Hoffa took a deep breath, shoved aside the two men arguing in front of him, and strode straight to the podium at the center of the hall, then slammed his hand down on the table with a loud bang that instantly drew everyone's attention.
"Shut up! All of you!"
Grabbing the microphone, his voice carried an undeniable weight as his gaze swept across the room like a searchlight, cutting through anger, anxiety, and confusion alike.
"Just look at yourselves!"
When Hoffa's temper flared, it came like a storm.
"The gasoline wasn't stolen by any of you—it was stolen by those parasites hiding in the shadows, feeding on the blood and sweat of working people! They didn't just take a few tanker trucks—they stole your jobs, they stole the safety of out-of-town drivers, they stole money straight out of the gas station owners' pockets, they stole the treatment local drivers deserve, and they stole the dignity of the entire Detroit working class!"
He paused deliberately, letting the word gangsters settle into everyone's ears like a label that wouldn't come off.
To unite people, you needed a common enemy.
Simple, Reliable, and Effective.
Hoffa had used this tactic countless times before, except back then the enemy had been the federal government and greedy capitalists.
This time? Gangsters.
And notably, he never once added the word "Black" in front of it.
"Now look at what you're doing!" Hoffa slammed the table again.
"You out-of-town drivers!"
He pointed straight at the East Coast group.
"You think it's the local guys stabbing you in the back? That's ridiculous—don't be stupid! What is this union? This union is your home! It's here to protect you so you can do your job, deliver your fuel, and take your money home in one piece!"
"We belong to the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. I don't care where you're from or which city you came out of—as long as you wear that badge, you're one of us. You're brothers!"
Even after years in prison, Jimmy Hoffa still carried overwhelming authority in Detroit.
His words worked.
People started to calm down.
Eyes turned toward him, filled with expectation—the same expectation they once had, back when he used to lead them through crises.
Hoffa raised his fist.
"Someone threatening you? Good. Tell me who they are. Tell me where they are!"
"The union isn't weak. We'll show anyone who dares touch our people, dares touch our trucks, that Detroit isn't their playground!"
"The union protects every driver who follows its rules—East Coast, West Coast, doesn't matter!"
Then his gaze shifted toward the gas station owners and white businessmen, his tone softening—but only slightly.
"Gentlemen, I understand your situation. You paid in advance, and now your fuel's gone. You're bleeding money, and your customers are already looking elsewhere."
"But tell me—who caused this?"
"The gangs!"
"The criminals who wrecked the system!"
"Will arguing with each other fix it? Will blaming the union make gasoline fall out of the sky? Will it magically bring your shipments back?"
"No."
He didn't even give them time to answer.
"The only solution is to get the gasoline back, reopen the road to profit, and drive those thieves out!"
"I—Jimmy Hoffa—promise you this: the tanker trucks will return to Detroit!"
"Not just the West Side—the East Side too! Every mile north and south of 8 Mile Road!"
"We will make those gangsters pay ten times over—no, a hundred times over!"
"The union will protect your rights. We can negotiate better terms—but you need to support us. Support me."
"And stop fighting each other!"
"Your customers? They're the families of our drivers. Protecting your business is protecting our workers' livelihoods. On this issue—we are on the same side."
The message was clear.
Shift the blame outward.
Tie interests together.
Offer just enough hope to keep everyone in line.
And for businessmen who only cared about profit—combined with Hoffa's reputation—that was enough.
No one objected.
Finally, Hoffa turned toward the local drivers—the restless, envious, and openly hostile ones.
"And you—my union brothers!"
"You want better wages? Better benefits? Damn right you do! That's what I built this union for!"
"But now you're targeting your own brothers just because they came from out of town?"
"Idiots!"
"Who's the real enemy?"
"Not them!"
"It's the gangs—the ones who rob, who take without working, who destroy everything we've built!"
Hoffa didn't discriminate among his own people.
Right or wrong didn't matter.
Only loyalty.
And enemies.
If possible, he'd take the out-of-town drivers too—even if they worked under Luca.
