At this scavenger-like division of the spoils, Frank Fitzsimmons was undoubtedly the man of the hour. Without Hoffa in the picture, and with the heavy backing of Luca and the Commission, Fitz could finally stop looking over his shoulder and settle comfortably into the President's chair.
He promised to open every backdoor imaginable for the families; no one would be "obstructing" their loan applications anymore.
It was time for everyone to get fat.
Fitz got paid, the families got paid, the insurance cronies and branch goons got paid—
and the workers' pension fund was the one left bleeding out.
Most of the Mafia diverted these funds into private investments and loan-sharking ventures—businesses that had everything to do with lining their own pockets and absolutely nothing to do with the truck drivers.
Worse, these loans had an uncanny habit of "malfunctioning" for perfectly legal and compliant reasons, leaving a crater in the union's treasury.
You couldn't expect these wiseguys to be Wall Street wizards.
They didn't build Las Vegas because of financial genius.
They built it because throwing dice was legal there.
Originally, all they wanted was a laundromat in the desert to wash dirty cash, but it spiraled into a neon-lit empire.
To this day, Vegas remained the world's most glamorous rinse cycle.
---
When the conversation shifted to real investments, eyes naturally drifted toward Luca's thriving empire.
His gasoline racket had already spilled into Detroit, and the rumors said he was making enough in a week to buy a small country.
Some wanted a piece of him.
Some wanted to bankroll him.
The rest just wanted his ear.
Luca gave them exactly what they wanted to hear.
"Are you gentlemen interested in Detroit's post-disaster reconstruction project?"
The room quieted.
"If so, we pool our cash and bid as a bloc. We can squeeze the city government for every infrastructure contract they've got."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"We're going to rebuild Detroit together."
"Rebuild Detroit?"
The room erupted in chuckles.
The rioters wreck the city, and now the Mafia comes in to fix it?
Fat Tony laughed so hard his cigar nearly slipped from his mouth.
"Luca, I'm starting to love your sense of humor more and more!"
He slapped the armrest of his chair.
"You're absolutely right! We, the Mob, have a civic duty to shoulder this burden! Rebuilding the Motor City is our 'sacred' responsibility!"
The room exploded with laughter.
It was easily the most absurd joke of the week.
But beneath the laughter, everyone's respect for Luca rose another notch.
This kid was a predator.
He had triggered a riot just so he could profit from the cleanup.
War profiteering in his own backyard.
And the best part?
Doing business with him is smooth as silk.
The atmosphere in the room was warmer than it had been in years, free from the friction Hoffa always seemed to spark.
Luca leaned back into the leather sofa, his eyes slowly sweeping across every face in the room.
He knew their expiration dates like the back of his hand.
Fitzsimmons would eventually die of lung cancer.
Fat Tony would be taken by prostate cancer.
Russell would end up paralyzed by a stroke in a federal prison.
Luca couldn't stop time.
He couldn't stop sickness.
He couldn't stop death.
Most of these old lions were already falling apart.
So all he could offer was a friendly reminder.
"Take care of yourselves, fellas."
His smile was calm.
"Get your checkups."
What he could change, however, was the ending.
Because of Hoffa's early exit, Russell and the others would no longer be dragged into court by the feds.
They wouldn't spend their twilight years in prison wheelchairs, chasing slivers of sunlight through iron bars.
Luca closed his eyes for a brief moment.
He had been born into the Mafia's final golden sunset.
And the men at the helm were all relics.
The Detroit Partnership had been pushed toward "retirement" by the changing tides of the streets, but their aging wasn't an anomaly.
It was the norm across the country.
These titans usually died one of three ways:
by the gun,
by the hospital bed,
or by a life sentence.
Can I build something that outlives them?
Luca raised his champagne glass in a silent toast to a dying breed.
---
After the meeting, Russell Bufalino quietly pulled Luca aside.
"Luca, you've impressed me."
His voice was soft, almost grandfatherly.
"I truly thought Frank would have to be the one to pull the trigger. He was in a hell of a spot. I wasn't sure he had the guts for it."
Russell paused.
"Now, all he had to do was watch Hoffa go down without stopping it."
A faint sigh escaped him.
"It's a sad thing. But easier to live with."
Russell, that quiet little old man, always spoke with a gentle cadence.
Even when discussing murder, he sounded like he was talking about the weather.
His emotional control was almost terrifying.
A complete opposite of Hoffa's explosive ego.
Luca glanced toward the far end of the hall.
Frank Sheeran was speaking quietly with his daughter, Peggy.
The girl was visibly shaken by the news of Hoffa's death, and once again, those accusing glances had begun settling on her father.
"It takes different kinds of courage to understand the world and to accept it," Luca said quietly.
"As his friend, I just hope he gets past it."
Even if he did, the scar would remain.
But compared to the original timeline—where Frank personally painted a house with Hoffa's brains—
this was mercy.
At the very least, Frank could now look his daughter in the eye and say:
"I didn't kill him."
And unlike the nightmare version of events, Hoffa's remains weren't fed into an incinerator.
He would receive a proper burial in his hometown.
Detroit.
"Once the smoke clears," Russell said, shifting the topic, "Zerelli and the family are putting together a funeral service. I'll be there."
He looked at Luca.
"Will you?"
