he warning came three seconds too late.
Not because the Shadows failed—but because fate, when cornered, always tried one last, desperate strike.
Michael Corleone was stepping out of the charity hall when the night cracked open.
A sound like a firework.
Then another.
Glass exploded.
Luke felt the impact before he understood it—an iron punch slamming into Michael's side, spinning the world sideways. The cane flew from his hand. Pain flared, sharp and shocking, followed by heat.
Not fatal.
But close enough to send a message.
"Don Michael!"
Shadows moved instantly.
They did not shout. They did not panic. They appeared—from doorways, from cars, from places no one remembered seeing them enter. Bodies interposed. Guns came up, but only to cover, not to chase.
Luke forced Michael to the ground as another shot tore through the air, biting into marble where his head had been a moment earlier.
Blood seeped through his jacket.
Light injury.
The System confirmed it in a cold, silent certainty—but Luke didn't need the prompt. Michael was breathing. Conscious. Alive.
That was enough.
The attackers never reached him.
By the time sirens screamed in the distance, the shooters were gone—vanished into the city like ghosts who had never existed.
But the message was clear:
Someone wanted Michael Corleone dead.
Inside the safe room, doctors worked fast. The bullet had grazed muscle, missed bone, missed organs.
Luck.
Or preparation.
Luke lay still, eyes half-closed, playing the role perfectly as the old patriarch weakened, wounded, mortal.
The door slammed open.
Vincent.
His face was thunder.
"Who did this?" he demanded.
Michael raised a hand weakly. "Not… here."
Vincent ignored him, turning to the Shadows. "I want names. Now."
The leader of the Shadows stepped forward, voice calm, professional.
"Information is coming. This was not Zasa's people. This was political muscle. Contract shooters."
Vincent's eyes went red.
"Then I'll burn their world down."
And then came Fredo.
Too late. As always.
He burst into the room, pale, shaking, eyes wild with guilt and fear that had never fully healed.
"They tried to kill you," Fredo said, voice breaking. "They're never going to let us go. I told you. I told you—this straight-life nonsense—"
"Fredo," Michael said quietly.
But Fredo didn't hear him.
"They'll keep coming! You think charities and priests protect us? They don't respect weakness!"
Vincent turned on him. "Watch your mouth."
Fredo laughed, sharp and hysterical. "You think you're better? You think giving the family to him fixes anything?"
The room tensed.
Guns were half-raised.
This—this—was the real danger.
Not bullets.
Family.
Luke felt the surge of rage ripple through the Corleone bloodline like an exposed wire. Vincent wanted blood. Fredo wanted control. The old instincts were clawing their way back.
This was exactly what the enemies wanted.
Michael opened his eyes fully.
Enough.
"I said," Michael whispered, but the room fell silent instantly, "this is no longer my world."
He looked at Fredo—not with anger, not with disappointment, but with something worse.
Tired sorrow.
"If you bring violence into this room," Michael continued, "you make everything I've done meaningless."
Fredo froze.
"I survived," Michael said. "That is all that matters tonight."
He turned to the Shadows. "Find out who thought this was a good idea."
Then—to Vincent—"And you…"
Vincent leaned in.
"Protect the family," Michael finished. "Not my pride."
The Shadows bowed slightly.
Information would come.
Retribution would be calculated, not emotional.
But Luke knew the truth now, clearer than ever:
The enemies weren't trying to kill Michael Corleone.
They were trying to drag him back into the darkness.
And the family—angry, frightened, irrational—was the sharpest weapon they had.
The next move would decide everything.