Because right now?
Luca wasn't here.
Which meant Hoffa could speak freely.
His voice grew louder, more intense.
"The strength of this union comes from unity!"
"What those out-of-town drivers are getting today? That should be your future!"
"The union isn't for infighting—it's for fighting anyone who threatens us!"
"Driving them out is like cutting off our own arm!"
"What we should be doing is making sure every single driver gets what they deserve!"
"I promise you—we will fight for better contracts for local drivers too!"
"But first—we unite!"
"We put everything we have into wiping out the cancer that's eating away at our livelihoods!"
That did it.
Eyes lit up.
Hope mixed with anger.
Exactly what he wanted.
Hoffa raised both arms like a war general.
"Listen carefully—right now, there are no outsiders, no locals, no white bosses, no Black workers!"
He deliberately skipped over race again and doubled down on a single point.
"There is only one thing that matters—we are union brothers!"
"And we have one enemy—those gangsters who steal the fruits of our labor!"
"From this moment on, the union mobilizes everything we've got!"
"We work with the police, we mobilize our people, we find those trucks, and we bring those bastards to justice!"
"We make sure every road used by union drivers stays open!"
"We show everyone—drivers, business owners, and the people of Detroit—what happens when you cross the union!"
"Remember this—Detroit might survive without gangs…"
"…but without truck drivers?"
"The whole city shuts down."
"It's not that we need this job."
"It's that this city needs us."
The effect was immediate.
Applause.
Cheers.
Shouts of Hoffa's name filled the hall.
The internal conflict didn't disappear—but it was buried, temporarily replaced by shared anger and renewed hope.
Hoffa didn't bother with a closing remark.
He simply turned and walked upstairs, leaving behind a resolute silhouette against a wave of noise.
Upstairs, Luca stood by the railing, looking down at the scene below, quietly exhaling.
Hoffa really was getting old.
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[Ding! You secretly guided Hoffa into stabilizing the internal conflict within the union and make Detroit Teamsters stability increased.]
[Reward: Skill Points x10]
[Reward: Skill Fragments x5]
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Luca smiled faintly.
This was exactly what he had expected.
He had handed Hoffa the perfect opportunity—and a man desperate for support was never going to let that slip away.
"We both want the same thing," Luca murmured. "The gangs in Detroit gone."
He paused.
"But this fire…"
"…will burn even the ones leading the charge."
In the following days, while Hoffa publicly stood up for union drivers and pushed back against gang influence, Philip found himself in a complicated position inside the Detroit Police Department.
The good news?
He had wiped out a YBI drug den, seized a large quantity of narcotics, and arrested multiple dealers.
A major achievement.
Those who died while "resisting arrest" were reduced to a few lines in an official report.
Philip could already see it—promotion, recognition, a bright future ahead.
The bad news?
The tanker trucks were still missing.
No matter how hard they interrogated the YBI suspects, nothing came out.
Which raised an uncomfortable question.
What if they got the wrong people?
As he sat at his desk thinking, his superior approached.
"There's an awards ceremony in a few days. Jimmy Hoffa will attend on behalf of the union—and they're providing major sponsorship for the department. You're leading the tanker case, so you'll be there too."
Philip's eyes lit up.
Even better.
Everything was falling into place.
At the same time, Luca picked up the phone.
"Send the footage to the media. National outlets."
"Let them see how white cops in Detroit treat Black citizens."
"Oh—and hire the best lawyers you can find. I don't care about the cost. Then contact the prosecutors and the courts."
"I want every single officer involved to walk free."
"They're not violent, racist cops."
"They're anti-drug heroes."
Luca's tone remained calm, almost detached.
"When people see their own being treated like this… what do you think they'll do?"
He answered his own question.
"They'll protest."
A faint smile appeared.
"But the hammer of the American justice system…"
"…doesn't come down on protest signs."
"It comes down on their heads."
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Shoutout to Jetson Yee, my latest P Knight! My cat gets a feast tonight.
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