The overhead lights in the Sinclair hideout dimmed slightly as the warehouse doors rolled shut behind an aging delivery van, its engine coughing to a stop.
The driver's door creaked open, and Tony Caprese — balding, round-bellied, and always smelling faintly of tomato sauce — stepped out wearing a stained apron and a look of deep confusion.
"This... doesn't look like the health inspector's office," he muttered.
John chuckled from across the room, arms folded as he leaned against the wall.
"You could say we're here to check on your health — of the business kind."
Tony squinted toward the glowing conference table ahead. Ryan Sinclair stood at the head of it, dressed not in a school uniform now, but in tailored black — the true young master, sharp-eyed and composed, with Marcus standing silently behind him like a shadow.
"Tony," Ryan greeted, gesturing to the empty chair. "Thanks for coming. Have a seat. We've got a proposal."
Tony sat down slowly, eyes darting around the high-tech interior. "This... this ain't about a pizza partnership, is it?"
"It is, Tony," Ryan replied. "But not the kind you're thinking."
He slid a folder across the table. Inside were blueprints, lease agreements, and city permits for three new locations — each mapped with disturbing precision.
"We want to expand your brand. Three new shops. You run the kitchen, the staff, the storefront — just like you always have."
Tony flipped through the pages, blinking. "Uptown? The harbor? East Line? This is big. This is way above my oven-grade."
"That's because it's more than just pizza," Ryan said, his tone shifting slightly. "These branches will serve two functions. Publicly, you're just selling slices and garlic knots. But behind the scenes... you'll be hosting encrypted comms, receiving intel drops, and occasionally passing mission briefings to field agents."
Tony's mouth fell open.
"Mission...? Wait, wait — this is that kind of business?"
Ryan gave him a calm nod. "You've served as neutral ground for years. My father trusted you. I trust you. This is your chance to be part of the Sinclair legacy — officially."
Tony wiped his brow. "And what about Zeek? His new place is only four blocks from mine. That gonna be a turf war?"
Ryan smirked. "Funny you mention that."
He tapped the table. A second folder slid out.
"We've already spoken with Uncle Zeek. His new pizzeria will also become part of the network — on the surface, your competition. But underground? You'll both be working under the same banner. Sinclair Operations."
Tony's eyes widened. "So... the city's about to have a pizza war that's actually a cover for an information web?"
"Exactly," Marcus said from the shadows. "Each shop will act as a node. Deliveries will carry more than food — coded data, safe house info, target lists. We don't sell drugs. We sell intelligence."
"And if anyone snoops too deep," Ryan added, "they'll see only a few rival pizzerias bickering over crust recipes."
Tony leaned back, stunned. "This is insane... brilliant, but insane."
"You'll have full protection," Ryan assured. "Our eyes, our men. And a cut of the profits. Zeek will be in charge of dark info routes. You'll handle comms and logistics. Think of it as two halves of the same pie."
John leaned forward, grinning. "And if someone tries to steal a slice, we burn their kitchen down."
Tony gulped, then slowly nodded.
"…Alright. I'm in. But only if I get to name the new garlic twist."
Ryan chuckled. "Deal."
He stood and extended a hand. Tony took it — a little shaky, a little unsure — but knowing full well this wasn't just a handshake.
It was a contract.
And from this moment forward, Tony's Pizza was no longer just a local joint.
It was the first slice of a Sinclair shadow network that would stretch across the city.