The car rolled steadily toward the union as Luca leaned his head slightly to the side, his pupils reflecting the gaunt, hollowed-out city, its skyline stretched into a dull gray expanse that made Detroit look like it had been put on an involuntary diet.
Detroit had indeed "slimmed down."
There was a time when this city stood tall—economically powerful, nationally renowned for its automobile industry, and fueled by a thriving economy; back then, the industrial production lines south of 8 Mile Road were the city's lifeblood, pumping energy and wealth through every corner.
Now, that lifeblood had withered. Factories stood abandoned, rust creeping over steel bones, and everywhere you looked, there were only ruins and silence.
Luca wasn't entirely sure when the riot would erupt. According to the original timeline, a Black choir would appear right before the outbreak, acting as a symbolic prelude—but after sending Leon to investigate, there was no trace of them anywhere.
Which meant one thing.
He would have to light the fire himself.
Detroit was already a powder keg, stacked and primed over years of tension; the explosives were there, the fuse was there—what it lacked was simply a spark, someone to ignite it, and someone unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast.
Rare cards flickered through Luca's mind, each one connected by invisible threads to others, forming a web of potential outcomes.
"Leon," Luca said calmly, "what's the situation with Bobby Mercer?"
That man didn't discriminate—but that didn't make him better. If anything, it made him worse. A violent maniac through and through, the kind of savage who believed in equality the hard way—under the barrel of a shotgun, everyone was equal.
At the moment, Bobby was staying at his mother's house.
Leon gave a concise but detailed report. Bobby frequently moved between Jimmy Hoffa and his mother's place, though what exactly he did there remained unclear; however, one thing was certain—he stayed in frequent contact with Hoffa.
In addition, only two of the Mercer brothers were currently in Detroit. The other two were still out of town, and even Leon couldn't track their exact activities.
Luca vaguely recalled the details.
The third brother was a rock 'n' roll drifter, always somewhere but never anywhere specific.
The fourth brother—a Black man and a compulsive gambler—spent most of his time around Las Vegas.
In the original timeline, the four brothers reunited at their mother's funeral—but that hadn't happened yet, which meant they had no reason to come together.
Luca thought it through.
The third and fourth brothers were irrelevant for now. The key figures were the eldest, Bobby Mercer, and the second brother, Jerry—a businessman tied closely to the union and deeply connected to Hoffa.
Beyond that, Luca remembered something else.
In the original storyline of Four Brothers, there were figures with far more complicated roles—like a Black city councilman secretly tied to the Sweet gang, working together to block Jerry's redevelopment project while extorting money from him.
The gang even had a corrupt ally inside the police department—a white officer.
Funny, really.
A white cop who didn't discriminate—but still worked hand-in-hand with a Black gang.
Of course, in the face of the Mercer brothers—men who solved problems with bullets first and questions never—those so-called "complex power structures" were little more than paper shields.
They bulldozed everything.
Relentless.
All for revenge.
Luca shifted his gaze forward.
The Detroit Truckers Union was just ahead.
This place was far more complicated than unions in other cities.
While it wasn't the official headquarters, it was where Hoffa had risen to power—the birthplace of his influence.
Before Hoffa went to prison, Detroit's unions were dominated by white workers; but over time, as white residents left the city and the Black population grew, unemployment climbed year after year.
Many unemployed Black workers turned to unions as their last hope for stability.
But in a collapsing city, how much could a union really offer?
Opportunities were limited.
Competition intensified.
Truck driving wasn't some elite skill—anyone could learn it, and many were willing to work for less.
That alone was enough to ignite conflict.
In such a polarized environment, internal division was inevitable.
When Luca arrived, he leveraged every identity he had—Mafia affiliate, business owner, and New Jersey union president—to secure a private meeting with the local union leader.
His demands were straightforward.
He wanted to ensure the smooth operation of his gasoline business in Detroit, which would create dozens—possibly hundreds—of high-paying, high-benefit jobs for union workers.
As for who got those jobs—white or Black—and how much the local leadership wanted to skim off the top?
Luca didn't care.
Not yet.
That kind of conflict was useful.
Especially before a riot.
He wasn't here to solve problems.
He was here to make them worse.
North of 8 Mile Road, in the quiet northern suburbs.
Hoffa's house sat beside a calm, scenic lake.
Under bright sunlight and a cool breeze, two old men relaxed by the shore.
Anthony Zerilli looked particularly content, basking in the sun like a man who had decided that paperwork was overrated and retirement was the better deal.
After several members of the Committee had passed away, he had begun to value his remaining time far more.
