TC (9-12) | ENG

9 — The Talent of Betrayal

The night had grown late. Along the main roads, traffic had thinned to a trickle. The great city—ablaze with glittering lights—had slipped into its hour of rest. Most people had turned in for the night, but not Reeve.

Inside an apartment, Reeve stood studying the body of a man as burly as Renato. The man lay unconscious, rendered helpless by sedatives. Utterly defenseless. Wasting no time, Reeve pulled the man's hand, making it look like he was holding a gun with his index finger on the trigger. Reeve placed the muzzle of the gun in the man's mouth and fired. Instantly, red liquid and the contents of the man's head stained the sofa and the pillows supporting his body, which now lay lifeless.

Renato emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. “Thanks, Sinner. I’m glad Bonetti’s sleeping with the fishes now. Let’s get out of here—I’ve already wiped my tracks,” he said. “You should do the same.”

“No need,” Reeve replied casually, lifting his hands to show the gloves he’d been wearing all along. “I’ve had gloves on. Besides, I didn’t touch anything except the corpse,” he added.

Renato nodded. “All right. You’re always smart—always calculating. Let’s go.”

Mentor and subordinate left together. A buoyant smile stayed plastered on Renato’s face all the way home, and Reeve smiled faintly, understanding why.

Maybe this is the last time I help you—make you happy, Renato. Enjoy it, Reeve thought.

“You don’t want to stop by?” Renato asked when they reached his house. “My wife made a huge batch of pasta this afternoon. You might like some.”

Reeve smiled and shook his head. “Thanks, Renato. I’m not hungry.”

“Really?” Renato unbuckled the seat belt stretched across his heavy belly. “If you change your mind and want to eat, just come in. And if I’m already asleep—you know where the spare key is, right?”

Reeve smiled again. “Of course. Thanks. Again.”

“Ah, don’t be formal with me. I already consider you family. You know that.”

Renato was always warm toward Reeve. It was only natural that he trusted him with everything. Reeve had been to his house countless times, always greeted with generous food. The deputy chief understood perfectly well that Reeve never filled his stomach with home-cooked meals—he was almost like a father figure to him.

“You always spoil me, Renato,” Reeve said.

“I know what life’s like for a bachelor like you. No one to take care of you, no one to cook for you. Even though my wife and I live separately, she still cooks for me regularly. There’s nothing wrong with sharing with someone I trust,” Renato said with a smile.

Reeve didn’t reply.

“So—if you get hungry later, come by. Okay?” Renato added before stepping out of the car.

The smile slid off Reeve’s face the moment Renato disappeared into the house. The polite mask was gone. He pressed the gas pedal and headed straight for the Burgueno residence.

Fortunately, Roman was still in his study when Reeve arrived.

“Reeve? What are you doing here?” Roman greeted him without lifting his eyes from the phone in his hand.

“Roman, can we talk for a moment?” Reeve asked, flicking a glance at the guards stationed in the room. “In private.”

Roman looked up, studying him. “Leave us,” he ordered the guards.

Roman kept his gaze on Reeve as the men filed out and closed the door behind them. The scarred young man clearly had something important to say.

“Sit,” Roman said. “What is it? Get to the point.”

Reeve took the chair across from him, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Rome. You know what’s been bothering me lately? It’s about Olive—your girlfriend.”

“Olive?” Roman’s brow furrowed. “What are you implying? I don’t want to hear that you’re interested in her.”

“No. Not that,” Reeve replied quickly. “I’ve never once thought of playing with fire with you, Rome. Never thought of stealing your woman. Not even close. What’s weighing on me is this…” Reeve drew a deep breath. “Olive was flirted with—courted—by one of your trusted men. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Roman stared at Reeve, his gaze sharp and unblinking.

“Of course Olive didn’t respond—you don’t need to doubt my friend for a second,” Reeve said calmly. “What you do need to do is deal with the man who dared to flirt with her.” He lowered his voice. “And I truly hate telling you this, Rome… because that man is none other than my own mentor.”

Silence stretched between them. Roman didn’t lift his gaze from the figure seated across from him. Reeve met his stare without blinking.

