Victor Paul's underling had barely finished speaking when Corondo drew his pistol in a blur.
A veteran of special forces, his speed came from years of jungle combat—where he'd once faced off against Japanese soldiers, whose shorter reach gave them a natural edge in quick-draw duels.
Before anyone could react, the gunshot rang out. The pawn-like underling collapsed, a bloody hole in his forehead.
By the time the stunned mafiosi realized what had happened, Corondo was already on his feet. He unbuttoned his coat, revealing the bomb strapped to his waist.
The room, which had been on the brink of erupting into a shootout, fell deathly silent. Those closest to the door instinctively edged backward, desperate to escape the room that could become their tomb.
"Don't move!"
Corondo tugged at the fuse cord.
"I said, don't move!"
Both Victor Paul and Joe Accardo, the two surviving Mafia capos, shouted at their men near the door.
They had just glimpsed their chance at the boss's chair—they weren't about to throw their lives away.
Compared to the trembling foot soldiers, Victor Paul managed a facade of composure. He looked at Corondo.
"You're from Las Vegas, aren't you?"
To them, Corondo was clearly insane. What sane man would Las Vegas send here?
Corondo chuckled lightly.
"Genuine article. My apologies for such an introduction, but I have no choice. My boss gave me only two days to stabilize Chicago's Mafia and wrest control of the underworld back from our enemies. This was the only way. I ask your understanding."
His smile was warm, his tone almost like a businessman's. If not for the live fuse in his hand, he could've been mistaken for one. Yet here he was, ready to kill them all, still asking for their indulgence. To every man present, there was no doubt—this was a madman.
"Put down the fuse," Joe Accardo urged. "And that underling—he only questioned you. Hardly a reason to take his life."
Accardo was old-school Sicilian, trained under Paul Ricca. Though Sicilian Mafiosi were feared for their brutality, they lived by certain codes. Not like this stranger, who killed at a whim.
Accardo spoke up for Victor's man, but Victor himself showed little concern for the dead. His only thought was survival.
"He was ignorant. If he's dead, so be it. Just put the fuse down so we can talk."
Corondo sat again, but his hand remained firmly clenched on the fuse.
"I may look like a lunatic," he told Accardo, "but I don't kill without reason. That man—he was a traitor."
Accardo opened his mouth, but Victor Paul leapt up first, furious.
"Slandering the dead—shame on you!"
Corondo shook his head calmly.
"Is it slander? I think you know better, Mr. Paul. After all, when Mr. Paul Ricca was ambushed, it was that man who happened to be in charge of the bar."
"That was just coincidence!" Victor snapped. "The boss rarely went there. That night was chance, nothing more."
Accardo eyed Victor suspiciously. Truth be told, Corondo's accusation matched his own private doubts. Their Don had died on Victor's turf—that was fact.
Corondo's lips curled into a faint smile. With his free hand, he drew a stack of photographs from his pocket and tossed them onto the table.
"There were many witnesses that night. Ask them if this man doesn't match the shooter in the photos. And right beside him—you'll see the underling I just executed. Your loyal aide, Victor."
At the mention of a lead on Ricca's killer, Accardo leaned toward the photos. But Victor moved faster, sweeping them up and clutching them to his chest.
The move set Accardo on edge.
"What are you doing, Victor? What are you hiding?"
"I…"
Victor's face twisted. On the verge of lashing out, he froze when Corondo said lightly:
"Look more closely, Victor. See what those photos really show."
Suspicion made him glance down. His face changed. The photos weren't of the ambush at all, but random hunters on a field trip.
"You bastard—you tricked me!"
Snarling, Victor yanked out his revolver and stood. But to Corondo, his movement was agonizingly slow. With ease, Corondo snatched the gun from Victor's hand and turned it back on him.
Cornered, Victor shouted to Accardo:
"He's lying! He must be one of the Irish—sent to sow chaos! The real Corondo is dead, and this one's an impostor! Joe, you know me! Ricca raised me—I'd never betray him!"
"Your word means nothing, Paul," Corondo said coldly. He tossed a reel of magnetic tape onto the table. "Mr. Accardo, why don't you listen to this recording?"
Victor's face drained of color.
Accardo already sensed the truth, but in his heart, he still resisted it. He and Victor had come up together as boys under Ricca. Their Don had been like a father.
A reel-to-reel player sat ready in the room. The tape whirred.
"Where'd you get so much money, Dougal?"
At the name, Accardo drew his gun at once and leveled it at Victor Paul.
The voice on the tape was unmistakably Victor's. And Dougal—he was now the head of the Irish gang in Chicago. Once shattered by Capone, they had clawed back territory since his death.