He knew his body was failing.
And he knew time wasn't on his side.
In a Mafia organization as large as Detroit's, no one was willing to step up and take over.
The excuse?
"We're not ready yet."
Zerilli sighed.
"Hoffa, I can't even find a successor anymore. But you—you've got talent everywhere in your union. You don't have that problem."
Hoffa leaned back lazily in his chair.
"Succession?" he scoffed. "At least you wanna step down willingly. Better than having it stolen while I'm locked up. So tell me—who are you handing it to?"
"I don't know," Zerilli shrugged. "And honestly, I don't care what happens after I'm dead. But if I had to guess? The committee. None of the younger guys have the weight to lead."
Hoffa fell silent.
Does that committee even have anyone under seventy?
They had all fought side by side once.
Now, some were gone—and he hadn't even been free to attend their funerals.
Time had moved on without waiting.
And it showed.
Zerilli shifted the topic.
"Luca brought his gasoline business in from the East Coast. We've already started operations on the West Side. I'll say this—he's generous. Especially with the drivers. Out-of-town guys are making at least double what Detroit drivers earn."
"If this expands across the city, Hoffa… those drivers will back you."
"Back me?" Hoffa raised an eyebrow.
He didn't deny Luca's generosity.
But this was Detroit.
Too many Black members.
Too much lost control.
"You really think they'd support me?" Hoffa asked.
"They will," Zerilli replied calmly. "Because I'm still here. I run Detroit. Luca's an outsider—he has to listen. And he's here to make money. He won't turn that down."
Hoffa remained skeptical.
So Zerilli explained the tanker truck theft in detail.
"Hoffa, this is your opportunity. Step in, confront the gangs, promise protection—and those workers will rally behind you."
"The gangs went too far. Luca's cutting supply to avoid losses, and now the gas station owners are furious. They've tasted cheap fuel—they don't want to lose it."
"To restore supply, the city needs stability. I'll help you secure contracts from Luca, then hand them to local drivers. Jobs, money, leverage—it all works in your favor."
Hoffa narrowed his eyes.
"You can control him?"
Zerilli smiled faintly.
"If he wants to stay in Detroit, he has no choice. If he wants drivers, he needs you. And when it comes to money… he knows how to play."
That part, Hoffa believed.
The Mafia didn't leave money on the table.
At that moment, a visitor arrived.
Mrs. Mercer.
A well-known figure in the community—and a remarkably stubborn one.
She came seeking help for her son Jerry's redevelopment business. Jerry thought he had kept everything hidden, but a mother like her saw through everything.
She had even confronted a corrupt city councilman directly.
When that failed, she went to the police, reporting collusion between the councilman and a gang tied to the Sweet organization.
A woman risking everything for her son.
Hoffa frowned.
Again.
Gangs.
Zerilli added, "That councilman? I know him. Close ties to the Sweet gang."
After hearing everything, Hoffa looked at Mrs. Mercer and said firmly, "I'll help you."
In the end, he chose to step in—to protect the union, defend workers' rights, and push back against corruption.
Whether it was for votes, public support, or pressure from angry business owners—it didn't matter.
The gasoline business had already become too important to ignore.
When Hoffa arrived at the union hall—
it was chaos.
Arguments echoed through the corridors and main hall.
One group consisted of out-of-town drivers working under Luca. They demanded protection and stability, tired of being harassed by local gangs. Some even suspected the tanker robbery was an inside job—an attempt by local workers to drive them out.
The second group was made up of white business owners and gas station operators. They had prepaid for fuel and were now facing heavy losses. Prices had already been lowered—but without supply, they couldn't maintain those prices. Raising them again would drive customers away.
They were stuck.
The only solution?
Luca had to keep supplying fuel.
Then there were others—station owners who hadn't even been part of the deal but now wanted in. Luca had sent them all packing.
Not my problem. Go to the union. Go to the police. Go to City Hall.
No security for my trucks? Then nobody gets fuel.
The third group consisted of local union drivers.
They envied the higher wages outsiders were earning and demanded better wages for themselves—while also refusing to let outsiders take their jobs.
And then there were the mediators, union officials, and even radical activists—some openly hostile toward Black workers, pushing to drive them out entirely to reclaim jobs.
Standing there, watching the chaos unfold, Hoffa couldn't help but think—
Before Luca arrived, things had never been this bad.
So how did one man walk in—
and set everyone against each other?
Was he a Dove of Peace—
or something else entirely?
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Shoutout to Jetson Yee, my latest P Knight! My cat gets a feast tonight.
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