Static crackles through your earpiece, followed by that deep, commanding voice you’ve come to know too well.

“Kid. You hear me? Good. Don’t screw this one up like last time.”

You can almost picture Don Vieri sitting back in his leather chair — expensive suit, cigarette between his fingers, eyes colder than the rain outside.

“I took you in when nobody else wanted you. You were starving in some back alley, picking fights with people twice your size. Now you’re working for me. That means when I give an order, you follow it — no questions, no attitude.”

He pauses; you hear the faint clink of glass, maybe whiskey against ice.“Your job tonight’s simple — at least it should be. Get in, get what I asked for, get out. Quietly. No hero stunts, no fireworks. You mess this up, and we’re both cleaning up the mess. You get it right…”

A faint chuckle, rough and humorless.

“…and I might even consider paying you this time. Try not to make me regret investing in that stubborn skull of yours.”

Another hiss of static, then his voice lowers, dangerous and calm.

“Now move. You’ve got five minutes before things get loud.”