Luca nodded.
"I'm a union branch president, Russell."
A faint smile.
"Of course I'll be there."
Russell gave a slow nod, then his tone turned more serious.
"Luca, as a partner, I need to tell you something."
His eyes sharpened.
"You did one hell of a job diverting the feds."
A pause.
"But you've also drawn a new kind of heat."
His voice lowered.
"Racial conflict is a radioactive weapon in this country."
"You don't handle something like that lightly."
This was genuine advice.
A sincere warning from an elder.
Luca took it seriously.
Truthfully, if he hadn't known how the historical Detroit riots would unfold, he never would have dared pull something like this off.
But he had seen a path where everything could be won for pennies on the dollar.
He hadn't created the rage.
That rage had been fermenting for generations.
Centuries, even.
All he had done was call in the debt early.
"Think about Joe Colombo," Russell continued.
"He started the Italian-American Civil Rights League, waving a banner for 'oppressed Italians.'"
Russell let out a dry chuckle.
"It blew up in his face."
"It wasn't just because he was loud."
His gaze sharpened.
"It was because he stirred racial friction for the sake of his own pocket."
"We're Italians too."
"If we let men like that keep stirring the pot, eventually all of us get burned."
Russell looked at Luca with a complicated expression.
Pride.
Approval.
Caution.
The kid was brilliant.
But sometimes his methods veered dangerously close to butcher's work.
Luca looked genuinely surprised.
"Russell, I remember you backed Colombo."
"You even wore the badge at his rally."
Russell sighed.
"At first, yes."
"But he turned it into a circus."
He shook his head.
"Far too much light on private business."
Calling the word "Mafia" a media slur while being an actual Don?
That was like trying to rewrite the script while the cameras were still rolling.
Russell let out a small laugh.
"I support someone speaking up for our people."
His smile was faint.
"But it shouldn't be a man like Colombo."
"Or anyone in our line of work."
He looked directly at Luca.
"I know when to step back."
"All I want is what you want."
"To make money in peace."
Luca looked at Russell with renewed respect.
There was a reason this man would live long enough to die in his own bed.
"Thank you for the advice, Russell."
His tone was sincere.
"Truly."
That kind of guidance was rare.
Most of Luca's own crew were either too terrified to speak honestly—
or too stupid to offer useful advice.
Uncle Mariggio was no exception.
Only Carlo Gambino had ever given him this kind of clarity before.
Russell felt a quiet sense of relief.
Luca listened.
Unlike Hoffa.
Hoffa had been a mule right up until the end.
Maybe the future of the Bufalino family really does rest on this kid.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Character Card : Russell Bufalino]
[Rank: SR]
[Source: The Irishman]
[Skills:
[Libra Executioner]
Effect: Execution orders issued by you or carried out by your subordinates have a +20% success rate. Subordinate combat effectiveness increases by +20%, and their exposure probability (chance of being caught) is reduced by -30% during hits.
Requirements: Bond: Friends | Cost: 80 Skill Fragments
Status: Unlocked
[Blood Pact Investment]
Effect: Training efficiency for subordinate loyalty is increased by +40%. Betrayal probability is reduced by -30%.
Requirements: Bond: Close Friends | Cost: 100 Skill Fragment
Status: Locked
[The Godfather]
Effect: Intimidation against all criminals increases by +10% to +60%.
Passive: American Mafia Trust (Official/Peripheral) +30%.
Diplomacy: Bribery, Alliance-forming, and Official Infiltration success rate +30%. Political shield (avoiding danger during federal storms/assassinations) +30%.
Godfather's Word: Probability of favors being repaid is forcibly increased by +30%.
Requirements: Status: Top Don | Bond: Partner | Cost: 300 Skill Fragments
Status: Locked
[Bond: Friend]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Luca didn't hesitate.
He immediately spent 80 fragments.
"Purchase Libra Executioner"
[Ding! Skill Redeemed Successfully]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 430]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the Judge, Luca was now effectively the high court of the underworld.
He could sign an execution order for some nobody without even calling for a committee vote.
And this skill made sure the body stayed buried.
Frank Sheeran had spent his life killing for Russell and never once ended up in court for it.
That was the power of this card.
Luca wanted the rest too.
Loyalty was the lifeblood of an empire.
And The Godfather was clearly an endgame-level ability.
Russell is a safe long-term investment.
Especially with Atlantic City still on the horizon.
As October rolled on, the Detroit riots slowly faded from the headlines.
The world had seen the chaos.
The stereotype of "African-American = crime" had been hammered even deeper into the public consciousness.
Luca had no comment for future historians.
He had work to do.
He backed Bobby Mercer in seizing control of the East Side gangs while steadily rolling out his gasoline wholesale empire across Detroit.
Legitimate gas stations.
Backed by illegitimate supply chains.
The perfect business model.
By leveraging the Detroit Mafia, they secured the Disaster Reconstruction contracts.
Hundreds of millions in federal and state money began pouring in.
Naturally, the Mob was more than ready to skim the cream off the top.
Luca certainly wasn't about to pay out of pocket to rebuild his own stations.
He'd let the taxpayers foot the bill.
A win-win.
At least for everyone who mattered.
Late October arrived.
The air grew colder.
And the time for Jimmy Hoffa's funeral had finally come.
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