The back room was small, windowless. Dim lighting buzzed above, casting long shadows across the metal table where the dealer sat. He had the look of a man who'd seen enough to think himself untouchable—slicked-back hair, an expensive watch, and the kind of smirk that said he believed he had the upper hand.
Anthony sat across from him, leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up on the table like he was just here to pass the time. The casual posture was deliberate. It disarmed people, made them think he wasn't a threat. But I knew better.
"Let's make this easy," Anthony started, spinning a stray bullet between his fingers. "We're looking for the prototypes. We know you're not the source. Who is?"
The dealer smirked, shaking his head. "You think I'm just gonna hand that over?" He gestured lazily. "You boys aren't the first to come asking. You sure as hell won't be the last."
Anthony clicked his tongue. "See, that's what I love about guys like you. Always so damn predictable."
Before the dealer could respond, Anthony's foot snapped forward, kicking the chair out from under him.
The dealer crashed to the ground, his head bouncing off the cold floor. He cursed, scrambling up just in time to find himself staring down the barrel of Anthony's gun.
Anthony sighed. "Now I gotta ask again." He nudged the gun against the dealer's temple. "Who. Makes. The prototypes?"
The dealer exhaled sharply through his nose, his bravado slipping—just a little. "Go ahead," he muttered. "Shoot me, and you'll get nothing."
I stepped forward, kneeling beside him. "Anthony's not gonna shoot you," I said smoothly. "Not yet, anyway."
The dealer turned his head toward me, wary.
I tilted my head slightly, watching his body language. He was still trying to hold on to control, but his pulse had jumped. The way his fingers tapped against the floor in an erratic pattern told me everything I needed. Thanks to my Interrogation skill, there was nothing he could hide.
"You know something," I said.
He scoffed. "So what if I do?"
Anthony grinned. "So, my friend here's real good at figuring people out." He tapped his temple. "I mean, look at him. He's got that whole 'sees-through-your-soul' thing going on. Kinda creepy, actually."
I ignored him, my focus on the dealer. "The prototypes—who makes them?"
The dealer's jaw tensed. "Even if I knew, I don't give out names. That's bad business."
"Bad business," I repeated, nodding. "I get that."
Then I reached forward and pressed two fingers lightly against his wrist.
"Let's play a game," I said. "I'll ask a question, and you can say whatever you want. But I'll know when you're lying."
The dealer's mouth twitched, trying to hide his reaction.
I leaned in slightly. "Do you still have any prototypes left?"
A flicker of hesitation.
I didn't break eye contact. "You don't, do you?"
Anthony clapped his hands together. "Progress!"
I continued, keeping my tone even. "Did you buy them?"
Another pause. His eyes flicked to the door for just a second before he caught himself.
"That's a yes," I murmured.
He scowled. "This is bullshit."
Anthony whistled. "Hey, don't get mad. My guy's just good at his job."
I kept going. "Who did you buy them from?"
The dealer clenched his jaw, his fingers pressing into the floor. He was debating whether this was worth dying over.
I decided to make it easier for him.
"You're not gonna win here," I said calmly. "You can hold out, sure. But sooner or later, we'll find out anyway. And if we find out without your help, what do you think happens to you?"
His nostrils flared, but I saw the moment he caved.
He exhaled through his teeth. "Vincent," he muttered.
I sat back. "Vincent?"
The dealer nodded stiffly.
Anthony let out a low whistle. "Damn. You serious?"
The dealer swallowed hard. "You think I'd joke about that? You don't screw with the Giovanni family."
Anthony and I exchanged glances.
We had our name. Even if I was out of the loop for who he was.
But judging by the look on the dealer's face... we had just stepped into something much bigger.
The reaction from Milan told me everything I needed to know. He leaned back, arms crossed, and let out a low whistle. "That's not just anyone. The Giovanni family is one of the most powerful mafia groups in the city."
Anthony clicked his tongue. "And let me guess, they don't exactly hand out meetings to random guys off the street?"
The man shook his head. "Not unless you've got something they want."
Going in loud was suicide. Instead, Milan suggested we go the diplomatic route—requesting an audience under the guise of 'business.' So we forced the dealer to get into contact with him.
