Chapter 3: Blood and Betrayal
The Thompson submachine gun—developed by the American Automatic Ordnance Company in the late 1910s—was a weapon with a history soaked in blood.
Renowned for its rugged durability, it wasn't just a soldier's companion on the battlefield. It became infamous in the hands of gangsters, federal agents, and police alike. Its most notorious wielder was none other than Al Capone, the emperor of Chicago's underworld.
Whenever the Thompson barked its sharp "da-da-da" roar in those lawless days, it heralded carnage. Massacres, ambushes, assassinations—it was the instrument of both power and terror.
Though decades had passed, and the world had changed, the weapon's reputation endured. Even now, in a new century, the Thompson still found its way into the hands of killers.
Just like the first bodyguard Tommy had slain—who had carried one.
Now, in the middle of a bullet storm, Tommy seized his chance. He rolled across the grimy floor, snatched up the weapon, and replaced the small revolver with the weighty submachine gun.
The moment his hands wrapped around it, his firepower had truly upgraded. His enemies had no idea that their hunt had just turned into a massacre.
"Charge! Kill that damned bastard! Avenge our brothers!"
The order rang out. The circle of gunmen began to close in, their confidence rekindled.
At the rear, Kendy, the bodyguard captain, barked louder than anyone, but fear had already twisted his guts. While he yelled for others to advance, he had slipped behind a concrete wall, keeping his own body tightly hidden.
But hiding wouldn't save him.
Tommy's lips curved into the faintest grin. He had already mapped the angles, the ricochets, the geometry of death.
"It's high noon…" he whispered, raising the gun.
He pulled the trigger once—without hesitation, without even needing to look.
The bullet screamed out, bouncing off the rusted metal walls, ricocheting like a predator's leap.
Bang!
A startled gasp was cut short.
Thud.
Kendy, the loudest voice in the factory seconds ago, slumped lifelessly to the ground. His orders would never be heard again.
Shock rippled through the ranks. The men froze. If even their captain, hidden and covered, couldn't survive, what chance did they have?
They weren't warriors—they were mercenaries. They fought for money, not loyalty. Without a leader, their courage withered.
Tommy didn't give them time to recover.
"You bastards had fun shooting just now, didn't you? Now—it's my turn!"
He rose from the shadows, hefted the Thompson, and pressed down on the trigger.
Da-da-da-da-da!
The roar of the gun tore through the factory like thunder. Bullets ripped through the darkness, spraying fire and death.
Seven. Eight. Bodies crumpled like rag dolls, collapsing before they even understood what had happened.
Panic ignited instantly. The remaining gunmen tried to resist, but every muzzle flash betrayed their positions. Their furious gunfire lit them up like targets on a range—and Tommy's master-level marksmanship didn't miss.
One. Two. Three.
They fell in rapid succession, the fight collapsing into chaos.
In less than a minute, the echo of gunfire died. Silence reclaimed the factory. The only one left standing was Tommy Vercetti.
A breeze drifted through a hole in the ceiling, carrying with it the metallic stench of blood. It filled the air, heavy and suffocating.
Tommy looked around, expression unreadable.
He had expected fear. He had expected nausea, trembling hands, maybe even the urge to vomit. Back when he was still Rishi in Bangalore, his life had been peaceful—his biggest fight was with his office deadlines, not men with guns. Killing should have broken him.
But it didn't.
Whether it was the instincts of this new body or something buried deep inside himself, Tommy felt… nothing. No guilt. No disgust. Just cold clarity.
"Well," he muttered to himself, glancing at the blood-slick floor. "From one perspective, this isn't bad."
He sighed softly. If he was to survive in this world—this brutal Marvel universe—hesitation and mercy would only kill him faster.
The Mafia memories inside his head confirmed it. Loyalty was rare, betrayal was constant, and the underworld showed no mercy. Only those willing to stain their hands survived.
And Tommy had no intention of being anyone's victim.
Still, questions gnawed at him.
"What next? Escape is obvious. But after that? Where do I even go?"
The assassination mission had clearly been a trap. Only a handful of high-ranking members had known about it. That meant betrayal—someone powerful wanted him dead.
The enemy was hidden. He was exposed. It was a dangerous game, and the board was tilted against him.
Yet, Tommy wasn't without allies. His benefactor, the one who had first given him the chance to rise in the Mafia, wouldn't abandon him so easily. At least… he hoped so.
His thoughts were cut short.
From outside the factory walls came the sudden wail of sirens—sharp, urgent, unrelenting.
The police.
Or worse.