I didn't sleep the night before. Renzo's call about the location sat heavy in my chest. The kind of weight that crawled into your lungs and made everything feel slower. I knew what I was walking into. I just didn't know what would be staring back.
The post office in Hackensack wasn't just quiet. It was mute. Sound seemed to disappear into its walls. I waited until midnight before circling back in Renzo's beat-up Civic with a duffel in the trunk and no license plates.
I didn't go in loud. Just a crowbar and gloves. No steel. Not yet. I pried the rear service door open like it had betrayed someone. Inside, it smelled like dust and cold copper. No lights, but someone had laid cabling under the walls. Clean. Expensive. Not your average squat setup.
I stepped slowly. Nothing creaked. This place wasn't dead. It was dormant. The kind of silence that felt curated.
The center room was the real show: three screens on standby, each tied to a different ISP, router logs flickering on the far monitor. Whoever was running this place knew how to hide. But they hadn't expected me. A faint hum came from a server rack in the corner. Nothing overclocked. Just running cold and patient.
I didn't touch the machines. I just took pictures, lifted two thumb drives, and wiped down the doorknobs. On the way out, I paused at a black-and-white photo taped to a cabinet. A younger Tony Soprano, posing next to Silvio and Paulie in front of Satriale's. Old shot. Vintage Jersey.
That was the moment.
It hit me, not like lightning, more like a bad memory returning with the wrong soundtrack. It didn't confirm anything. But it didn't leave room for denial either.
I stood there, staring at the image. My fingers tightened around the duffel. If this was a coincidence, it was surgical. If it wasn't, I'd just stumbled into something that went deeper than turf wars and sports betting. It was one thing to suspect. Another to see proof printed on curling Polaroid paper. My past life didn't prepare me for this, not really. Watching a show wasn't the same as living beneath its shadow. The stakes were different now. Real lives. Real bodies. Real bullets.
Back in Newark, I didn't sleep. I uploaded everything from the drives to a sandbox and let Renzo take it from there. He didn't ask where I got it. He just grunted and said, "This better be worth the headache."
I spent the morning pacing my apartment, cigarette to cigarette. The weight of knowing crept in like mold.
Tony Soprano. That wasn't just a name. That was the crown.
If I was where I thought I was... I needed a new plan.
The next few days I kept my routine airtight. Workouts. Walk-throughs at The Boxcar. Cash pickups. Playing it cool. I started watching Tony closer. From a distance. Not a fanboy thing. A tactical assessment. He moved like a man who carried storms in his chest. Not just power. Pressure.
He didn't know me. Yet.
But I was starting to learn his rhythm. His tells. His blind spots.
One of his guys, Benny asked me about a parlay I'd won the week before. A longshot.
"You betting through Martino now?"
"Here and there."
"Yeah, well, keep picking like that, people gonna think you got tomorrow's paper."
I laughed. Shrugged. Changed the subject.
Adriana was working out of the studio more now. Cassie had her first finished single. Pop-leaning, light synths, almost too clean. But it had something under it. A little ache. I told her it needed dirt.
"Dirt?"
"Yeah. Texture. Strip back the polish, add something raw. You want people to believe you, don't make it sound like a commercial."
She nodded. "You got a weird ear."
"I got weird everything."
She laughed. The sound felt like static off vinyl. Real. Adriana chuckled in the hallway later.
"She likes you."
"She likes being taken seriously. That's rare enough."
She studied me, eyes narrowing like she saw something no one else could. Maybe she did. Maybe I wanted her to. There weren't many people I could afford to be honest with, but Adriana... she had her own shadows. She paused, then leaned in. "You okay? You've been more... clockwork than usual."
"Yeah. Just planning."
"Planning what?"
"Staying alive."
Dino brought me a file actual paper on Carlo's newest deal: a lowball garbage bid near East Orange. The company tied to it? Fronted by a cousin of a retired cop. Carlo was playing the back channels. Unofficial muscle.
"You want me to make a call?" Dino asked.
"Not yet. Let him get comfortable. Then we'll tip the chair."
I started calling in favors. Nothing loud. Just friction. Delays in permits. "Lost" paperwork. Quiet roadblocks.
By the end of the week, Carlo's guy had his trucks sitting in a parking lot with no route to run. Sometimes you didn't have to swing to win. You just had to lean in the right spot.
Friday night, I caught Salvatore in a mood. Scotch, low jazz, the back room of The Oak Bar.
"You keep turning over rocks," he said. "Eventually you find something that bites."
"I'm ready."
"No one's ever ready, kid. They just think they are. Until the game hits back."
I sipped my drink, leaned into the dark.
"You ever think this thing has a finish line?"
He smiled. Sad. Tired. "You hit enough finish lines, all you got left are ghosts."
He stared into his glass like it owed him answers.
"You watchin' Soprano lately?" he said suddenly.
"Why?"
"Nothing. Just a vibe. Lot of young guys trying to move the way he did. You? You're different. But you carry that same stare. The kind that looks past the next move."
My throat dried. But I didn't blink.
"Nah," I said. "I don't believe in TV characters."
He laughed softly. Like he knew something I didn't. Or maybe he just liked not knowing.
We didn't talk much after that. Sometimes silence says more.
Snapshot – Week Ten
Mob Etiquette: 18
Charisma: 19
Street Smarts: 14
Reputation: 24
Manipulation: 20
Combat Awareness: 10
Traits Gained:
Strategic Patience (Actions accumulate compound interest over time)
Passive Threat (Increased fear factor when not speaking)
Reputation Echo (Whispers linger longer after conflict)
Ventures:
GhostLine (48%)
The Boxcar (31%)
Studio Project (Track #1 complete)
Garbage Contract (Neutralized)
Unknown Observer (Post Office compromised)