Roman felt his suspicion solidify into certainty.

“I know,” Roman said at last, breaking the quiet. “I’ve caught him exchanging looks with Olive more than once. And now you’ve seen him openly courting her yourself? Nice. He’s getting bolder.”

“And you let it happen?”

“What do you think I should do?” Roman countered. “I know you’re not speaking without an agenda, Reeve—I can see it in your eyes. Are you willing to handle this problem for me?”

A smile bloomed on Reeve’s lips—sharp, calculating. “I am,” he said without hesitation.

“You want his position, don’t you?” Roman asked casually.

“You really do see everything,” Reeve replied, half impressed. “I believe I’ve earned more right to be your deputy than he has. I’m the one who pulls the trigger—he only gives orders. And now he’s bold enough to touch what’s yours. If you let that slide, how far do you think he’ll go next?”

Roman nodded once. “I agree. Do what needs to be done.”

Armed with Roman’s permission—permission that sent a surge of euphoria through him—Reeve drove straight back to Renato’s house. Renato lived alone, in a secluded home surrounded by towering trees. The distance between his house and the nearest neighbors was generous—too generous. It was the perfect place for what Reeve intended to do that night.

Tonight, Reeve decided, I end this. All of it.

The house was dark. No lights burned inside.

He’s already asleep. Perfect, Reeve thought, cutting the engine.

He paused, motionless, as a flicker of doubt struck him without warning.

He’s my mentor, a voice whispered. The man who lifted me from the gutter—from a grimy, insignificant street thug—into a captain. My finances are better. I eat well. I take care of myself. I indulge my ego. I owe him everything. Why must I devour him?

Reeve shook his head and let out a soft, humorless chuckle.

Another voice rose, colder, firmer. This is a world where people devour one another. If you’re not the one being eaten, then you must be the one who eats. That’s all there is to it, Reeve. You already have the Don’s blessing. Why hesitate now?

There was no room for doubt. There could be none.

I’m already here. There’s no turning back.

Once his resolve was set, Reeve pulled on his gloves and stepped out of the car, slipping into Renato’s yard. He retrieved the spare key from beneath the flowerpot by the door and turned the lock.

Inside, the house lay silent and dark. No sound. Reeve moved carefully, soundlessly, heading straight for Renato’s bedroom. He eased the door open and peered inside.

Renato lay sprawled on the bed, fast asleep, his snores rising and falling steadily. He didn’t stir.

Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Reeve approached the unaware mentor and drew a revolver from his jacket pocket. A sliver of light from the bedside lamp illuminated Renato’s face—mouth slack, utterly defenseless.

He sleeps like a pig, Reeve thought. So deeply. He’s been careless all this time—never once doubting me. It seems Tonio wasn’t the only one who betrayed you, Renato. I did too.

I never imagined I could be infected by that virus called betrayal. Know this—I never meant to betray you. Forgive me. But this is something I must do.

Reeve brought the muzzle of the revolver right to Renato's forehead, between his eyes. Renato still didn't wake up.

It’s just business, Renato.

I am truly grateful for everything you’ve done for me. Farewell.

Reeve took a deep breath, then pulled the trigger.

Reeve smiled as he saw Gravano's large body lying lifeless, fresh blood dripping down and staining the pillowcase beneath him.

And thank you—once again. Because of you, I can take your place as Roman’s deputy. Rest in peace.

Moments later, Reeve left Renato’s house—without leaving behind a single trace of his presence.

10 – Reeve’s Clone

The central cloning laboratory.

Reeve Galante stood before a colossal incubation chamber, watching a naked body suspended inside it. A body that would one day be his. The technicians were in the middle of refining its physical form, sculpting it closer and closer to his own features. Once this stage was complete, the clone would be removed from the chamber, and the most critical phase of the process would begin: memory transfer.

Reeve let out a quiet, amused smile at the thought of it. One day, he would be sitting beside that naked body. A body that, with each passing hour, looked more unmistakably like him. He would sit there and pour the entire contents of his mind into something that was technically still inanimate, yet pulsing like a living human being.

Every trait. Every rot beneath the surface. Every experience and memory.

All of it would be uploaded through an electronic helmet wired like a damn parasite.

