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Toni smirked. Vincenzo. Still using middlemen. Still too scared to ask him directly.

As the last thug slumped, Toni pried open the crate. Inside wasn’t olive oil. It was pristine, military-grade body armor. The kind the Forelli family uses.

On the drive back, the radio crackled with a news report about the mayor’s new anti-corruption task force. Toni laughed. The same mayor who took kickbacks from the Yakuza last year. Toni smirked

Toni sighed. He thought of his mother’s meatballs waiting for him. He thought of the 30-minute free trial he’d used up just to re-learn the controls on his phone. Time’s up.

He picked up a vest, then dialed Vincenzo. “It’s clean. But tell Salvatore his ‘produce’ just turned into a war declaration.” Still too scared to ask him directly

What happened next took less than 90 seconds. A tire iron, a well-aimed trash can lid, and the satisfying crunch of a kneecap. Snake tattoo gurgled into a puddle of oil and rainwater.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: “The Leone family sends its regards. We have a problem at the docks. A shipment of ‘produce’ is being rerouted by some freelancers. Clean it up. — V” It was pristine, military-grade body armor

The lead thug, a tall guy with a snake tattoo on his neck, puffed his chest. “Not anymore. Tell Vince he’s late on his percentage.”