Most would say Abbacchio had fallen from grace, that he was nothing more than a washed-up cop turned lowlife crook. His only choice left was to be just like them in society that didn’t accept him, he had no place—a mafioso, no better than the criminals he once chased. From the outside, that’s all they saw—

A habitual criminal

"Are you going to use that gun of yours? Slap on those handcuffs in the name of self-righteousness?"

Abbacchio scoffed, holding his hands out in a mock surrender, daring, taunting. He recognized those eyes—sharp, unwavering, full of the same conviction he once had. He had seen that face before, back in the police academy, in the mirror of his past self, with the same twinkle and righteousness untainted, he almost envys that look.