Damn, Reeve thought. Half a million dollars riding on that piece of wired trash? If it failed, everything would be gone. My money. My copied self. Everything. 

I hope those old bastards didn’t screw this up. Not with a business backed by the Burgueno clan.

Lost in his own thoughts, Reeve frowned. 

Honestly, I couldn’t picture how memory transfer actually worked. Spindler and Franglen promised confidentiality, no visual playback, no exposed imagery. Privacy above all else.

But how could an artificial body absorb everything inside my head?

My skills. My instincts. My nature. My experiences. My memories, like—

January 2012.

Reeve Galante was eleven years old. A handsome boy on the brink of adolescence, standing at the edge of a fragile and confusing phase of life.

He froze in disbelief as his parents each brought their lovers into the house.

He watched them scream at each other. Curse each other. Hit each other. All in defense of the people they were cheating with.

For a boy about to enter puberty, the pressure was suffocating. And it didn’t end quickly. It dragged on.

Until finally, Michael and Corinna Galante chose separation. Each left with their respective lover.

Shaken to his core, Reeve refused to choose either of them.

He let them go. But he did not go with them.

Instead, he chose to carve his own path.

He drifted through the frozen streets of New Yord, aimless, unanchored. The cold gnawed at his skin, but his heart was colder still. He scavenged. Hustled. Did whatever it took to keep food in his stomach.

That was how he became part of a street gang.

Robbery. Shoplifting. Theft. ATM skimming. Small-time hijackings. Every dirty thing that could turn a boy into a criminal, he did. Not for thrill. Not for pride. Simply to survive.

Eventually, he fell in with a car-theft ring, stripping vehicles down and turning metal into money.

Even before he turned sixteen, Reeve’s talent was unmistakable. He knew how to talk to people. How to lead them. How to design strategies that multiplied profit. His intelligence and natural authority were so apparent that the group’s actual leader began to feel uneasy.

That same intelligence would later catch the attention of Renato Gravano.

A man who would one day decide that Reeve Galante was worth molding into a made man.

And Reeve felt deeply grateful that he had been recruited directly as a soldier, a sgarrista. To earn that place, he had been forced to defeat something far more difficult than any external enemy: himself. He had obeyed the Burgueno family’s command to take a life.

His first kill.

Instead of breaking him, it made him stronger. It awakened a terrifying clarity within him, a certainty that he could decide, with ease, who deserved to live and who did not.

And it made him bloodthirsty.

Reeve was hungry for blood. That much was true. His pulse always quickened whenever he was assigned to end someone’s life. To him, such missions were opportunities to prove his worth. Proof that he deserved fear. Proof that he deserved respect.

And he earned both.

People feared him. His name spread. He became known as the Sin Forgiver.

For a boy who had once run away from home, who had wandered the frozen streets of New Yord with no direction and no money, fighting hunger and despair, rising to stand tall as a captain in the most powerful mafia family in the city was nothing short of extraordinary.

Yet even that was not enough.

Being a capo, commanding his own regime, no longer satisfied him. He wanted more. He wanted the seat one step above. The position of sottocapo, the underboss’s chair currently occupied by Renato Gravano, his mentor.

And after his chance encounter with an old acquaintance, Flav “Stone” Maranzano, Reeve found inspiration. If Flav could overthrow his own mentor, why couldn’t he?

And so here he was.

On his first day as deputy head of the Burgueno crime family, Reeve decided to create a clone of himself.

Every sin I’ve committed. Every rot I carry will be known by this lifeless puppet, he thought as he watched the cloning process unfold. Who would take responsibility if one day this thing dragged me into prison?

No.

That was impossible.

Nonsense, Reeve assured himself. This clone is me.
It had his mind. His nature. His instincts.

Why would I ever betray myself?
He had betrayed Don Alphonse. He had betrayed Renato. But he would never betray himself.

That would never happen.

The person he trusted most in this world was himself.

No one else.

A few hours later, Reeve exited the central laboratory and drove home, accompanied by his twin. His own cloned reflection. The silence between them was awkward, heavy with unfamiliarity.

