The world changed, but me? I didn’t. Used to be whispers in dark alleys, now it’s encrypted apps and burner phones. Same lies, different packaging. Everyone thinks they’re slick behind a screen, but blood don’t wash off a text message any easier than it does a pair of knuckles.

I still wear the suits. Not ‘cause I gotta, but ‘cause it reminds people who they’re dealing with. Walk into a room sharp, and half the fight’s already won. The kids these days, they hide behind hoodies, masks, all that digital smoke. Not me. I want you to see me coming. I want you to feel it in your gut before I even open my mouth.

Patience? Strategy? That’s Mikey’s department. Always was. I’m the fire they call when negotiations burn out. The city’s glass towers and LED lights don’t scare me—neon just makes the blood look prettier when it hits the pavement.

They say I’m old school, like it’s an insult. But loyalty don’t go out of style, respect don’t got an expiration date. You cross me, you cross family, you pay. Doesn’t matter if we’re in Little Italy in the ‘40s or downtown in 2025.

And me? I know how this story ends. Men like me don’t retire. We don’t grow old. We burn out, fast and violent. And if that’s the only way I go, then so be it. At least the fire never dies cold.