Monday came with sunlight and suspicion.
Sally handed me an envelope and a name Carmine Zullo, a guy who ran a restaurant out near Lamington. On paper, Carmine was clean. But everyone knew he skimmed from his own kitchen. Not drugs, not cash. Information.
"You're not collecting today," Sally said. "You're listening."
I raised an eyebrow. "To what?"
"To see if he's talking to the wrong people."
"Feds?"
"Could be. Or just stupid."
I nodded. "And if he is?"
"You let me know."
No threats. No pressure. Just ears and eyes. The kind of errand you only gave someone you didn't fully trust or someone you were quietly grooming.
Either way, I took it.
Carmine's place was the kind of half-legit Italian joint that served wine in unlabeled bottles and had a front window that never lost its layer of grease. Two booths were occupied. One by a family eating in silence, the other by a guy in a tracksuit who looked like he had more bullets in his history than customers.
Carmine came out wiping his hands.
"You're Sally's kid?"
"Nephew."
"You eat?"
"Not yet."
"Sit. You eat first."
The food came quick. No menu. Just steaming rigatoni, warm bread, sausage with fennel and too much oil. I didn't complain. I listened.
"You know how many inspectors I get here in a week?" Carmine said, sitting across from me. "Three. One from the city, one from the county, one from God knows where."
"That new?"
"Last few months. Since March."
I twirled pasta on my fork.
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Someone's whispering."
"To who?"
He hesitated.
Then: "You know a guy named Skip Lipari?"
I did. Or I remembered the name. FBI. Chris's handler in the future.
"No," I lied. "Should I?"
Carmine didn't answer. Just sipped his espresso.
I filed the name away.
Finished the plate. Left the tip. Didn't leave a threat.
Manipulation +1 → 12Mob Etiquette +1 → 13Reputation +2 → 13Side Lead Gained: Lipari Activity Flag
Back in Newark, I checked in with Jason. He was setting up a private poker night at a small print shop that doubled as a low-key money cleaning front.
"You know computers?" he asked.
"A bit."
"You might like this guy I know ,college dropout, runs an offshore book out of Hoboken. Wants to go legit. Needs help with backend."
"Pay?"
"Equity."
That got my attention.
"Introduce us."
I met the kid that evening. Owen, glasses, smart mouth, clearly on the run from something. He showed me the basics: his site, his payout structure, how he masked bets as subscriptions to a fake newsletter.
"I'm trying to get ahead of the curve," he said. "When this shit goes legal? We'll be gods."
"I want in," I said. "But I want more than backend access."
He laughed. "Everybody does."
"I've got capital. I've got muscle. I've got people who don't want to be seen."
He looked at me differently after that.
"You serious?"
"Dead."
We shook on it.
Side Venture Unlocked: GhostLine SportsbookMini Trait Earned: Early Investor – 3% bonus on compound side income streamsProgress Toward Path: Earner – 25%
Back home, I updated the wall behind my bedroom door. A corkboard I'd salvaged from a dumpster behind a rec center. I'd been pinning photos, names, lines of influence. It was messy, but it breathed.
JasonBennyOwenCarmineTonySallyPaulieChris
I put a red thumbtack into the name Skip Lipari.
Watched it for a long moment.
I didn't want to interfere with canon not yet. But I would use every whisper, every window.
This wasn't about rewriting history.
It was about writing mine over theirs.
That night, with the apartment quiet and my notebook open, I updated my stats.
Snapshot – Ade DeSantis (Week 2)
Mob Etiquette: 13 Respected. Trusted to move in and out of circles without blundering.
Charisma: 14 Charm natural. Conversations bend. Doors open without force.
Street Smarts: 6 Knows the corners. Reading neighborhoods like maps.
Reputation: 13 Name circulates. Not feared, but familiar. No longer invisible.
Manipulation: 12 Can pressure without threats. Can frame a deal without the other side blinking.
Combat Awareness: 6 Still building. Hands sharper. Feet ready.
Traits:
Quiet Credibility: Gained trust through silence and presence.
Controlled Aggression: Wears danger like a coat.
Precision Pressure: Dominates low-level negotiations.
Foundation: Training gives slight intimidation boost.
Earner's Instinct: Early financial ventures pay better.
Early Investor: Compound earnings increased from equity-based deals.
Side Ventures:
GhostLine Sportsbook: 10% ownership stake. Projected passive income pending.
Active Leads:
Lipari Activity Flag
Adriana's label opportunity (music royalties)
I stared at the board until the clock passed two.
I wasn't just surviving anymore.
I was carving space.
Quietly. Strategically. Permanently.
Let them play the old game.
I was building a new one.