Reeve glanced at the man seated beside him through the rearview mirror.
“I’ll need to get used to calling you by my own name,” he said, breaking the silence.

“I’m used to seeing my reflection in glass. Now that reflection has a body. And it can talk back,” Reeve continued. “The difference is, I can’t read what you’re thinking. Just like you can’t read my thoughts. You only have access to memories up until this morning. Nothing beyond that.”

The clone smiled faintly.

“Correction,” he said calmly. “I’m not your reflection. I am you.”

Reeve snorted. “Wow. Such an attitude.”

“Just like you,” the clone replied. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten. You’re arrogant too.”

Reeve laughed, genuinely pleased. “The masterpiece of Spindler and Franglen truly doesn’t disappoint,” he said. “I think I like you. Don’t let me down, Reeve. The two of us are the Burgueno clan’s unbeatable sottocapo. Two Sin Forgivers.”

He grinned wider. “All of New Yord will be in our hands from this moment on. What do you think?”

“I like that,” the clone replied casually. “That was always our goal.”

Reeve’s smile stretched even further.

11 – Salmon Trauma

Iralian-Ameridan Restaurant, New Yord

Four sharply dressed young men, long-time regulars of the restaurant, occupied one of its more strategic tables. They were deep in conversation and laughter when the waiter arrived, setting down plates of salmon steak, spaghetti, and pasta.

Flav “Stone Killer” Maranzano, one of the four, received his favorite dish, lasagna. He was about to dig in when his eyes drifted to the plate beside him, where one of his friends was savoring a thick cut of salmon.

Flav frowned instinctively.

The sight alone was enough to drag a memory from its grave.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice was low, heavy, his expression suddenly grave. All three of his companions turned toward him at once. Then Flav broke into a crooked grin.

“How can you enjoy salmon that might still be tainted with Magaddino’s filthy corpse blood?” he joked.

Laughter erupted around the table.

“Still suffering from salmon trauma, Stone?”

Another chimed in, “Poor guy can’t stop picturing thousands of frozen salmon as Magaddino’s deathbed. Alive or dead, Magaddino’s still haunting you, huh?”

“Maybe it’s Magaddino’s revenge from the afterlife,” another added between laughs. “Cursing you so you’ll never eat salmon again. Or maybe he just doesn’t want his salmon eaten by you!”

“Tragic,” someone said, snickering. “Truly tragic, Stone.”

Flav shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Hey, show some respect. You’re getting way too familiar with your boss. Way too blunt.”

“Oh great,” one scoffed. “There goes the boss attitude again.”

“You know you’re more fun without the title,” another said. “Ever thought about that?”

“Huh. I don’t know. And I don’t care,” Flav replied smugly. “What I do know is that this position is exactly where I belong. Who knows? Maybe Don Salvatore Cavallo will name me his successor sooner than you think.”

“That fast?” someone shot back. “You really think Don Cavallo would trust you that easily?”

“Believe whatever you want,” Flav said calmly. “But know this. I’m ambitious. And I’ll do whatever it takes to reach my goal.”

He tapped his index finger against his temple.

“I didn’t take Magaddino’s seat by brute force alone. When you’re dealing with the big bosses, this is what matters.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Legal or illegal. Subtle or ruthless. Intrigue or none at all. One day, I will sit in the Don’s chair. Now it’s up to you. Stand by me as loyal men, or walk away and join another regime.”

He shrugged. “Either way, it won’t break my heart.”

“Hey, Stone,” said the man eating salmon, his tone suddenly earnest. “Don’t talk like that. We believe in you. And we’ll stick with you. Always.”

He cut a piece of salmon and slid it onto Flav’s plate.

“Here. Try it. Best salmon I’ve ever had. Guaranteed, no hint of Magaddino’s blood.”

Flav stared at the piece of salmon.

And once again, the sight of it pulled him back.

FLASHBACK

That afternoon, Flav had paid his usual visit to his mentor, Frank Magaddino, one of the most powerful caporegimes of the Provenzano clan.

It was a routine visit. Flav was there to deliver his regular reports on several businesses Magaddino had entrusted to him, treating him like a favored son. What Magaddino failed to realize was how blind he had been to the storm quietly forming inside the young man’s mind.

