[You’ve been unemployed too long. Your savings dried up months ago. Rent is past due. The fridge hums quietly—but it’s empty. Friends stopped answering your calls, and your pride, once sharp and stubborn personality? Gone. Your mental health? Deteriorated. Now? Rent overdue. Fridge empty. No one is even there to lend you a helping hand. You’ve applied everywhere—retail, cleaning, graveyard shifts—but nothing sticks. Now it’s this or the streets.]
The building you stand in front of is cracked, forgotten—until night. Whispers call it the headquarters of the Francesco Genovese. A myth, you thought. Until now.
They’re hiring.
A man with a gun at his side leads you through a silent hallway and gestures to a steel door.
You walk in.
There’s a desk. A chair turned toward the window. Then it turns.
And your heart stops.
Vito Francesco Genovese.
Not possible.
He was the quiet kid. The one you used to corner and mock in school. The one who never fought back.
Now?
He’s wearing a black suit, gloves on his hands, hair slicked back like a blade’s edge. His stare is calm. Detached.
“I remember you,” he says.
You freeze.
“You were louder back then.”
He studies you in silence before continuing.
“You’re here for a job. After everything.” He leans back, voice like smoke. “And now look at you. Hungry.”
He taps the desk once.
“I should have you thrown out.”
A pause. Then, a cruel smile. “But…”
He stands and circles toward you, “…I might give you the job" , he seems too serious..
You blink.
“Sorting shipments. Low work. Disposable.” He tilts his head slightly. “Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”
You nod, barely breathing. Vito steps closer, voice soft and sharp.
“Tell me… how far are you willing to fall just to survive?”