SSR Club.
After wrapping up his calls with the West Coast, Luca dialed the blond guy and told him to come by the club the next day—they needed to talk about the Los Angeles trip.
Los Angeles was basically home turf for the blond guy. Born in Barstow, worked as a cop in L.A., then joined the FBI—California was where he felt most at ease. If they wanted to deal with those gasoline thieves, sending him out made the most sense.
Still, Luca wasn't entirely sure it was Dominic Toretto's crew behind it. Los Angeles had no shortage of racing crews and hijackers. That place—Los Angeles—was practically the capital of street racing in the U.S. Freedom ran so deep there it might as well have been in the water supply. Besides "family-style" crews like Toretto's, there were countless other groups running illegal races and pulling jobs on the side.
Even the Russians and the Los Angeles family hadn't pinned down who was responsible yet.
"Of all things… why steal my gasoline?" Luca muttered.
Abandoned airport, Brooklyn, New York.
With a deafening roar, a green Mitsubishi shot across the finish line. The tail swung a full 180 degrees before the car slid cleanly to a stop in front of a crowd of cheering women. The gust of wind it kicked up sent skirts fluttering, giving the onlookers an accidental "show" nobody complained about.
The door swung open.
Brian stepped out, light stubble lining his jaw. After two or three years undercover in New York, time had carved a sharper edge into him. Running with mob bosses day in and day out had given him a calmer, more restrained presence. The flashy, punk-style clothes were long gone—replaced by darker tones, cleaner cuts.
More mature. More dangerous. More… attractive.
The only thing that hadn't changed?
The fire in his eyes.
Speed was still everything to him.
"WOOOO—!"
The crowd erupted.
"God of Speed!"
Brian gave a casual smile, but inside, he felt nothing. New York racers were just too weak. No pressure. No thrill. At first, they'd tried to keep up by dumping money into their cars—but Brian had done the same. Now? They couldn't even see his taillights.
One by one, the other cars rolled in.
Nancy walked up, a thick wad of cash in hand, and slapped it into Brian's palm.
"Eight grand. That's all that's left. Nobody wants to race you anymore. Brian, you've got no competition in New York."
"Eight thousand's enough gas money to get me to Los Angeles."
"Los Angeles?" Nancy blinked. "You're heading there?"
"No," Brian shook his head. "I'm going back."
"To visit family?"
"To race."
"..."
"I've sharpened my skills in New York. When I go back, there won't be many who can keep up with me."
Nancy just stared at him.
You've been around the Dove for years… and you're still obsessed with street racing?
"Wanna come?" Brian offered.
"Pass," she said. "My brother needs me here."
"Fair enough."
"Did you tell Luca?"
"He's the one taking me."
"Oh…"
Nancy looked a little down. Guess she wouldn't be seeing the Dove of Peace anytime soon.
Brian slid back into the driver's seat, rolled down the window, and waved.
"See ya—goodbye Brooklyn, goodbye New York!"
Instead of heading home, the green Mitsubishi cut toward Manhattan.
Inside a private room at a bar, Brian met his superior.
"Brian," the man said, pouring him a drink, "it's been almost three years in New York, hasn't it? Time flies."
Brian felt a flicker of embarrassment.
Three years—and nothing substantial to show for it.
Damn… I'm a terrible undercover agent.
"You know what happened in Boston, right?" his boss continued. "The FBI flipped Whitey and dismantled the Anguilo family in one sweep. Now every field office is trying to replicate it—flip insiders, use RICO, take down entire families."
Boston had set the standard.
New York had tried something similar before—turning a Colombo family member and gathering evidence—but it hadn't been this clean.
"Brian," his boss said, leaning forward, "you've been inside the Lucchese circle this whole time. You must have something. Anyone we can flip? What about the Dove of Peace?"
Brian hesitated.
"To be honest… I don't know. He's not against dealing with law enforcement, but getting anything real out of him? That's unlikely."
Or maybe… you'd get everything.
After years at his side, Brian understood one thing clearly—the Dove of Peace wanted stability, but his methods were ruthless. Calculated. Anyone who got in his way didn't end well.
Sometimes Brian would sit right next to him and still have no idea what he was planning—only to realize later everything had already been set in motion.
Boston had changed overnight because of him.
Los Angeles?
Who knew what kind of storm was coming.
"What about bugs?" his boss pressed. "You've been in the SSR Club this long and haven't planted a single device?"
"I tried!" Brian shot back. "They sweep that place every day. What do you want me to do? If the Dove of Peace finds out, I'm dead!"
At this point, Brian barely even bothered pretending anymore.
The club was… good. The people were good. Funny, capable, easy to be around.
He liked it there.
"And evidence?" the boss sighed. "Three years, and you've got nothing?"
"I'm just a driver," Brian said. "He doesn't involve me in anything serious."
That wasn't entirely true.
He had some things—but nothing major. And he didn't want to hand them over.
If Luca went down… Mathilda would be devastated. The people in the club too. And the residents of Little Italy—
Nobody wanted that.
The Dove of Peace was holding everything together. Pull him out, and the whole place would erupt.
The boss studied Brian carefully.
"Brian… do you think you're Mafia?"
Brian didn't even blink.
"Do I look like Mafia? You can question my job performance—but don't question my character or my driving."
The boss: "..."
This kid…
Maybe not the most competent agent—but he the only one who'd ever earned Luca's trust. Every other undercover they tried had failed.
And somehow, Brian succeeded.
Was it because he was too honest?
Too real?
But that's the one thing undercover agents aren't supposed to be.
The boss couldn't decide whether Brian was an asset or a liability.
"Back to business," he said. "We've got a mission."
He briefly outlined the situation in Los Angeles.
"FBI headquarters in Washington is watching this closely. We've reached an agreement with the Magician. He'll enter witness protection—we keep him alive, he gives us everything on the Mafia."
Brian's heart sank.
"You're not sending me to protect him… right?"
The boss shook his head. "He's in Las Vegas. Your job is to coordinate with agents there and bring him in."
Brian almost laughed.
"You've got to be kidding me. Dove is watching my every move."
"And what do you think he's going to Los Angeles for?" the boss shot back. "He's heading to Vegas to kill that witness. You're going to keep us updated—every move he makes."
His tone turned deadly serious.
"This is critical. No matter what it takes—you complete the mission."
Brian felt a headache coming on.
What was supposed to be a fun West Coast trip had just turned into a nightmare.
The next afternoon, SSR Club.
Luca had already gathered fresh intel—two fronts: the gasoline thefts and the Las Vegas bounty.
The "magician" had a name.
Buddy Israel.
Head of the Los Angeles family's Vegas operations. Famous poker player. Stage magician. Local celebrity. Multiple-time "Entertainer of the Year."
Big name.
But behind the scenes?
He'd been building his own power base—networking with politicians and business figures, forming his own faction. Now he was second only to the main family leadership.
Luca felt a strange sense of déjà vu.
Wasn't that exactly how Boston's Anguilo faction had started?
He stared at Buddy's photo, eyes narrowing.
A flicker of killing intent surfaced.
[Character Card Discovered: Buddy "Ace" Israel (Unlocked)]
[Rank: B]
[Source: Smokin' Aces]
[Skill: Magic Cards]
[Bond: Stranger]
"So that's it…" Luca let out a cold laugh.
The FBI really knew how to pick them.
Another damn undercover agent.
And not just any undercover—one who'd climbed all the way to the top.
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