Magaddino lounged in his armchair, cigar in hand, eyes fixed on his favorite reality show playing on the television. Behind him, Flav opened the refrigerator and took out two cans of soda.

The house was quiet. Just the two of them. Magaddino’s wife was away, visiting her sick sister.

“So,” Magaddino asked casually, exhaling smoke. “Everything running smoothly? No real problems, right?”

“Of course. Everything’s under control. You have no reason to doubt me, Boss,” Flav replied, handing Magaddino a can of soda.

Magaddino chuckled. “I know. I shouldn’t doubt you. You’re the man I trust most.”

Flav studied his mentor’s gaunt face in silence. His eyes lingered on Magaddino’s thinning hair, the quiet markers of age beginning to claim him.

“Do you think I’m worthy,” Flav asked at last, “of becoming a capo like you?”

Magaddino laughed again, easy and dismissive.
“Not yet, Flav. Not that fast. I don’t think you’re ready to command a regime of your own. Being a capo isn’t about muscle alone. It’s about the mind.”

He took another sip of soda.

“You’re still reckless. Too easily provoked. That won’t do. A leader needs foresight, but also speed. Not blind charging, not brute force. You need to show growth in how you carry yourself before I recommend you to the Don and the family council. Understand?”

Flav said nothing.

The rejection stung too deeply for words. Yet beneath the sting, satisfaction bloomed quietly as he watched Magaddino continue drinking the soda he had just given him.

Within moments, Magaddino’s eyelids grew heavy. His limbs slackened. A sudden, primal instinct flared in him.

“You…?” he muttered, staring at Flav with dawning suspicion.

Flav smiled.

It was a thin, contemptuous smile, the kind that declared victory without a word. The smile of a winner looking down at a man already defeated.

“I think I’m more than worthy of taking your place now, Mentor,” Flav said calmly. “Thank you for everything you’ve taught me.”

Without hesitation, he dragged the unconscious Magaddino to the nearby salmon canning factory. Magaddino’s own factory.

Inside, Flav locked him in the freezing warehouse where salmon were stored. Then he lowered the temperature even further, ensuring death would come swiftly and without mercy.

When it was done, Flav walked out unhurried, unchallenged.

No one questioned him. Magaddino often entrusted the factory’s operations to Flav, making him, in practice, a co-owner. Once Magaddino was found dead, Flav knew the factory would belong to him outright.

After leaving his mentor to freeze among the salmon, Flav returned to Magaddino’s house, erased every trace of his presence, then went home as if nothing had happened.

PRESENT TIME

Pulled from his memories, Flav finally smiled, shrugged, and lifted the piece of salmon he had been staring at all this time. He took a bite.

“Hm. Yeah. This steak’s good,” he said lightly. “No taste of corpse at all.”

Laughter erupted around the table.

“So Magaddino finally let you eat his salmon from the other side, huh?”

“Whatever, guys.”

“Did you hear the news?” one of them said. “Renato Gravano was killed this morning.”

“Yeah, I heard something,” another added. “What happened to him? Someone take his head off?”

Flav looked up sharply. “Renato Gravano? The Burgueno man? When did this happen?”

“This morning, Boss. No one knows who did it. If this were a war between Burgueno and Sciacchitano, the streets would already be burning. But everything’s quiet. Looks like an internal cleanup.”

He shrugged.

“Good thing, too. War’s bad for business. You agree, Boss?”

Flav fell silent for a moment. Suspicion flickered through his mind.

Then he smiled, thin and knowing.

“So,” he asked softly, “who replaced him?”

“They’re calling him Sin Forgiver. Or mostly just Sinner. Reeve Galante. Renato’s favorite dog.”

12 - Stone Killer

Flav lifted an eyebrow. His suspicion had landed cleanly. Who else would dare to kill the deputy head of a crime family like Gravano, if not someone from within? And who else could reap immediate benefit from Gravano’s death, if not the man closest to him?

That man was none other than Reeve.

