If politics attacked with words, the underworld attacked with nostalgia.
A meeting was requested.
Neutral ground. Old faces.
Men who remembered when Michael Corleone's silence meant death.
They spoke of instability.
Of young crews growing restless.
Of "respect" eroding.
"What happens," one asked carefully, "when someone forgets who kept the peace?"
Luke listened through Michael's calm expression.
They wanted him back.
Not as a leader.
As a symbol.
A threat.
A reminder that violence still had an author.
Michael shook his head.
"That life ended," he said. "Because it was killing everything it touched."
The room chilled.
This was worse than refusal.
This was rejection.
Within weeks, pressure followed.
A casino license delayed.A minor riot sparked near a Corleone-owned property.Whispers of betrayal floated deliberately.
The Shadows moved.
Quietly.
Not with guns—but with exposure.
Hidden tax violations surfaced.Anonymous tips reached federal desks.Old vendettas were redirected outward.
The underworld realized something unsettling.
Michael Corleone no longer needed them.
And worse—
He could survive without them.
The calls stopped.
The threat remained.