The stretch of 8 Mile Road was soaked in decay and desolation, like a public restroom that had been abandoned for years—crumbling on the outside, rotten to the core on the inside.
When Jimmy Smith Jr. was just six months old, his biological father walked out on the family. After that, his mother dragged him from city to city before finally settling in Detroit when he turned twelve.
Poverty hit them hard; with no stable income, they ended up living in one of the most chaotic Black neighborhoods in the city. And what happens to a white family living in a place like that? It was exactly as predictable as you'd think.
On his very first day of school, Smith got beaten up by a Black classmate who stole his lunch money. After that, he and his mother were forced to move again and again, trying to escape harassment from local thugs. He grew up watching drug deals happen in broad daylight, hearing gunshots like background noise, and sometimes even seeing corpses dumped right outside his doorstep.
Living in that kind of environment—violent, chaotic, overwhelmingly shaped by Black culture—Smith ended up deeply influenced by it. He relied on it, adapted to it… yet at the same time, he was rejected because of his white identity. Add in his childhood trauma and broken family situation, and it was no surprise he developed a deep hostility toward society.
Violence. Rebellion. Anger. Those words fit him perfectly.
Looking at Smith's arrogant, almost detached expression and those wary eyes that never stopped scanning his surroundings, Luca couldn't help but think there was a reason this guy would grow up doing both rap and military boxing. In a place like this, if you didn't know how to fight, you'd get jumped the second your diss hit too hard.
Smith glanced at the Black thugs retreating in the distance, then turned his attention back to the white guy who had helped him. The gun in the man's hand made him tense up slightly.
"Dude… thanks for stepping in," he said, his tone stiff but sincere.
Luca holstered his gun and shrugged. "I just don't like seeing a group gang up on one guy."
Then, with a hint of curiosity, he added, "But I gotta say, I've never seen a white guy diss his way into pissing off that many people before. You a rapper or something? You sounded pretty solid."
"Just an amateur." Smith shrugged, though his eyes were still scanning the area cautiously. "We should get out of here. Those guys aren't the type to let things go—they'll be back."
Luca didn't argue. He gestured toward the car, signaling everyone to get in.
Smith hesitated for a second after glancing at Brian and Keung, but in the end, he followed.
The car continued along Luca's planned route. He checked information, observed the neighborhoods, and even stopped by the bar that would later appear in the original storyline tied to the Detroit riots. Piece by piece, his plan began taking shape.
He had only two objectives in Detroit.
First: take down Jimmy Hoffa.
Second: ignite the Detroit riots.
The riots weren't just chaos—they were opportunity. The system rewards were generous, and more importantly, they would allow Luca to leverage government and military power to wipe out Detroit's Black gangs on a massive scale, clearing the path for his gasoline business.
At the same time, it would strengthen his ties with the Detroit Mafia.
Even if the Detroit family had declined, it was still one of the top twelve. It couldn't compare to New York or Chicago, sure—but that didn't make it small-time. Looking across the entire United States, the faction led by Anthony Zerilli was still a force to be reckoned with.
With gasoline profits paving the way and the backing of the Lucchese family, even Russell Bufalino's Buffalo family had shown willingness to cooperate. The Detroit family? That was practically a given.
Anyone with half a brain could see which side to pick.
Once the old guard like Zerilli passed away peacefully, the Detroit Mafia would naturally fall under Luca's influence. He respected Zerilli—but for the younger generation?
If they didn't listen, he had no problem replacing them.
Take Paul Castellano as an example. After taking over from Carlo Gambino, he couldn't maintain control and ended up being manipulated by other New York families. And John Gotti publicly executing him? That wasn't just boldness—that reeked of someone pulling strings behind the scenes.
Even though Gotti had already been dealt with by Luca, that didn't guarantee Castellano's stability.
A faint chill flickered through Luca's eyes.
Inside the car, however, the atmosphere remained relaxed.
Brian and Smith got along surprisingly well—maybe it was the shared outlaw vibe, like recognizing your own kind. Smith learned Luca's name, but not his identity; he could only vaguely sense that this young man carried himself like someone far above the ordinary.
When they reached 12th Street, Smith got out. Before he left, Luca handed him a business card—the card that referred to the union branch president.
And the reason Luca gave was… blunt, to say the least.
"I'm tired of hearing nothing but Black rappers dominating everything—radio, streets, all of it. Like no white guy in this country can rap unless he gets permission or something." Luca smirked. "You held your own out there. That means something."
He leaned slightly closer.
"Maybe one day you'll stand on a bigger stage… and leave them all speechless."
Then he added, almost casually:
"You're gonna be a rap god."
[Bond: Attention]
"If you ever need help, call me."
As the car drove away, Smith stared at the thin card in his hand, momentarily blank.
Union Branch President… and he's that young?
Same age as me, more or less… and he's already there.
Meanwhile, I'm still washing dishes, hiding in a corner during breaks just to scribble lyrics.
Bigger stage…?
Help…?
My life's already a mess.
He shoved the card into his pocket, pulled up his hood, and walked into the alley like none of it mattered.