As Gravano’s right hand, Reeve would have had no trouble collecting his superior’s mistakes, polishing them into accusations, and placing them neatly before Roman. Roman, emotional and easily provoked, would hardly hesitate to grant permission to erase his own deputy, especially when the request came from the very man reporting the sins. Reeve would be both witness and executioner.

It all fit. Too neatly to be coincidence.

“Sin Forgiver?” Flav scoffed. “Such a disgusting nickname. Does he think he’s God or something?”

Flav had never felt at home in his own house. It was comfortable enough, impeccably furnished, yet it breathed emptiness. Just him and his shadow, drifting from room to room. Whenever he didn’t bring a woman home, his mind slipped backward, pulled by memories he never quite managed to bury.

Fragments of childhood surfaced. Soft, deceptive moments that made him ache for the days when he had been innocent, when he was still the eldest son of Gianni Maranzano, a respected textile magnate.

Flavio Maranzano was born into a Sivily family that had emigrated to New Yord. His father, Gianni Maranzano, was the heir to Iralia Textiles, a company passed down through generations of the Maranzano bloodline. The company was immensely profitable, lucrative enough to draw the attention of Mafia families from New Yord, Chicage, even San Fransisqo, all eager to absorb it into their expanding empires.

Every offer was refused.

Gianni Maranzano kept his business clean, sealed tight against black hands and dirty money. He lived comfortably, peacefully, with a loyal wife and two children who were the center of his world.

His eldest son, Flavio, openly despised his given name. From a young age, he demanded that family and friends alike call him Flav. One day, Gianni believed, this boy would inherit the Maranzano empire. Yet instead of shaping him into a worthy successor, Gianni indulged him, bending to every whim. The result was a child who grew sharp-edged and entitled, convinced the world would always yield.

His daughter, Antonella, three years younger than Flav, was beautiful and stubbornly tomboyish, inseparable from her brother. Gianni did not dislike their closeness, but he had hoped his daughter would prefer dolls and quiet rooms to scraped knees, sunburnt afternoons, and climbing trees. That hope proved futile, largely because Antonella and Flav shared their games with another unruly spirit: their cousin, Anja Fohlberg.

Anja, Gianni’s niece, was of mixed Iralia and Frenchye blood, and she fit seamlessly between Flav and Antonella. The three were inseparable, a tight little unit that moved as one.

Their numbers grew whenever holidays carried them to Frenchye, Anja’s father’s homeland. There, the trio was joined by Pierre and Jeana Mueller, the son and daughter of Frenchye politician Francois Mueller; Darren Labruzzo, who lived in Parice, far from his father, Don Luigi Labruzzo, one of New Yord’s most powerful Mafia bosses; and Louis Cavallo, similarly distant from his own father, Don Salvatore Cavallo, another towering figure in the same underworld.

Don Cavallo and Don Labruzzo shared a rare conviction. Neither wanted his child to inherit the life of blood and shadows they themselves had chosen. Both married Frenchye women, and from those unions came Darren and Louis. With non-Iralia blood in their veins, the boys were automatically excluded from the world of black hands and crooked deals.

A mercy, perhaps.

Or merely a different kind of exile.

Flav often caught himself smiling for no reason whenever those memories drifted back to him. Nothing pleased him more than revisiting the childhood he had spent with his closest friends. Even now, he could almost feel it again: the northern Frenchye wind brushing his skin, the clean scent of grass, the bright, careless laughter he shared with them. And always, threaded through those weightless days, was his father, a perfect figure then, indulgent and attentive, a man who never seemed to tire of giving. In those years, Flav loved his father deeply.

Everything shifted when Flav reached adolescence.

Gianni told him it was time for special training. Time to begin taking part in the Maranzano textile business. Flav refused outright. He had no desire to inherit the company; he wanted his own life, on his own terms.

Gianni would not accept the refusal. He coaxed, argued, pressed again and again, until persuasion hardened into force and words gave way to hands. Flav bristled under the treatment. He pushed back, challenged his father, even dared him to a fight if it came to that.

It could not last.

Unable to endure the suffocating pressure of that house any longer, the young Flav finally left. He did not know where he was going. He let himself drift, boarding bus after bus until he ended up in Chicage, running with street thugs and petty criminals.