I expected the request to be ignored. Instead, the response came fast.
But not for a sit-down meeting.
The wording was careful. This wasn't a threat, but it wasn't exactly an offer of goodwill either. The mafia didn't host just anyone for a meal, and the fact that they were willing to do so meant one thing: they were curious.
That, or they were setting a trap.
Either way, we had no choice but to walk into it.
After getting to the provided address, we could see that the estate was massive. Not just rich—old-money rich. The kind of place built with blood and power. High walls, discreetly placed security cameras, and men in suits who looked like they could break bones without wrinkling their cuffs.
As we stepped out of the car, I felt the weight of a dozen hidden eyes on us. Snipers, most likely. The kind of people you'd never see unless they wanted you to.
A man in a dark suit—built like a wall—led us inside without a word.
The Giovanni mansion's interior was a perfect balance of elegance and intimidation. Expensive paintings, polished floors, a dining hall that could fit an entire army, all bathed in the dim glow of a chandelier that probably cost more than my old construction site.
At the head of the long table sat Vincent Giovanni.
He wasn't what I expected.
No flashy jewelry, no scars or gold-plated guns. Just a calm, composed man in his sixties, dressed in a black suit, sipping wine like he had all the time in the world.
A king at his throne.
And we had just entered his court.
We were soon brought to a massive dinning hall. There were a total of 14 seats, one for each of the twelve operations squad members. With the additional 2 head seats for me and Vincent.
What's more is that the meal were lavish—handmade pasta, grilled meats, expensive wine poured into crystal glasses. But beneath the hospitality, there was an undeniable tension. A test.
Vincent gestured lazily. "Eat. Talk. I assume you're here about our little business venture."
Milan was the first to respond, measured and respectful. "We heard the Giovanni family got their hands on some very exclusive merchandise. We're interested."
Vincent chuckled, swirling his wine. "Ah, yes. The prototypes. Impressive little things, aren't they?" He leaned forward slightly. "And what do you plan to do with them?"
I met his gaze. "That depends on where they came from."
Then Vincent smiled. A small, knowing smirk. "You misunderstand." His voice was smooth, deliberate. "We don't care about the technology. It's useless to us."
I frowned. "Then why take it?"
Vincent exhaled, setting down his glass. "We weren't after the tech. We were after an edge."
I exchanged a glance with Anthony.
Vincent continued, voice steady. "Every year, the eight most powerful mafia families settle their disputes the old-fashioned way—a fighting tournament. One fighter per family. No weapons, no outside help. Just skill."
He tilted his head. "The prototypes were supposed to give our fighter an advantage. Limited, of course—skills don't magically alter a man's bones or muscle mass. But a reaction time a fraction of a second faster? A punch thrown with more precision? That can make the difference between winning and dying."
Milan tensed, beside me, clearly having experienced similar scenarios. "Let me guess. You want us to fight for you?"
Vincent chuckled. "Perceptive. Our original fighter was... unfortunately injured." His tone was casual, but there was a cold finality to it. The man was dead.
I exhaled. "So that's the trade. We win for you, and you hand over the prototypes."
Vincent nodded. "Precisely."
I leaned back, thinking it over.
This wasn't just any fight. This was a deathmatch between some of the most dangerous men in the underworld. And worse—if I agreed, it would expose my combat skills.
It would expose my identity as Mr. Beatle.
The mafia didn't know my full identity, they didn't care about Reynard Vale, but the moment I stepped into that ring, they'd figure it out.
Anthony leaned over. "Boss, you're not actually considering this, right?"
I ignored him, staring at Vincent.
A mafia leader wouldn't go running to the police about an illegal underground tournament. If I won, I'd get the tech and disappear.
But it was the fastest way.
Vincent arched an eyebrow.
I nodded. "I'll fight for you."
Anthony stared at me like I had lost my mind.
The rest of the squad members—who had been silent until now—almost choked on their food.
Then Vincent laughed. A deep, satisfied chuckle.
"Good." He raised his glass. "Then it's settled. You fight for us... and the tech is yours."
I nodded, but in the back of my mind, I knew—
I just signed up for a mafia deathmatch.