Detroit — Truck Drivers Union Chapter.
At the entrance, Bobby Mercer lit a cigarette, shoved both hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, and glanced around like a man who didn't trust anything that moved.
As a heavyweight street fighter from Detroit's East Side, Bobby had been throwing punches since he was a kid. Back then, it was fists and sticks; later, it upgraded to shotguns and Molotov cocktails. He made a name for himself in the underworld—and a lot of enemies along the way—which eventually forced him to leave Detroit and scrape out a living elsewhere.
In recent years, he'd heard that the Sweet gang had changed leadership. Old Sweet was dead, and his nephew had taken over. A lot of enemies from rival gangs in the East District had also died in the constant gang wars.
After wandering for years, Bobby came back only to realize that most of the people who wanted him dead… were already dead.
Life really was unpredictable.
If anything, the fights back home were even more brutal. Compared to Detroit, gangs elsewhere felt sluggish and hesitant. Take Jimmy Hoffa for example—why drag things out? Why not just take out Frank Fitzsimmons directly instead of playing this long, drawn-out game?
A moment later, a well-dressed Black man walked out of the union building.
Jerry Mercer—Bobby's brother, also adopted by Ms. Mercer.
Out of the four brothers, Jerry was the only one who stayed in Detroit to take care of their mother. The others had all left to find their own paths.
The moment they saw each other, the two brothers pulled into a tight hug.
"Not bad," Bobby said, glancing at the union sign behind him. "Back when we were throwing punches together, you never mentioned you'd end up a union heavy hitter. Look at you now—dressed like a businessman."
Jerry grinned, flashing a set of bright white teeth. "Jealous? Haven't you been getting cozy with Uncle Hoffa lately? You could join too."
"Not a chance." Bobby shook his head. "I like being free. A union would just put a leash on me."
He wasn't about to spend his days driving heavy trucks. Knowing his temper, he'd probably punch the steering wheel clean off during traffic.
"Alright, tell me—what kind of trouble are you in?" Bobby asked, his tone turning serious. "Your big brother's here. I'll help you handle it."
Jerry glanced around cautiously, then led him into a nearby coffee shop. Once seated, he explained everything in detail.
As a union member, Jerry had done extremely well for himself. Thanks to his mother's connection with Hoffa, he had gained recognition within the union and made a considerable amount of money.
Later, he decided to strike out on his own—start a business, make it bigger, build something real.
That "something" was a city redevelopment project.
He went all in—every last dollar he had. Then he borrowed more, even secured a loan from the union's fund.
"And now Victor Sweet shows up, wanting a cut," Jerry said helplessly. "It's straight-up extortion. If I don't pay, he'll shut my project down. He's got connections in the city council—he can pull it off."
Bobby frowned. "Victor? I only remember a guy named Macon Sweet."
"Victor is his nephew," Jerry replied. "Used to run errands for his uncle—moving bombs, transporting prostitutes. Then one day, he threw his uncle into the river and took over. Now the whole area belongs to him."
Bobby went silent for a moment.
"Damn… a lot's changed while I was gone. How much is he asking?"
"$400.000 Bucks."
Bobby laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is he out of his mind? $400.000 Bucks just for opening his mouth?"
Jerry sighed. "If you want to cross the bridge, you pay the toll. He didn't point a gun at me, but he cut off every escape route I had. I've already invested everything. There's no backing out now. If this project fails, I'm not just broke—I'll be buried under millions in debt."
Bobby, who lived day-to-day with no concept of saving money, winced at that.
"Other than paying him… any options?" he asked. "I could just take care of Victor. If he's gone, your project moves forward, right?"
Jerry: "…"
That was Bobby for you—decisive, reckless, completely unconcerned about consequences. The kind of guy who'd storm someone's territory with nothing but a shotgun and confidence.
"If you kill him, my business is finished," Jerry said helplessly. "You can leave, but I still have to live here. Mom still lives here. You think we can handle the Sweet family's retaliation?"
Bobby grinned. "Then we wipe out the whole family."
Jerry: "…"
Yeah. Definitely his brother.
After a moment, Bobby sighed and waved it off. "Relax, I'm kidding. We'll figure something else out. I picked up a few lines back in the new york city—'Peace is good for business,' and 'No friction, no problems.' Let's try that approach first."
Jerry gave him a skeptical look. "You? Talking about peace?"