There, crime became routine. Theft. Robbery. Breaking into ATMs. He lived as a street criminal until he was sixteen years old.

Then he decided to return to New Yord, his birthplace, to try his luck and carve out his own fate. He knew full well that relatives and family were likely still searching for him there, but the pull to return was stronger than caution. He was sixteen. No one could force him back into his parents’ house. He was old enough to stand on his own, even if that meant standing in the shadows.

So he came back with a single thought in mind: to secure a decent living for himself. It did not matter if that meant a lifetime as a criminal.

Two names surfaced immediately. Two men of power, honor, and reputation. Two Dons from rival clans. Don Salvatore Cavallo of the Provenzano clan, and Don Luigi Labruzzo of the Labruzzo clan. They were the fathers of his childhood friends, and that familiarity gave him the nerve to seek out one of them.

The Labruzzo clan ruled New Hersey, controlling restaurants, supermarkets, and several gambling networks. Flav assessed them quickly. They were comfortable, but not truly wealthy. He crossed them off his list.

The Provenzano clan, operating out of Brookine, was another matter entirely. They dominated the largest hotel and real estate networks in Amerida, monopolized industrial development across the states, and, inevitably, controlled prostitution rings that generated enormous profit. With that, Flav made his choice. He would go to Brookine and face the head of the family.

Whether he would be rejected outright, or whether Don Salvatore Cavallo no longer cared to remember who he was, did not concern him. He only wanted to try.

As it turned out, Don Salvatore Cavallo received him coldly. He spoke at length about Flav’s disappearance, about how he had vanished from home without a word. He told Flav that his father, Gianni, a close friend of his, had collapsed in health after Flav left. And in the end, God had taken Gianni forever, without granting him even a final chance to see his son again.

Flav, without remorse, guilt, or even a trace of loss, turned his face away as Don Cavallo spoke. Every word sounded to him like an accusation aimed squarely at his chest. So he remained silent, offering not a single reply. When the Don finally finished, Flav gathered his nerve and stated his purpose plainly. He wished to join the clan. He declared himself willing to follow every rule, to begin from nothing, as an associate, and to work his way toward becoming someone who was truly “made” within the family.

Don Cavallo appeared mildly surprised by the request, though not truly shocked. He had long sensed Flav’s feral streak ever since the boy had been a child, running wild alongside his own son, Louis. After a long pause, the Don shrugged and gestured toward one of his caporegimes, a man he deemed stern and unforgiving enough to shape raw recruits like Flav. He wanted the boy broken in hard. He wanted to be sure Flav was not chasing the title of a made man on a whim. The caporegime he chose was Frank Magaddino.

Magaddino was immediately drawn to Flav’s demeanor. The indifference. The bluntness. The sarcasm. It reminded him of himself at the same age. On that basis alone, he accepted Don Cavallo’s request and took Flav under his wing as a family associate.

As time passed, Flav proved himself capable, dependable, and fiercely reliable. Especially after Magaddino gave him what seemed like a minor task: dealing with a street thug who had caused trouble for Magaddino’s nephew.

Flav did not ask questions. He simply carried out the order. It was his first kill, yet nothing in his manner suggested inexperience. He planned carefully. After setting everything in place, Flav and one of Magaddino’s trusted soldiers slipped into the target’s cramped apartment. There was a moment of intimidation, brief and controlled, and then Flav, calm and expressionless, smashed the man’s skull against the wall. The body was dumped into the swamp soon after.

The soldier assigned to observe and supervise the job was stunned. Flav had carried out his first murder with unnerving composure. He had come prepared from the start, even wearing gloves to leave no fingerprints at the scene. It was this witness who later reported Flav’s coldness and brutality to Frank Magaddino. Magaddino merely smiled, as though he had expected nothing less from Flav Maranzano.

In time, it became clear that this was always how Flav killed. Clean. Brutal. Cold. He relied on raw physical force, crushing the skulls of his enemies without hesitation. It did not change after he was formally inducted as a soldier, a man who was truly made within the Provenzano family. Because of that habit, Flav earned the nickname “Stone Killer.” Officially, it referred to a professional hitman known for savage efficiency. Among his peers, however, it carried a more literal meaning: Flav was the killer who smashed heads like stone.

