When Luca received the message, he was in a small rural town on the northern outskirts of the chaos. Detroit was only getting busier—and dirtier—and Luca had already wrapped up most of what he needed to do. Now, he could step back, keep his distance, and watch the whole mess unfold from the sidelines like it was premium cable.
"The deceased was an underage drug dealer from YBI."
Over the phone, Leon—who was still in Detroit—briefed him on the situation. Among the furious Black groups, the YBI drug cartel was, without a doubt, the most enraged. From their perspective, they were just minding their own business—moving product, making money—and then suddenly the police kicked in the door and raided their hideout. And instead of cracking down on drugs, the cops spent half their time asking about a missing tanker truck.
What the hell does that have to do with us?
Aren't those BMF the ones who love robbing people?
You wanna see us rob somebody? Fine. We'll rob somebody.
Without a single word from the top, the street-level soldiers—already boiling with resentment and convinced the deck was stacked against them—lost their damn minds. Looting, robbery, extortion—you name it. They were like a pack of starved wolves finally slipping the leash, tearing into anything and everything in their path.
The kids followed suit. Like father, like son. They saw the chaos and wanted a piece of it
If they couldn't afford it, they stole it.
White-owned supermarkets? Basically 24/7 self-service buffets.
Eventually, one white shop owner snapped. He picked up a brand-new hunting rifle and blew the head off a teenage Black thief.
The kid had been holding a gun, pointing it at him like he was playing Boy Scout, expecting the guy to surrender.
Instead, the shop owner pulled out a rifle with a barrel longer than the kid's leg.
Wrong move.
When the case broke, Philip was still tied up with the courts and prosecutors, and media outlets across the U.S. were still locked in heated debates over how he should be sentenced. Then this happened—and just like that, public opinion exploded all over again.
Black–white tensions? Officially off the charts.
Luca talked it over with Brian and Keung. Both of them found the whole thing hard to wrap their heads around. Detroit played by a completely different rulebook compared to New York.
Brian shook his head. "First time in Detroit, and I already miss Los Angeles. I thought that place had enough gunfire."
Keung, meanwhile, had laser focus on one thing. "Anyone using kids to move drugs should rot in prison."
"Careful what you wish for," Luca said lightly.
He knew full well that with him stepping back, Detroit had lost whatever thin layer of "peace ambassador" and "anti-drug ambassador" influence he'd been projecting. Without that pressure, things were spiraling fast. A little reputation wasn't enough anymore—what this city needed now was a bloody lesson.
Only then would the rioters think twice.
They chatted for a bit longer before Brian suddenly asked, "Hey, Dove, why didn't the other guys come with us?"
A lot of the crew had come to Detroit this time.
Luca chuckled. "Somebody's gotta keep the business running."
In early September, the case of the white shop owner who shot the Black "thief" went to trial before Philip's case, at a Detroit courthouse.
The ruling came down fast.
Self-defense.
Surveillance footage clearly showed the victim was armed, had threatened the shop owner, and attempted to damage property. The headshot? A bit excessive—especially since the victim was a minor—but still within the gray zone.
Final sentence: two years' probation, 200 hours of community service, and a $500 fine.
Translation? Not even a day in jail.
The Black community exploded.
Blatant discrimination.
So a white life was worth more than a Black one?
The backlash was immediate. "Zero-dollar shopping" incidents surged again, and white-owned businesses across Detroit were boycotted—or worse. Many believed the courts were biased, and that bias was now bleeding directly into Philip's case.
Protests escalated so badly that the trial was moved to Michigan's state capital. A city with a majority white population.
The trial date: late September.
The judge? White.
The jury? A mix of whites, Latinos, and Asians.
Black jurors?
Not a single one.
Media swarmed the city. Reporters flooded Detroit's streets, and even the truck drivers' union found itself surrounded—by cameras, protesters, and a whole lot of anger.
Why?
Because the layoff list had been leaked.
And it hit like a gut punch.
Hoffa hadn't just failed to deliver—he'd apparently cut Black drivers loose, leaving them jobless.
Why should someone like that still lead the union?
Why should Black drivers support him anymore?
The protests snowballed, spreading across Detroit like wildfire.
And they didn't stop.
Not until the day Philip's trial began.