Victor's eyes darted wildly. He had his own men here—half the room, half the villa guards, plus a hidden unit on the nearby hill. And he'd already realized the bomb strapped to Corondo was a bluff. This man didn't look like someone ready to die with them.
He glanced at his confidant, about to give the silent order to strike.
But Corondo's voice cut in smoothly:
"Mr. Paul, I suggest you think twice. There's a phone right here. Why don't you have your man call your family?"
The words froze Victor cold. Whatever else, Italians never ignored family.
On his signal, a soldier dialed home. His wife's sobs spilled through the receiver. Moments later, a stranger's voice cut in:
"Mr. Victor Paul, accept reality—or your whole family pays the price."
The line went dead.
Victor glared at Corondo, seething.
"You're despicable."
"Better than betraying your Don," Corondo sneered.
The tape played on—until Dougal's voice returned:
"Let's not mince words. Take out Ricca, and you'll have three million, plus the boss's chair in Chicago."
"That's impossible," Victor's voice answered. "The National Mafia Commission would never allow it."
"They will," Dougal said. "Because war is coming. Backed by the Jews, the Irish will strike every Italian Mafia family nationwide. Clemenza's family is finished. We won't wipe out every Italian—but we need collaborators. The question is—will you be that man, Victor Paul? With us, you'll have powerful new friends beyond your imagination."
A long silence followed. Then came Victor's voice, cold and final:
"…Fine. I'll do it. Ricca will be gone."
"You animal!" Accardo roared, driving his fist into Victor's jaw.
He moved so fast Victor's soldiers couldn't react. And before they could recover, Corondo addressed them evenly:
"You may want to call your families as well."
The threat chilled the room. Phones were snatched up in panic. Each call confirmed the same grim truth—their loved ones were in Cypriot hands.
Then Corondo twisted the knife:
"Mistresses and bastards count too. You might want to check on them."
The scramble grew frantic. When the calls ended, silence reigned. Victor Paul sat hunched, clutching his bruised face, breath ragged.
Satisfied, Corondo calmly unstrapped the "bomb" and tossed it onto the floor before Victor. The man stared, realizing at last—it had been fake all along.
Regret swallowed him whole. If only he hadn't lashed out at the start—if only.
"Mr. Paul, you're a man of stature," Corondo said coolly. "I won't waste time brawling with you. For the sake of your family—and your bastards—I need you to do one thing."
On the lawn outside Ricca's villa, the Chicago Mafia's core gathered in a circle. In the center, gray-faced Victor Paul raised his revolver.
Trembling, he put the barrel in his mouth, shut his eyes, and pulled the trigger.
The crack of the shot echoed in the night.
Faces around the circle showed the grief of men watching a comrade fall. But Corondo remained impassive.
He signaled his Cypriot men to lay Victor's corpse in a coffin. Then he turned to address the rest.
"Gentlemen, the traitor is gone. You heard the tape yourselves—our family faces grave peril. Clemenza is dead. Former Don Michael Corleone has returned. The Irish and Jews want war? Then we give them war.
My orders are clear: within two days, Chicago's chaos must end. The underworld will return to Mafia control, and our enemies will go to their God.
Do this not only to avenge Don Paul Ricca, but to seize your chance at fortune. Complete the task in a day and a half, and each regiment earns two million.
Finish in a single day, and I'll introduce you to someone you've dreamed of meeting. With him, you could rise to true greatness.
You know who I mean. After all, I serve him—not Michael Corleone."
Some men looked confused, but the sharper minds understood. Especially Joe Accardo. He had already guessed the name: Leo Valentino, the most influential Italian-American alive.
Soon, Ricca's farmstead lay deserted. Only his widow, children, and a stack of ledgers remained. Cars roared into the night, carrying men now bound to Corondo's will.
In one car, Accardo rode beside him.
"Where did you get that tape?" he asked.
Corondo smiled faintly.
"Best not to ask what you don't need to know."
He would never reveal that the reel had come straight from the FBI's Chicago bureau chief.
Meanwhile, unaware of the storm bearing down, Irish boss Dougal entered a synagogue. There, David Cohen—now a grain futures magnate, once a Jewish crime lord—oversaw six crates of cash being handed over.
"One million per crate," Cohen said. "Three for you, three for Victor Paul."
Dougal accepted only three, his grin cruel.
"No need. That fool Victor Paul won't live to see the sunrise. I'll use the other three to place thirty men inside the Chicago Police Department."
"You've finally seen sense," Cohen replied. "The Mafia mattered once, but times change. It's time you Irish transformed too. Police is a fine profession."
He didn't add what he truly thought: The age of the mob is ending. We wealthy will still need loyal dogs to guard us. The Irish will do nicely as our hounds.