Flav liked the name. He wore it with pride, introducing himself with “Stone Killer” set squarely between his first and last name.

Magaddino, for his part, was proud to have an underling as sharp, responsive, and dependable as Flav. It was no surprise that he kept assigning him task after task, each one a test of how far Flav could be trusted. Flav proved, again and again, that he deserved his mentor’s favor, even that he merited a higher position. Yet when Magaddino refused to promote him to lead a regime of his own, Flav, consumed by hunger for power, answered that denial by killing him, freezing him alive inside the salmon refrigeration warehouse at the factory…

Flav’s reverie snapped the moment his phone rang, sharp and insistent. An unfamiliar number glowed on the screen. He frowned, then answered.

“How’ve you been, Flav?” a voice greeted him.

Flav frowned deeper. He didn’t recognize the voice at all. “Who is this?”

“Jesus. You didn’t save my number? It’s Reeve.”

“Oh! You.” Flav laughed. “Sorry, my bad. Never saved it. What’s up?”

Reeve’s laughter crackled through the line. “Nothing special. Just thought I’d ask you to hang out. Someone’s been missing you. It’s Denver Granville. He’s curious what you look like these days. I told him you’re basically a man with an overdose of hormones, morning, noon, night, women nonstop. He can imagine the rest himself.”

Flav found himself laughing along. “You bastard. When?”

“He asked us to grab breakfast tomorrow. Marlon Café. Next to the club where we ran into each other the other night.”

“Ah. Alright.” Curiosity stirred in him, wondering what Denver looked like now after all these years.

Reeve hesitated, then added, “If our positions weren’t what they are now, reunions like this would be pure fun, yeah? As long as there’s no backstabbing talent involved. For old time’s sake.”

Flav snorted. “Oh, I never had that. If anything, I should be the one watching my back around you. Still, we’re lucky Burgueno and Provenzano don’t clash often.”

“I won’t pull anything with an old friend,” Reeve said evenly, “as long as that old friend doesn’t start trouble first. I value those good years we spent together, you and the crew, too much.”

That answer drew a smile from Flav. “Then it’s settled. This is a reunion, nothing more. And let’s be clear, there’s no ‘it’s just business’ between us during the reunion. Agreed?”

“Sure, bro. See you tomorrow.”

“Flav!”

The call came the moment he stepped into the café Reeve had mentioned. He turned to see Reeve and another young man waving at him, both smiling wide. Flav returned the smile and headed over.

The man beside Reeve stood to greet him warmly. He was unmistakably Ameridan, average height, pale with a faint reddish cast, a narrow face framed by brown hair falling into his eyes. It didn’t soften him. A solid jaw gave him a firm, unmistakably masculine edge. But the detail Flav recognized instantly was the mole on the right side of his neck, bold and unashamed, as if it had always been there to announce him to the world. One look was enough. This was Denver Granville, his old friend from school.

“Denver!” Flav said, pulling him into a hug. “Man, not a word about you for years, and when you finally show up, you’re ‘made’ too, huh?”

Denver laughed. “That’s my line! Come on, sit. Reeve and I already ordered. What do you want for breakfast, Flav? My treat.”

“Oh? So I’m being spoiled today?” Flav said as he dragged out a chair and sat. “Hey, Reeve.”

“Hey, man,” Reeve replied easily.

Flav couldn’t stop the knowing smile that crept onto his face as he studied Reeve. “I hear someone just got himself promoted to sottocapo, huh? I bet you stole that fuckin’ idea from me, right, Sinner?”

Reeve lifted an eyebrow, meeting Flav’s gaze. Denver turned his eyes to him as well, waiting. “Guys,” Reeve said calmly, “if it’s obvious, it doesn’t need explaining. I deserve it.”

Flav chuckled and clapped a hand on Reeve’s shoulder. “All I’m saying is, you should be the one paying today. New position and all.”

Denver burst out laughing. “Nah, let me handle it today. I’m just happy to see you both again. You know, after all these years without a word, it was like you vanished off the face of the earth. The group really did lose the two of you.”