That day, as the trial got underway in the capital, Bobby Mercer and Jerry Mercer pulled up outside the union headquarters—only to find the entrance completely blocked.
A sea of protesters.
Black drivers. Union members. Angry, loud, and not going anywhere.
Signs everywhere:
"Jimmy Hoffa exploits Black workers to enrich whites!"
"Hoffa fires Black drivers to please white businesses!"
"TRAITOR! LACKEY!"
"I NEED A JOB!"
Bobby frowned. "Since when did Uncle Hoffa fire Black drivers? These people are out of their minds—they're just looking for a fight."
Jerry sighed. "There is a layoff list floating around. I don't know where it came from, and Hoffa didn't approve it—but now everyone's seen it."
The crowd kept growing. Dozens turned into hundreds. The chanting got louder.
They wanted answers.
And they wanted them now.
Then, suddenly, several white men stepped out from the gate, swinging sticks like they were itching for a fight.
"Mr. Hoffa says you Black bastards should shut up and get the hell out of the way!"
Wrong thing to say.
Instant ignition.
Shoving turned into chaos in seconds.
Jerry narrowed his eyes. Those white men didn't look familiar. Not union guys—outsiders.
That wasn't a coincidence.
A bad feeling crept in.
Meanwhile, tucked away in an alley near the crowd, several Black gunmen waited silently, eyes locked on the union entrance.
They knew Hoffa was inside.
They weren't here to protest.
They were here for something else.
Back in the Lansing, Capital of Michigan, the trial was reaching its climax.
People weren't asking for much.
Just a verdict.
A result.
Justice.
They wanted Philip punished. They wanted the system to prove it wasn't rigged. They wanted jobs, stability—something.
Anything.
Farther away, Leon had already zeroed in on the union entrance through his sniper scope.
At the same time, a car rolled into Detroit.
Behind the wheel sat Frank Sheeran, the Irishman.
He glanced up at the smoke rising in the distance, his face blank—but his eyes carried a cold, numb edge.
Inside the union building, Jimmy Hoffa was being interviewed.
"I did not sacrifice Black jobs for white political support," he said firmly. "Nor did I try to curry favor with white business owners."
Downstairs chaos made that statement sound… questionable at best.
Next to him, a television broadcasted the trial live.
The courtroom was packed.
Outside, hundreds of Black protesters gathered, holding signs:
"No justice! No peace!"
"White juries = racial murder."
Bright red letters. Hard to ignore.
If this verdict didn't satisfy them… no one knew what would happen next.
Hoffa stared at the screen, silent.
How the hell did a stolen tanker truck lead to this?
A reporter pressed him. "Mr. Hoffa, what outcome are you hoping for?"
No answer.
On-screen, the lawyers were going at it.
The defense laid out evidence—videos showing drug dealers resisting arrest, records of violent crimes, proof they were wanted fugitives. They argued the police followed proper escalation-of-force procedures.
The prosecution pushed back hard—police brutality, excessive force, why shoot after surrender, why fire after suspects were already on their knees?
Back and forth.
Relentless.
Across the country, people watched.
Waiting.
For the gavel.
And then—
Bang.
The verdict was delivered.
Guilty.
But suspended sentence.
Three years' probation. Community service. A fine.
No prison.
Philip—and the officers involved—were released on the spot.
Inside the courtroom, grief and anger exploded. Some shouted, some cried, some just sat there, hollow.
The white officers?
Smiling.
For African-Americans, it was a dark moment. No way around it.
When the news reached Detroit—
That was it.
The fuse burned out.
The bomb went off.
BOOM.
The union's front gate erupted in flames.
Protesters turned into rioters.
Molotov cocktails flew. Doors were smashed. People stormed inside, destroying everything in sight.
Nearby white-owned shops were looted and wrecked.
Crowds blocked major roads, dragged non-Black drivers out of their cars, and beat them in the streets.
"Kill the whites!"
The chant echoed.
The government wouldn't give them justice—but expected peace?
They'd had enough.
If they couldn't have it…
They'd take it.
Inside the union hall, chaos reigned—smashing, burning, screaming.
Through it all, Hoffa came down the stairs, surrounded by a group of white men.
Same as always.
He grabbed a microphone, stepped onto the stage, and said:
"The verdict has shaken the foundation of justice… I urge everyone to remain calm."
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