A few days later, I was at a bar in Montclair with Jason and Benny, mostly for appearances. We talked bullshit over mozzarella sticks and draft beer. But I was there for someone else.
Gino Russo, a childhood friend of Jason's, used to DJ house parties, spun records on local pirate radio, and now booked live acts at a run-down venue in Bloomfield called The Boxcar.
He walked in late, red hoodie, gold chain, fast mouth.
"Yo, Jase. You didn't say you brought the guy from those World War II movies."
"Gino," Jason said, "this is Ade. He's… around."
Gino looked at me sideways. "You rap?"
"No."
"Sing?"
"Not really."
"Then why're you looking at music?"
I smiled. "Because the people who get rich off music rarely stand on stage."
He paused, tilted his head, and nodded.
We had our drink. Swapped contacts. I didn't press. Just let the seed sit.
That night, I sat on the back stoop of Sally's building with a notebook and a low flame under my cigarette.
Adriana would start her label within a year. I knew the timeline. I knew what would happen to her. I wasn't going to protect her but I could intersect her.
Offer help. Plant songs. Collect royalties.
Not for fame. For leverage.
I flipped open my notebook and started writing titles.
Songs From Another Life
Fake pop songs with real hooks.
Retro R&B with just enough soul.
Early 2000s girl group vibes.
I only needed one hit.
Just one track, nostalgic and catchy, to carve out a financial buffer the mob couldn't see.
Side Goal Updated: Legacy Royalties – 0/3 tracks producedNew Perk Option Unlocked (Pending): Ghostwriter – Boost to manipulation in music biz contexts
By Thursday, I met with Owen again. He showed me site traffic charts and new payout structures. His mouth moved a mile a minute, but I was more focused on his printer.
"Is that a Lexmark T520?" I asked.
He looked shocked. "Yeah, how the hell you know that?"
"I used to fix those."
"You ever think about helping me scale?"
"Scale what?"
"The whole site. We need new servers. Secure channels. I got this guy in Teaneck moving numbers through PayPal and labeling it as collectible coins."
"You're sloppy," I said. "But you're early. And early beats clean."
We made a deal. I'd stabilize the tech, help him obscure digital movement. In exchange, I'd increase my stake.
GhostLine Stake: 10% → 15%Passive Income Track Engaged – Estimate: $300/week with potential exponential growthMini Skill: Systems Navigation (Digital) +1 → 3Progress Toward Path: Earner – 33%
By the end of the week, I had cash coming from three directions. Envelopes from Sally, equity in Owen's book, and whispers about a new monthly poker game Jason was planning with outsiders.
Not crew. Not earners.
Civilians.
Guys from real estate. A small time agent from Hoboken. One of Gino's sound engineers. A college dropout who flipped vintage jerseys online.
I didn't need to own them. I just needed to float them.
Be the guy who never raised his voice, but always got the call when something came loose.
I wasn't trying to be Tony.
I was trying to be needed.
And nobody whacks the guy they need.
Saturday afternoon, I met Gino at The Boxcar.
The place was barely holding together. Brick walls coated in spray paint. An old neon sign that flickered so bad it might've caused seizures. Inside, a sticky floor, a small stage, a busted soundboard.
But it had soul.
That kind of run-down, whispered-about venue where scenes start by accident and end in lawsuits.
"I host three shows a week," Gino said, unlocking a side door. "Punk. Rap. Once a reggae act that nearly burned the place down."
"Insurance?"
"Barely."
"Ownership?"
"Split between me and a guy in Philly. Silent partner."
"Silent's good," I said. "Means there's room for one more."
He gave me a long look.
"I'm not trying to sell this place."
"I'm not trying to buy it. I'm trying to help you run it right."
"How?"
"I bring some talent. Studio connections. Front a few promo campaigns. You clean up the bar receipts, stabilize the backend. We both eat."
"And what do you want?"
"Just a piece. Twenty percent."
He leaned back, hands on his hips.
"Ten."
"Fifteen and I never call the fire inspector."
He laughed. "Deal."
New Venture Created: The Boxcar (15% Equity)Progress Toward Path: Earner – 40%Mini Perk: Community Cred – Civilian artists, promoters, and creatives more open to dealings.
Later that night, I found myself back at Sally's building. Empty kitchen. Old coffee in the pot. He was out with friends from the old country, leaving me time to think.
I opened my notebook and wrote one sentence.
If they see you coming, you already lost.
Then I circled it.
I wasn't building a gang.
I was building a network.
The kind that moved money in plain sight, sang songs that made royalties while envelopes changed hands in pork stores, and had enough clean paper around the blood to pass any audit.
Let the captains fight over turf.
Let the button men chase respect.
I was chasing infrastructure.
And in this world, that was the only throne that never collapsed.