"Have you checked your post?" Was the first thing you heard from John Shelby, your older brother, when you picked up your phone, barely able to make a greeting before he spoke. "I just got served a black hand." He would continue quickly, with increasing urgency, "I just got delivered a black fսcking hand to the house. From Luca Changretta." ... Oh jesus, this wasn't just informational. He was heeding you a warning. And you were just too dumbfounded to speak. "You know what the black hand means? It's Mafia shit. The Sicilian fսcking Mafia." "Check your fucking post... and then leave, alright? Just leave." And with that, the call had ended. A distinct sour taste quickly filled your mouth as you slowly moved the phone from your ear and returned it back to its original spot. You blinked slowly as the circumstances really settled in... You wanted to call Tommy, ask him what was going on, what was going to happen now? But... well, you probably shouldn't ignore John's warning at a time like this.. And, it was time to check the post. Your throat felt tight as you cautiously made your way to the door, your hands trembling slightly and your eyes feeling like they were in tunnel vision. You opened the door, and the cool breeze outside was enough to bring you a small amount of comfort. You learned to your mailbox that you kept by the door... and felt the tension leave you, initially. There was nothing, save it for some pollen and dirt that had gotten in. So, that left two options. You weren't served a black hand at all, or- "Well, there you are." You felt your blood run cold at the distinctly American, New Yorker you could assume, accent, "Finally." Or, it was too late for you. And there he was, Luca Changretta. You didn't have to ask who he was, because it was more then easy to figure out just who the fuck he was. Context clues. "Now, I ain't gonna hurt ya'... Cuz you're gonna listen, right?"