"Hey, I'm evolving."
"Just… don't tell Mom about this," Jerry added. "I don't want her to worry."
"I know how to keep my mouth shut."
Later, Jerry brought Bobby home.
Among the four brothers, Bobby was actually the most "settled"—he had already moved out and gotten married. Still, when Jerry's wife saw the infamous Bobby Mercer, she forced a polite smile, then immediately pulled her husband aside.
"Why did you bring him here?" she whispered.
"Don't give me that look," Jerry replied quickly. "I haven't lived that life in years. I barely see him—he rarely comes back to Detroit. We're just catching up."
His wife didn't look convinced.
Something about Bobby just screamed trouble.
Detroit Police Department.
Officer Philip Krauss was currently being questioned by his superiors.
The reason?
Excessive force—he had shot and killed a Black suspect.
"He was shot in the back," his superior said coldly. "Which means he was running away, and you shot him from behind."
Philip frowned. "He was running away. If I didn't shoot him from behind, where was I supposed to shoot him—from the front while he's sprinting away?"
"…That's not the point."
His superior pinched the bridge of his nose. "His back was turned. That means he wasn't an immediate threat. You can't just shoot someone for stealing."
Philip shot back instantly, "If he was just stealing, why run? Maybe he killed someone inside. Maybe he was fleeing the scene."
"You can't make assumptions! If he had a weapon, that's different—but he didn't!"
"He didn't stop even after being shot."
"He's dead."
"…Right. Then I apologize."
"An apology?"
"What else do you want?"
Philip spread his hands, genuinely confused. In his mind, he'd done nothing wrong.
Those damn criminals—he could smell trouble on them from miles away. If they committed a crime, they deserved a bullet. Hell, if someone flipped him off, he could probably justify shooting them as "assaulting an officer."
Only bullets taught people to follow rules.
Seeing his attitude, his superior felt a headache coming on.
Philip's racism was obvious—but so was his effectiveness. Most officers avoided the East Side because it was too dangerous. Philip, on the other hand, charged straight in with his patrol unit, enforcing order with brutality.
A double-edged sword.
In the end, the superior waved it off. "Just… be more careful next time."
"Yes, sir."
Philip adjusted his cap, hiding the cold look in his eyes, and stepped out.
As he walked down the hallway, he spotted a colleague escorting an elderly woman—Ms. Mercer, well-known in the community.
He recognized her immediately.
Adopting orphans was admirable, sure… but adopting Black orphans? Detroit already had too many Black residents. White families were barely holding onto their space as it was.
Philip greeted them briefly, then returned to his desk.
"What's she doing here?" he asked a colleague. "Her adopted kids in trouble again?"
"No idea."
Philip shook his head. "There's a reason no one else adopts those kids."
Before he could continue, someone approached him with a report.
An oil tanker had been robbed in the East District.
Heavy losses.
And more importantly—
it involved the Zerilli family.
Philip's eyes lit up.
Now that was interesting.
Not long after, he received an invitation.
The meeting wasn't at the station—it was at a high-end restaurant reserved by Anthony Zerilli.
Inside, Zerilli calmly laid out his requests.
First: catch the criminals who dared to steal the gasoline and recover the losses—millions of dollars.
Second: ensure that the Zerilli family's gasoline business in Detroit would no longer be interfered with by Black gangs.
In short—
he wanted peace.
Zerilli spoke in a measured, almost refined tone.
"Our gasoline business is completely legitimate. It brings lower prices, creates jobs, and helps stabilize employment—something the city government strongly supports. And yet, there are always people trying to sabotage that. What are they trying to do—destroy the livelihoods of thousands of drivers? Tear down the Motor City itself?"
He paused, then looked directly at Philip.
"I've heard about you. East Side, right? You handle things… effectively."
A faint smile.
"I need that."
"But keep it clean. No unnecessary chaos. First, find the tanker and the gasoline."
Philip's gaze shifted to the box on the table—neatly stacked green bills.
A wide grin spread across his face.
Now this—
this he could do.
Fighting crime was his duty.
Especially this kind of crime.
After all, the criminals had acted first.
They stole from legitimate businessmen.
They deserved it.
Philip raised his hand in a mock salute, fingertips brushing his forehead.
"you really an entrepreneurs who serve the people!"
And with his other hand—
he pressed down firmly on the money.
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