Not long after, he arrived at his "home"—a run-down shack buried under piles of trash. Low, rusted, barely standing. From a distance, it looked more like a broken shipping container than a place where people actually lived.
Inside, he glanced coldly at his mother, who was tangled up with yet another man.
She was the kind of woman who never stayed with one person for long. She'd slept with countless men, even had another daughter—and Smith didn't even know who the father was.
Those useless men? They weren't there for her. They were there for the welfare money… and a roof over their heads.
Any man with actual ability wouldn't even look her way.
Smith had written plenty of diss lyrics about her—raw, bitter, brutally honest—but he'd never performed them.
Instead, he turned toward his little sister, picked her up, and his expression softened instantly.
"Hey there, sweetheart…"
He carried her into the inner room, away from the chaos.
Under a dim, warm light, Smith sat with headphones on, writing furiously. His mind raced between rhythm and lyrics, completely absorbed.
Beside him, his little sister quietly drew pictures—just simple cartoons of the two of them, smiling.
"Dove, you really listen to rap?" Brian asked on the way back.
Luca let out a low hum. "Sometimes. But honestly, I'm getting tired of it—same topics every time: money, drugs, guns, women. Like… that's all there is? What happens if they run out of drugs—do they run out of vocabulary too?"
Brian laughed. "You're not wrong."
Even he had to admit—lyrics were repetitive. But rhythm and flow? That part felt almost instinctive, like something wired into them from birth.
Keung, on the other hand, looked completely lost.
"This counts as music?" he muttered. "I thought songs were supposed to sound like Hong Kong or Taiwanese hits."
Luca nodded. "It is music. And it's kinda big right now—only going to get bigger."
When Smith blows up in a few years, you'll understand.
And Luca? He had no intention of missing out on something this easy.
Even Frank Lucas knew how to use connections with Black celebrities in entertainment and sports to shape public opinion. There was no way Luca didn't understand that.
Public influence mattered.
Top-tier stars could sway narratives, influence media, even shape entire cultural trends. Actors, athletes—some even became governors.
On both coasts, most major rappers had gang backing. Those gangs funded and promoted them, and in return, their influence expanded.
So Luca would do the same.
He'd build his own star.
Black artists support Black artists. White artists support white artists. That's just how it works.
And Smith?
He was exactly the kind of person who repaid loyalty.
If anyone tried to pull dirty tricks or diss him…
Luca wouldn't argue.
He'd make those lyrics real.
Because the Mafia? They don't debate.
They act.
Over the next few days, Luca openly enjoyed himself—eating, drinking, socializing with Detroit's Partnership—while quietly rolling out his plan.
(TN: Just a heads-up, the Detroit Mafia Alliance is actually called the Detroit Partnership.)
He partnered with a handful of cooperative gas stations on the West Side. Tanker trucks from East Coast refineries began delivering low-cost gasoline into the city.
Soon, residents noticed something unusual.
Gas prices… were dropping.
For the first time since Detroit's deindustrialization, prices actually went down.
Deindustrialization had hit Detroit like a hammer.
High labor costs, global competition—especially from Japanese cars—forced giants like General Motors and Ford Motor Company to move operations to north, south or overseas, to places like Canada, Mexico and China.
Factories shut down. Jobs disappeared.
White and middle-class families fled the city in waves. Meanwhile, many Black workers who lost their jobs turned to crime.
The result?
A city flooded with poverty, crime, and desperation.
Detroit became something else entirely.
If you wanted the "real" experience of American gang culture, even Los Angeles or Chicago couldn't quite match it.
Here, when that so-called "freedom" anthem played, gunshots followed.
Every day.
Luca's gasoline business stirred the waters.
Lower prices caught workers' attention. Out-of-town trucks drew the eyes of the local drivers' union.
And the East Side gangs?
They noticed too.
With tankers rolling through their territory every single day, there was no way they wouldn't.
Until one day—A tanker got hit.
Robbed by a Black gang in the East End.
The smell of gunpowder began to linger.
Exactly as Luca expected.
"The group responsible calls themselves 'Black Killers,'" Leon reported inside the villa. "They're reselling the gasoline at low prices to stations in the East District."
Luca nodded.
That gang specialized in robbery and extortion. Another group, Young Boys Inc., relied heavily on teenagers and focused on drug trafficking.
And beyond them? Plenty more.
Including the Sweet family lead by Victor Sweet from the Four Brothers storyline—more sophisticated, with police bribery, political connections, and government contracts.
Luca smirked.
He had underestimated them.
Still… messing with the Mercers was their first mistake.
Putting their mother in a grave was their last.
When those brothers stand shoulder-to-shoulder, nothing can stand in their way.
And that crew leader? They turned him into a memory before the smoke even cleared.
Luca chuckled softly.
"A loss of over a million dollars… caused by this kind of stunt. So tell me—how should we, as honest out-of-town businessmen, handle this?"
He leaned back.
"Simple."
"We call the police."
But not just any police.
He needed a white officer—one with a long, ugly history of racial bias.
Because in Detroit, after years of resentment building inside the Black community…
All Luca had to do—
was tear open a small crack.
And once that happened?
The flood would come.
And when it did—
it would drown the entire city.
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