prison? Have wages dropped? Has insurance gotten worse? Are they still driving broken-down trucks, or brand-new ones?"
"All you've heard on your trip—was it complaints… or hope?"
One question after another.
"It's already April," Luca added. "The snow in New York has melted."
Hoffa fell silent for a few seconds, then shook his head.
"Luca… are you talking to me as a union man, or as Mafia?"
"If you're talking as a union man, then you should support me. Frank Fitzsimmons is nothing but a puppet—a puppet chairman! Workers need a real leader. Someone who can fight for them, like I did."
"And if you're talking as Mafia," Hoffa continued, "then you should support me even more. I can get a presidential pardon. I can get backing from the President and the federal government. That's power you people need."
Luca smiled faintly.
If that were true, maybe it would be worth considering.
But it wasn't.
That pardon hadn't come from influence—it came from deals. Money. Transactions.
And the White House had already set conditions.
Hoffa just chose to ignore them.
Luca understood exactly what Hoffa's real leverage was.
His influence over millions of truck drivers.
Though after prison—and after Luca had quietly pulled away part of that support—it wasn't as overwhelming as before.
His other leverage was even more dangerous.
Evidence.
Decades of cooperation with the Mafia meant Hoffa knew far too much.
If he flipped, countless people would fall.
That was why the Mafia never pushed him too far.
But Luca wasn't part of the old guard.
He didn't carry that same burden.
"Why are you so obsessed with the chairman's seat, Mr. Hoffa?" Luca asked. "It's not like you're short on money."
"It's not about money!" Hoffa snapped instantly.
"Then what is it?" Luca pressed calmly. "Tell me what you really want. What do you want from the union? I'll consider it seriously."
"I told you—it's not about anything else!"
Hoffa's voice rose.
"That's my union! Mine!"
His emotions spiraled upward.
"She's my child!" he shouted. "How could I ever hand her over to someone else?!"
Luca paused slightly.
"I never said it wasn't yours," he replied. "It is yours. It always will be. But maybe it's time to step back and run things from behind the scenes."
"We can't step back!" Hoffa slammed his fist. "If we step back, we lose control—and then we're finished!"
He had joined the union at eighteen.
Built it from tens of thousands into millions.
Standardized wages across the entire country.
Controlled the lifeline of transportation.
Even the President had to respect it.
That wasn't just work.
That was his life.
Luca fell silent.
Now he understood—this wasn't something money could measure.
This was obsession.
The kind that couldn't be negotiated away.
No wonder Mariggio had said Hoffa would never hand over the keys.
For him, the union wasn't power.
It was everything.
Some stories couldn't be changed.
At best, you could slow them down.
But you couldn't move them.
Hoffa wanted to weld himself to that chair until the very end.
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[Character Card: Jimmy Hoffa]
[Rank: S]
[Source: The Irishman]
[Skills]
[Rage & Union Domination]
Description: "I heard you paint houses." The raw, fiery charisma that bends the Teamsters to your will.
Effect:
Inflammatory Oratory: Increases provocation and morale-boosting effects by +50% when addressing Union members.
Industrial Sabotage: Increases Strike success rate by +70%.
Prison Logic: While incarcerated, the Union retains absolute power; remote decision-making efficiency is boosted by +50%.
Laundering Pipeline: Conversion rate for cleaning funds through Union pension funds or accounts is increased by +30%.
Requirements: Position: Chairman/President of the Teamsters | Bond Level: Close Friend+ | Skill Fragments: 100
[Union Tyrant]
Description: You are the Union, and the Union is you. Not even the President can move a truck without your say-so.
Effect:
Absolute Loyalty: Increases all Union member loyalty by +40%.
Federal Deterrence: Grants a +20% resistance against Federal Government pressure, FBI investigations, or RICO indictments.
Kingmaker: When backing external political campaigns (Congress, Governor, or President), voter cohesion and mobilization are increased by +50%.
Requirements: Position: Chairman of the Teamsters | Bond Level: Partner+ | Skill Fragments: 200
[Bond: Attention]
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Luca's pupils shrank slightly.
As expected of a legendary union leader—every skill revolved around power.
If he ever obtained these abilities and controlled the union, even presidential candidates would have to come to him.
But the conditions were too harsh.
And the government would never allow it.
The chairman's seat was a spotlight.
Sit in it—and you become a target for life.
Luca suppressed the thought.
Controlling someone like Frank Fitzsimmons from behind the scenes was far safer.
Just slightly less effective.
As he was about to speak, Hoffa interrupted again.
"Luca, your people in New Jersey listen to you. They respect you. They trust you. I need that support. That's fair."
"I'm back," Hoffa said firmly. "It's time I take back what's mine."
"I understand," Luca said slowly. "But peace is hard-earned. Frank Fitzsimmons keeps things stable. People have jobs. They have income. Everything is calm. Why disrupt that?"
"The union is your child," he added, "but we've taken good care of her. You've seen that."
"That's not peace—that's stagnation!" Hoffa snapped. "You know exactly who's controlling Fitz! You call it stability—I call it control! The union needs fighters, not puppets!"
"That's not an excuse," Luca replied calmly. "That's reality. For your sake—and your family's. Think about your children. A peaceful retirement isn't a bad thing."
"We can arrange it. Safe. Comfortable."
"Peace?" Hoffa laughed harshly. "You want me to roll over? I'm not taking charity."
Seeing things escalate, Frank quickly stepped in.
"Jimmy, calm down. Luca's trying to help."
At that moment, Luca's eyes turned cold.
"Mr. Hoffa," he said quietly, "let me ask you something."
"If I support you—what do I get in return?"
"What Frank Fitzsimmons can offer… can you offer the same?"
"There's no such thing as a free lunch."
"So tell me—what are you willing to trade for it?"
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