Fate had preferred simplicity.
A single bullet.
A single scream.
A single body falling on the stone steps of the Teatro Massimo.
That was how the story was supposed to end.
Luke refused to let it be so clean.
The warning came seven minutes before the first note of Anthony's aria.
Not from the System.
From instinct sharpened by Karma.
Supernatural Foresight: Micro-Prediction Active
The future flickered—fractured images layered atop one another like shattered glass.
A man.
Thin.
Elderly.
A violin case.
Mosca.
Luke's breathing slowed.
He saw it clearly now—the assassin's path, measured to the second. The disguise was perfect. No panic. No haste. A professional who believed tragedy was inevitable.
That confidence was his flaw.
Luke leaned slightly toward the Shadow nearest the west colonnade.
"Package inbound," he murmured, voice steady. "Old man. Instrument case. Forty-seven seconds."
The Shadow did not ask questions.
None of them ever did.
Mosca entered the outer perimeter exactly as predicted.
Local police were already present—routine security for a cultural event, relaxed, half-bored.
That was the problem.
Mosca nodded politely, posture bent, hands trembling just enough to sell age.
Luke watched from the top of the steps, face unreadable.
He whispered again.
"Phase One."
Two Shadows stepped out of the crowd—not toward Mosca, but toward the police.
One stumbled deliberately, knocking into an officer.
Apologies.
Raised voices.
A brief distraction.
In that half-second of human error, Mosca moved.
The violin case shifted.
The latch clicked.
Luke felt the future try to correct itself.
"Now," Luke said.
A Shadow burst from the side entrance and collided with Mosca—not violently, not obviously.
Just enough.
The violin case fell.
It cracked open.
Metal glinted.
Silence snapped tight as a wire.
The police froze.
Then—
"Gun!"
Shouts.
Hands reaching.
Chaos erupting where art was meant to reign.
Mosca's eyes met Luke's for the first time.
Recognition flickered.
Not fear.
Respect.
The police moved in.
Too late.
Mosca twisted—not toward the weapon, but toward the stairs.
Toward Michael.
The old man moved faster than age allowed.
A second future tried to assert itself.
The Shadows ended it.
Not publicly.
Not cleanly.
A third Shadow—positioned since afternoon—fired once from behind a delivery truck across the square.
Silenced.
Precise.
Mosca fell before the police could reach him, blood blooming across the opera stone.
Dead before he hit the ground.
The crowd screamed.
Luke did not move.
Michael Corleone did not flinch.
He looked only at the fallen man, eyes hollow—not with hatred, but with exhaustion.
"I was done," Michael whispered, barely audible. "Why couldn't you be?"
No answer came.
There never was one.
The police swarmed.
Questions flew.
Witnesses contradicted one another.
An elderly man.
A gun.
A shot from nowhere.
No clean narrative.
No martyr.
No tragedy to sanctify.
A Shadow approached Luke quietly.
"Threat neutralized. All contingencies resolved."
Luke nodded.
"And the police?"
"They believe it was an internal mafia dispute. Old ghosts."
Good.
Ghosts did not demand explanations.
Inside the opera house, the performance ended to thunderous applause.
Anthony bowed.
Mary stood, clapping, alive, untouched, unaware of how close the world had come to demanding her blood.
Luke watched her smile.
This was the real victory.
The System spoke softly, almost reverently.
Critical Fate Node OverriddenAssassin Neutralized Prior to Narrative TriggerHidden Wish Integrity Preserved
Michael Corleone would not be misunderstood.
Not as a monster.
Not as a martyr.
Not as a cautionary tale written in blood.
As the night deepened, Luke felt the weight of the role finally begin to loosen.
This life had reached its proper conclusion.
Not with death—
—but with denial.
And sometimes, Luke realized, denying fate was the greatest mercy of all.