That same evening, major media outlets across the country received another batch of anonymous emails, once again containing videotapes and footage related to the apartment murder case—but this time, the clips had a beginning and an end, along with multiple perspectives that filled in the missing context.
The footage showed a large number of underage children, along with drugs and firearms. The identities of those Black individuals were immediately obvious—drug traffickers.
Many journalists felt a chill run down their spines as they watched Black drug dealers hand over large bags of white powder to children, even going as far as putting guns into their hands. The case was already highly sensitive, but the involvement of children pushed it into an entirely new level of controversy.
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At the same time, the police released additional information, exposing the identities and criminal records of the traffickers, including drug trafficking, murder, pimping, and coercing minors into dealing drugs. They also emphasized that the raid and arrests had been conducted lawfully and in full compliance with procedure.
The incident triggered another nationwide uproar. Public opinion began to shift, with many people reversing their stance and arguing that those damn drug dealers had gotten what they deserved, and that the police had done nothing wrong.
However, a large number of voices still questioned the issue of "excessive force." Anti-death-penalty organizations, such as the "Death Row Guardians," insisted that the police had no right to execute suspects who had already surrendered.
These conflicting viewpoints sparked heated debates across every level of society.
Did a life filled with heinous crimes still deserve "respect"?
To Bobby, the question wasn't even worth his time. In his world, an enemy was an enemy—skin color didn't mean a damn thing. If you laid a hand on his mother, he wouldn't just come for you; he'd erase everyone who shared your name without a second thought.
With Leon's assistance, the group successfully assassinated Victor Sweet, the leader of the Sweet gang, and dumped his body into the river. Ironically, this man had originally been the main antagonist in the storyline—a rare card holder with skills—but Luca hadn't even met him in person before he ended up dead and cold, contributing only a few skill fragments.
When Bobby returned to pick up his mother, he updated Luca on the situation.
"Sweet said they didn't steal the tanker truck. I even shoved a gun down his throat, and he still wouldn't admit it."
Luca: "…"
If that guy had actually confessed and returned the truck, I wouldn't even know how to handle it.
"Then I guess it wasn't them," Luca replied casually, clearly no longer concerned about the tanker truck.
Still, Bobby showed his loyalty by offering to help Luca recover the gasoline. Part of that came from wanting to repay the favor, but part of it was also for the sake of his fellow union members—solving the robbery would restore confidence among the truck drivers and help secure Uncle Hoffa's support base.
Of course, Luca saw right through that little calculation but didn't call it out. Instead, he shifted the topic.
"How's Jerry's redevelopment plan? Has the city council changed their position?"
Bobby shook his head, his expression sour. "Not yet."
Luca found it ironic. The councilor was Black. Jerry was Black. The Sweet gang was also Black. Yet somehow, they were the ones making things hardest for each other, while the white side hadn't even started squeezing Jerry yet.
"I'll make some inquiries for you," Luca said with a smile, offering his help. "If everything goes smoothly, the project should be able to start within a few days. Which property are you planning to renovate?"
Before Bobby could even respond, Luca continued, proposing that Jerry could convert a gas station into a business venture, with Luca supplying fuel at the lowest price in Detroit.
The two brothers hesitated for a moment, clearly wanting to say something, but in the end, they simply thanked him and left with their mother.
After getting into the car, Bobby frowned slightly.
"Mom… did you ask the Dove for help?"
He had tried to repay Luca by helping him find the tanker truck, but now things were becoming increasingly entangled. The relationship between Hoffa and Luca was already strained, and Bobby felt stuck in the middle.
You can't ride the fence forever.
Mrs. Mercer shook her head. "I didn't talk to him about the redevelopment. We talked about something else. Bobby… you know Luca is an orphan too, right? His mother abandoned him when he was four, and his father died several years after. By the time he was ten, he was already facing the world alone."
After a brief pause, she recalled Luca's words:
"If I had met a mother like Mrs. Mercer when I was young… maybe my life would've turned out completely differently."
