The car sped toward the hotel where Buddy was staying. Inside, several agents were going over the operation with Brian, their voices calm, almost casual. None of them knew the truth behind the mission; as far as they were concerned, their orders were simple—bring Buddy in.
"We've already coordinated with Buddy's agent and lawyer about witness protection," one of them said, flipping through a file. "So our job is straightforward—find Buddy and get him out of this damn city."
Brian frowned slightly. "It can't be that easy, can it? I've heard plenty of assassins are gunning for him. Getting him out won't be a walk in the park."
"Relax," the agent replied, flashing his badge with a grin. "Buddy's got a ton of bodyguards, and don't forget—we're the FBI. Most of those guys will run the second they see this if they don't feel like getting arrested."
Brian didn't say anything. A badge doesn't stop bullets—and there was no guarantee those assassins wouldn't go off the rails and take a shot at the FBI too.
He'd seen too much by now. From Detroit to Los Angeles with the Dove of Peace, he'd watched high-level players drop like flies—crime bosses, detectives, people who thought they were untouchable. Out here, credentials didn't mean much.
Honestly, he didn't even want to be here. Life in Los Angeles had been good—racing with Mia and the crew, keeping things simple. And yet here he was, dragged into something messy again, his identity already walking a tightrope.
Orders were orders, though.
Still, something felt off. His superiors had clearly started doubting him. Three years undercover, and nothing substantial to show for it. They'd even asked him point-blank if he was starting to think like the Mafia.
Compared to him, Buddy had value. Real value. A legitimate Mafia figure who could hand over decades of intel.
This time, the Bureau wasn't taking chances. They were going to secure Buddy, no matter what, and use him to crush the Mafia in one clean sweep.
Lost in thought, Brian barely noticed when someone spoke up again. "Brian, anything from the Mafia side? That guy from New York—the Dove of Peace—showing up on the West Coast? Feels connected."
"Nothing so far," Brian said, shaking his head. "He's tied up in Los Angeles dealing with union business. He doesn't have time to come to Vegas."
"You sure? I don't want surprises."
"I'm sure," Brian replied firmly.
"Alright then." The agent shrugged. "As long as he stays out of it, our odds are better. One family's already enough trouble—I don't need another one breathing down our necks."
Brian flipped open the file in his hands. It contained detailed information on Buddy and Sparazza. The latter had undergone more than a dozen plastic surgeries over the years—nose, eyes, chin, everything. His rap sheet was just as extensive: murder, extortion, arson, theft—you name it.
Brian hesitated before asking, "Sparazza killed one of our undercover agents, right? Why didn't we prosecute him back then?"
The agent leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Because that agent got buried. Once an operation fails—or even looks like it might—the agent gets erased. The FBI doesn't acknowledge failures. Only the ones who make it out successful get their identities back."
He glanced at Brian. "You, though? You're doing well inside the Lucchese family. Keep it up, and you'll earn your way back."
Brian's chest tightened.
So that was how it worked.
If he failed… if he died out there… he'd just vanish. No badge, no name, no recognition—just another dead gangster.
For the first time in a long while, fear crept in.
Was there even a way back anymore?
He didn't want to hurt the Dove of Peace. But he also couldn't abandon his duty. If those two things collided… what would he choose?
Before long, the car pulled up in front of the hotel. Buddy was staying in the top-floor luxury suite.
Brian stared up at the building, a chill running down his spine.
Let this go smoothly…
Inside the hotel lobby, tucked away in a quiet corner, Leon sat with a newspaper, casually reading while reporting back.
"You don't need to get involved with the hotel," Luca's voice came through the phone. "Too messy. Too many assassins. Not worth the trouble. Head to the hospital instead—once the FBI moves Buddy, they'll rush the surgery. That's your window. Take them both out."
Luca had zero interest in the chaos at the hotel. Whatever happened there, happened. If Buddy died, great. If he survived and got taken by the FBI, even better—kill both him and Sparazza at the hospital, clean and efficient.
"I've already arranged for the mechanics to stir things up at the hospital," Luca added. "That'll give you an opening."
With that kind of setup, taking down father and son wouldn't be difficult. Luca didn't even need to be there in person.
"Understood," Leon replied.
He folded the newspaper and stood—only to freeze mid-step.
A familiar figure had just walked into the lobby.
Brian.
Leon's eyes narrowed slightly. What is he doing here?
He had no idea Brian was FBI.
Without hesitation, Leon scrapped his original plan and reported in.
"Dove of Peace, Brian's here. In the hotel."
A brief pause.
"…Brian? You sure?"
"It's him."
"…Got it. Keep eyes on him. I'm heading to Vegas."
"You little bastard… you really lied to me."
Luca's voice was cold as he floored the accelerator, tearing down the highway toward Vegas.
Barstow, huh?
Childhood friend?
Yeah, right.
Instead, Brian had shown up at the exact same hotel as Buddy.
Given his background, it wasn't hard to connect the dots.
As the car roared forward, Luca opened his system panel and glanced at one line:
[Bond: Friend]
They'd known each other for years, but it had never crossed into something deeper. There was always that invisible barrier—Brian's undercover identity, the lies, the distance.
At first, Luca kept him out of everything. Then, slowly, he started letting him in—bit by bit. The gold case. Detroit. Even letting him see Colin, another undercover operative, on purpose.
That had been a warning.
Luca had always hoped Brian would come clean on his own someday. That he'd choose to step across the line willingly.
He'd never forced him.
Not once.
But now…
Now things were different.
Brian knew exactly what it meant if the FBI got their hands on Buddy. The Los Angeles family would be the first to fall, and the dominoes wouldn't stop there. Even Luca's gasoline operation on the West Coast would take a massive hit.
Luca's eyes darkened.
"So… you're still standing with the FBI?"
Was Brian just naive? Too simple for his own good?
Or had he already made his choice a long time ago?
"Brian… it's been almost three years."
Luca's grip tightened on the wheel.
"It's time to end this."
This was the moment of truth.
Would they finally become real friends—
—or walk away from each other for good?
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