Keung had been living the dream lately. Ever since the furniture store opened, he'd practically leveled up overnight into a full-blown boss, and the martial arts school on the first floor quickly turned lively. On opening day alone, a bunch of guys from the Lucchese family signed up—partly to show support, sure, but also because they genuinely wanted to learn something useful.
Now everyone in Little Italy knew there was a Chinese guy named Keung who could fight like a monster—one man versus an entire gang, no problem. Ridiculously strong, with a presence that reminded people of the Dove of Peace back in his early days. The real kicker? No guns. Just bare hands, and they could still beat troublemakers into submission.
Another big reason for the hype?
Luca himself had signed up.
"Dove, your form's a little off."
Inside the training hall, Luca—dressed in workout clothes—ran through a few stiff, almost abstract-looking moves under Keung's guidance. To an outsider, it looked decent enough. To Keung? Barely passable. All shell, no substance.
Luca glanced at Keung's "Kung Fu Master" skill and said calmly, "Once I learn that, mastering martial arts will come naturally."
After a while, he sat down to rest. Watching the students grunt and train around him, a certain legendary figure popped into his mind.
"Keung," Luca asked, "do you know Pai Mei?"
"White Eyebrows?" Keung's eyes lit up. "Of course! A master of the Southern School! He once defeated the entire Northern Shaolin Temple by himself—his Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique was unstoppable!"
Luca: "..."
Such an absurdly overpowered master—and yet, in the end, taken down by a bowl of fish soup.
Fish soup… undefeated.
"It's a shame Pai Mei is dead," Keung added with a sigh. "He never took any disciples. His lineage ended with him."
"Huh?" Luca frowned. "I remember him having disciples. Most of the assassins from the Deadly Viper group trained under him."
"Deadly Vipers?" Keung blinked. "Never heard of them. But in martial arts circles, it's said Pai Mei never truly accepted disciples or passed on his core techniques. At best, those people you mentioned were just outer students."
Luca fell silent again.
Female Bruce Lee had clearly mastered that technique—she'd killed Bill with a single strike. A move like that, hitting from a distance, could be more lethal than a bullet in certain situations. Even body armor wouldn't help.
In Luca's eyes, that was a straight-up bug-tier ability—on par with those absurd SSR aura skills.
Speaking of which… if he did the math, shouldn't the Female Bruce Lee be on the verge of leaving her organization by now? It had been a couple of years since they first crossed paths.
Over in Japan, O-Ren Ishii was going wild.
They kept in touch regularly. According to her, things were going smoothly—no real competition yet. She'd built her own violent crew, the Crazy 88, even recruiting school-uniform-wearing killers who swung meteor hammers like it was a normal Tuesday.
A whole circus of dangerous weirdos.
Meanwhile, Elle Driver was having the time of her life across California, Mississippi, Texas—you name it. Nicknamed the "California Mountain Snake," she loved Los Angeles the most, constantly calling Luca to invite him over. If he bailed on her, she'd write it down in her little notebook and promise to "settle the score later."
Luca didn't even know what to say. She wasn't thinking about herself—she was thinking about Mathilda, the gambling goddess.
With that in mind, Luca pulled out his phone and called Elle.
"Oh? A heavy hitter mob boss actually calling me first? That's new—I should write this down," Elle teased. "So, who's the target?"
"No job."
"Then why call an assassin? Why not call that lunatic, O-Ren Ishii?"
Luca just wanted intel about Beatrix Kiddo. That woman was pure chaos. If Elle and O-Ren got tangled up with her, they'd get taken out one by one—and it wouldn't be pretty.
"Been waiting for my call?" Luca smirked. "You picked up instantly. Not bad—fast reflexes."
"I'm not fast. I just have terrible memory," Elle shot back. "Been learning new language lately—can't remember a thing. Always need my notes. But there's one word I've got down: 'femme fatale.' That's right, isn't it? Boss, remind me what it means again?"
Luca: "..."
You're learning a whole language for one phrase?
He could almost feel the temperature on the line drop a few degrees.
"Want a proper lesson?" Luca said lightly. "Come to New York. I'll teach you in person."
"Bastard! Liar!" Elle snapped. "You're the real femme fatale!"
Click.
Luca rubbed his temple.
A second later, the phone rang again.
Elle sounded calmer this time. "Anyway, I've got something to ask. Know anything about the Los Angeles Mafia?"
Of course Luca did. He'd been working with them on the West Coast gasoline tax business for months.
The Los Angeles family was one of the Twelve—a rare Italian Mafia presence in California. But despite that, they weren't exactly thriving. Black gangs like the Crips and Bloods were strong, and Mexican cartels dominated the region.
