The transaction took place that same afternoon in Manhattan's Chinatown. Luca hadn't set foot here in years—probably not since the days when Mariggio was still knee-deep in the narcotics trade and the Lucchese family maintained loose ties with the local Triads.
Back then, the Bonanno family dominated New York's drug scene, practically controlling every shipment that came in or out. Then came the rise of Frank Lucas, which shattered that monopoly and threw the entire market into chaos, turning it into an all-out free-for-all.
Looking at the Five Families now, aside from the still-dominant Bonannos, the others had quietly scaled back their direct involvement. It wasn't that they'd abandoned the drug trade—they'd simply moved up the ladder, becoming high-level, deeply buried suppliers instead of street operators. That vacuum gave Chinatown's syndicates room to rise, and over the past two years, they'd stepped into the spotlight.
The moment Luca entered Chinatown, a ripple of unease spread through the streets. The local dealers and low-level enforcers—the so-called "49 Boys"—felt it instantly, like something dangerous had just walked into their territory. On the surface, though, nothing had changed. The streets were still packed, lively, and deceptively calm.
Ma Hon Keung, walking beside Luca, grinned. "Honestly, aside from more tourists, this feels just like Hong Kong. When I first got here earlier this year, I had to double-check I'd actually left Hong Kong."
Keung's green card had been sorted out a while ago. After helping the New York authorities crack the gold heist, the government had been more than happy to fast-track his residency.
"Uncle Bill and my dad used to run around Chinatown back in the day," Keung added, his tone turning softer. "After my dad passed, Uncle Bill moved us out to the Bronx."
Luca caught the shift in his expression. He knew the backstory. Keung's father had been one of the earliest Hong Kong immigrants trying to make it in New York—and a skilled martial artist to boot. As for how he made money back then… well, there were only so many fast ways to get rich. Luca had never pressed for details, and neither had Uncle Bill. The move out of Chinatown said enough—they'd been avoiding something.
Still, from what Keung had described, the Triads here held him in high regard, likely out of respect for his father.
"Uncle Huang actually asked me to come back and work for him," Keung muttered. "But when I told him I was opening a furniture store, he looked shocked. Guess he didn't expect me to go legit—or do this well."
Luca smirked to himself. Trying to poach my guy? Not happening.
Uncle Huang was the current head of the Chinatown Triads. Luca had seen him before, but the man wasn't exactly "card material." An old boss who barely lasted long enough to make an impression didn't exactly scream prestige.
Luca stopped in front of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, the kind of front every major syndicate hid behind. He wasn't here for nostalgia—this was business, specifically the Detroit-to-Hong Kong smuggling route.
Inside, he was quickly escorted upstairs into an office where several elderly men in crisp white suits were waiting, including Mr. Huang. These were the heads of their respective branches. Behind them stood a younger man in an equally pristine white suit.
[Character Card: Joey Tai]
[Rank: S]
[Source: Year of the Dragon]
[Skill: Elegant Mask; Hongmen Leader]
[Bond: Strangers]
Luca gave him a measured look. Joey Tai was striking, polished—but beneath that elegance was something predatory. In another timeline, this was the man who would have his own father-in-law killed, purge the old guard, and turn the Triads into a global narcotics empire before eventually being taken down by the police.
Frankly, Luca found that ending a little hard to believe. With Joey's intelligence and ruthlessness, getting taken out that easily felt… convenient.
As Luca observed the room, Joey was doing the same. They were roughly the same age, but the difference in presence was obvious. Joey had clawed his way up through connections and calculated moves; Luca, on the other hand, stood backed by the full weight of the Lucchese machine. Even standing alone, he could face down the entire room without blinking.
Joey remained silent behind Huang, watching as the elders began discussing business.
Luca got straight to it. "Cars. We've got access to the big players—Ford and General Motors."