She couldn't fully describe the look in his eyes at that moment—it was complicated, layered with something she couldn't quite put into words.
Bobby and Jerry were both stunned. They had never imagined Luca had such a past. The always warm, smiling young man didn't look like someone carrying that kind of history.
Maybe it was because of that shared background that Bobby felt less guarded toward him. His impression of Luca improved.
If he hadn't been adopted, he might've ended up far worse—maybe just another street thug, or even one of those kids running drugs for YBI.
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That night, at a restaurant called "Red Fox" in the northern suburbs, Luca met Zerelli again. They discussed Jerry's redevelopment project and union business, while Luca casually observed the restaurant—the very place where Hoffa would suffer in the original storyline.
He would eat here, get into Frank Fitzsimmons' car… and then vanish without a trace.
It reminded Luca of another restaurant in Little Italy, New York, where Joe Gallo had been gunned down during his birthday dinner—Frank walking in calmly, pretending to head to the restroom, then turning back and unloading two guns in front of Gallo's family.
Clean. Efficient. No wasted motion.
Pulling his thoughts back, Luca handed a document to Zerelli.
"You've got quite a few people in the Detroit truck drivers' union, right? This is a layoff list. I want you to cut some of the Black positions."
"Layoffs?" Zerelli frowned. "Why? This will cause serious backlash."
"The positions need to shift to white communities," Luca said calmly. "Right now, white business owners in Detroit are extremely dissatisfied. You've seen what's been happening. Just because Philip killed a few drug dealers, they think their rights have been violated—and now they're boycotting white businesses."
There had been multiple incidents of robbery and looting targeting white-owned stores on both the East and West sides. The anger was raw, uncontrolled, as if destruction itself could somehow earn them dignity.
"Zerelli, this is already affecting business. We'll need to hire more white drivers."
The smell of gunpowder was already in the air, and Zerelli could feel it.
"Layoffs will only make things worse," he said with a sigh.
Luca smiled slightly. "This list isn't a weapon—it's leverage. I'm not interested in getting deeply involved in Detroit's union affairs, but for the sake of business, I'm offering a suggestion. You can take it to Hoffa, or even bring it to those Black council members."
"If white people can't discipline them, then let them handle their own people. If they can't even keep things under control, then there's no point doing business in Detroit."
Zerelli flipped through the list—over a hundred names, all Black.
"You support Philip?" he asked.
Luca casually twisted open an Oreo. "I support eliminating gangs and thugs. That benefits your family too. No gangs means stronger control over Detroit—and better business for both of us, right?"
The document suddenly felt like a hot potato in Zerelli's hands. Releasing it would definitely ignite even more outrage, but at the same time, white business owners were already refusing to work with Black drivers.
Luca, after all, wasn't staying in Detroit forever—but Zerelli's family is.
"You decide what to do," Luca added. "I can even give your family a bigger cut. I can't control Detroit—only your local Mafia can. So do your job."
Zerelli glanced at the Oreo wrapper. The Dove always seemed to snack on one during conversations. Strange habit—but one thing was clear.
This guy cared about one thing: money.
Layoffs were just a way to reassure white business owners. Cracking down on gangs was just clearing the road for business.
Was he really just a businessman?
Zerelli let out a bitter laugh. "Looks like those drivers are going to suffer for other people's mess. I'll arrange for someone to talk to them."
When Hoffa received the layoff list, the paper itself seemed soaked in hostility toward Black workers. Maybe it wasn't racism—maybe it was just business. Remove them, and profits go up.
But layoffs would destabilize the union. Could he still win over Black voters?
What he didn't know was that someone had already taken the list to the city council to negotiate with Black representatives.
Layoffs… or control your own people and create a stable environment for business?
Philip's actions had enraged many, but the law would handle that. It wasn't an excuse for chaos.
Yet while politicians, criminals, and businessmen argued behind closed doors—
Detroit was already boiling over.
Somewhere on the East Side, a white shop owner shot and killed a Black teenager during a robbery.
This was the first death of a Black minor since Philip's incident.
And just like that—
The fire exploded.
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