Los Angeles was a mess—way more chaotic than Boston. Just a few hundred kilometers south and you hit the Mexican border. Close enough that it might as well be next door.
"What's the issue?" Luca asked.
"No direct conflict," Elle said, "but they just posted a $1 million bounty through the Continental Hotel in Los Angeles. Open to the entire West Coast. Target's a 'magician.'"
Luca paused.
A million?
That wasn't small. Baba Yaga's first bounty had only been two million.
But… a magician?
"So you don't know either," Elle laughed. "He's part of the L.A. family. Big name in Vegas. Top-tier gambler."
"Normally I wouldn't touch this," she continued, "but now every assassin on the West Coast is circling. This is gonna get messy—people killing each other over the bounty. I'm thinking about taking it. If you can get me intel, I'll split the payout."
Las Vegas again.
Luca frowned. If the family wanted someone dead, they could've handled it quietly. Why blow it up like this? Why involve the Continental?
"I'll look into it," he said. "I'll let you know."
Just like that, he lost all interest in training and hurried out.
Watching him leave, Keung shook his head. "The Dove trains like this… on and off… mastering kung fu won't be easy."
It didn't take long for Luca to gather intel.
The issue had nothing to do with New York or the gasoline tax business. The "magician" had tried to seize power—and got exposed. Worse, he'd flipped to the FBI and was now a cooperating witness.
Inside the club's cigar lounge, the usual heavyweights were chatting.
Fat Tony spoke first. "Who would've thought? The guy turns informant. Now we've got to eliminate him even under FBI protection."
Russell added, "Getting the Continental involved was a last resort. Their hitmen are more reliable in this kind of situation. If he testifies, the L.A. family's finished—and that affects all of us."
Luca muttered under his breath, "What a headache."
If the L.A. family collapsed, he'd need new partners—and that meant dealing with unpredictable gangs.
Crips, Bloods… guys rapping one minute, running drugs with cartels the next. Not exactly ideal business partners.
Unless someone like Bobby Mercer showed up to keep them in line, it'd be chaos.
Mariggio leaned over. "Luca, don't you have that assassin who took out Pushkin? Send him."
It wasn't difficult. Baba Yaga, Robert, or Leon could all handle it.
But Robert had principles—he might refuse. This wasn't justice; it was Mafia cleanup involving the FBI.
"I'll think about it," Luca said.
Going head-on against federal protection wasn't without risk. Maybe that's why the L.A. family outsourced it through the Continental.
Then it hit him.
There was a group perfect for this kind of job.
That night, Luca contacted Arthur Bishop's team at Cobol Engineering.
Arthur sounded surprised. "I'm already in Las Vegas."
Luca: "..."
After a brief pause, Luca said, "I'll add another million. Just handle it cleanly—no unnecessary noise."
Arthur didn't immediately agree. "This is bigger than us. Too many assassins are already here, all chasing that bounty. We can't control what happens. No guarantees—just that we'll try to eliminate the target quickly."
"I trust your team," Luca said. "The money's ready whenever you are."
Still, he couldn't rely on just that. If the L.A. family went down, he needed backup plans.
After wrapping up with Arthur, he contacted both the Russian Mafia on the West Coast and the Los Angeles family to discuss gasoline operations.
On the other end of the line, the Russian was fuming. He tore into the L.A. family, calling them a complete joke—utterly incompetent. They couldn't even hold their own turf against a pack of gasoline leeches stripping tanker trucks clean.
The L.A. boss, clearly embarrassed, tried to salvage the situation. "Look, Los Angeles is crawling with street racing crews," he said. "These aren't random punks—they're pros behind the wheel. I've already started arming the drivers. Next time those bastards try to hijack a shipment, they're not making it out alive."
"I don't want excuses—I want results!" the Russian snapped. "Every damn shipment is getting hit. In just over a month, I've lost tens of millions. This whole gasoline tax operation is falling apart. What's the point if there's no fuel left to sell?"
That's when Luca cut in. "I'll handle the thieves."
The Russian didn't sound convinced. "You're on the East Coast, Luca. What exactly are you planning to do from over there?"
On the West Coast, Luca usually stayed in the background—the middleman linking the Russians, the Los Angeles outfit, and the truck drivers' union. He put up the capital, took the biggest cut, and sent a few experienced people to oversee things, but he rarely got personally involved at that distance.
"How?" Luca let out a faint chuckle. "Simple. To deal with a crew like that… you send someone who speaks the same language."
To take down a "family-level player," you needed another of the same caliber.
Time to put the blond kid to work.
And besides… Luca figured it was about time he paid Los Angeles a visit himself. If the leader of that street racing crew—someone like Dominic Toretto—was really as capable as they claimed, then he might just be another SSR card waiting to be picked up.
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