He broke it down cleanly. Ford covered Ford and Lincoln, while GM included Buick, Cadillac, and Chevrolet. These weren't exactly showroom purchases—more like gray-market acquisitions out of Detroit. Used cars, refurbished units, even straight-from-the-line inventory—it didn't matter.
"Selling them legally overseas is a nightmare with tariffs," Luca continued. "But smuggling? That's a different story. I handle supply—you handle getting them into Hong Kong safely."
"We can all make money here. Whether it's tolls or a percentage, we can work it out."
Huang looked interested, but uneasy. "Dove, smuggling hasn't been easy lately. Hong Kong customs has tightened inspections—especially on American ships. They're not just checking paperwork anymore. They're tearing vessels apart."
"And even if the cars get through," he added, "who's buying? Japanese imports are cheaper. That's what people prefer."
Luca didn't flinch. "Cheap cars mean cheap profits. You already move 'paper cars' to the mainland China, Taiwan, Southeast Asia—fine. But luxury American cars? That's where the money is."
He laid it out plainly. China's import tariffs on cars were sitting around 200%. Even used vehicles could turn massive profits. And in Hong Kong and Guangdong, there were entire workshops dedicated to breaking down and rebuilding cars overnight before pushing them into the mainland.
"Hong Kong's a hub. You already know that. This isn't a gamble—it's a gold mine."
That's when the real fight started: profit splits.
The elders dug in hard, demanding both toll fees and a larger cut. Luca didn't budge an inch—his stance was clear: take it or leave it. That only made things worse, and soon the old men started grumbling in Cantonese, assuming he wouldn't understand.
"These Italians are vultures! We do all the work and they want the lion's share!"
"They think we're their delivery boys!"
"Seventy-thirty? Yeah—seventy for them, thirty for us. What is this, charity?"
"They don't even offer a proper cigar!"
Luca let them vent for a moment, then smiled lightly and start speaking cantonese. "If you've got concerns, feel free to say them out loud."
The room froze.
Every eye snapped to him. Then to Keung. Then back again.
He understood. And spoke it.
Even Joey blinked, caught off guard. The entire atmosphere turned painfully awkward.
Huang cleared his throat, scrambling to recover. "Dove, we just think the risks are high right now. We need to consult our Hong Kong partners. Let's… discuss further and visit the SSR Club once we've reached a decision."
Luca's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course."
He didn't linger. With a nod to Keung, he turned and walked out.
[Bond: Attention]
Once they were gone, Huang spoke quietly. "I don't think this 'Dove of Peace' is serious about working with us."
Terrence Wei frowned. "Since when does the Lucchese family deal in cars? I thought they were just glorified garbage men in New York."
Joey answered calmly. "Luca's different. He runs the Teamsters, controls gasoline distribution, and doesn't touch drugs. He's the richest man in their family—and he's got Detroit locked down."
That last part dampened the room. Luca didn't deal drugs—and worse, he didn't allow it on his turf.
Huang shifted the topic. "Joey, head to Boston tonight. That shipment of chips is critical. And make sure nothing happens to the Chinese officials."
Joey nodded. "Understood."
That night, near Boston Harbor, inside a run-down factory, cars rolled in one by one. Members of the Winter Hill Gang—including Frank Costello and Billy—stepped out.
Every move was being watched.
Thanks to Billy's intel, the Boston police had wired the place inside and out with cameras. The plan was simple: wait for the exchange, then move in with airtight evidence and bury Costello for good.
But thanks to Colin Sullivan—the mole—Costello already knew.
He wasn't worried. The chips in his case were fake. Even if they weren't, he had contingencies lined up. This whole operation? Just theater—for both the cops and certain friends in the FBI.
The hunter becomes the hunted.
Then, as the deal began, everything went sideways.
The police monitors flickered. Static.
Blind spots appeared.
Signals dropped.
Every phone in the building went dead.
"Son of a bitch!" Sergeant Dignam slammed the console. "They're jamming us! They're moving out the back!"
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