The morning had risen on the final day of the week, but the sun wasn't the first thing to greet the Empire. Instead, it was the thick canopy of clouds that loomed overhead, signaling a soft drizzle expected to fall before noon. The air was heavy with anticipation, the kind that precedes a gentle rain, and the streets carried the muted hum of a city slowly stirring awake.
In Little Italy, the atmosphere was markedly more cheerful despite the overcast skies. The modest but proud neighborhood showed signs of life and rhythm. Children ran about the cobbled paths, laughter trailing behind them as they lent a hand to Genco, who stood by a cart stacked with baskets of bread and olive oil. Their small arms carried bottles and loaves with surprising dedication, taking pride in being part of something meaningful.
"Careful with that bottle, Antonio," Genco chuckled, adjusting the boy's grip. "That one's an extra virgin—Vito will have my head if it breaks."
"Yes, sir!" Antonio said with a grin, hoisting the bottle like it was a family heirloom.
Not far from them, the merchants had begun forming a line outside the community storehouse. Their voices rose in eager conversation as they compared notes and earnings, the occasional burst of laughter indicating a particularly good sale or jest. At the center of it all was Josef, the man trusted with tallying the numbers. He sat behind a wooden table layered with ledgers, his fingers moving nimbly over the abacus as he listened to each report.
"Next!" he called, and a portly merchant stepped forward, placing his pouch of coins on the table with a proud smile.
"Thirty-seven this week," the merchant said. "Not bad for rainy days."
Josef nodded as he clicked the beads into place. "Fifteen percent, as agreed," he reminded them, offering a patient smile as he marked the amounts. "Keep the rest for your families. Vito would want it that way."
The merchant gave a grateful nod. "Tell Vito his olive oil's been doing wonders. I got two new inns asking for it by name."
Yesterday's meeting with the whale oil merchant proved to be a promising turning point. After a lengthy discussion over contracts, supply chains, and potential returns, the merchant agreed to a full partnership. The deal was simple yet ambitious: he would supply them with refined whale oil, and in return, Vito's men would process it into a hybrid product—combining whale oil and olive oil. This new blend was not only more efficient than standard oils but also more versatile, offering an edge in the competitive markets of the Empire.
With whale oil now integrated into their operations, the scope of the business grew significantly. More hands would be needed—not just laborers, but trained specialists in oil refinement and chemical preservation. Fortunately, the merchant agreed to lend his own workforce, including experienced technicians who knew how to handle large quantities of volatile whale oil safely. Their arrival brought a sense of momentum to the neighborhood, a sign that things were truly evolving.
However, this expansion brought new challenges. The current buildings used for olive oil storage and processing were no longer sufficient. They needed more facilities—larger warehouses, safer processing areas, and more discreet storefronts to distribute their product throughout the capital. Space in Little Italy was limited, and securing new real estate would require careful negotiation, perhaps even more dealings with local lords or subtle persuasion through Vito's influence.
This began another major project for the blacksmiths and carpenters: building these new facilities to accommodate the expanding business. But they had to be meticulous about it; whale oil had a strong, pungent smell, and storing it in close proximity to homes could stir complaints from residents. The builders convened in the town square, unrolling blueprints and measuring the plots of land available.
One of the more outspoken builders stepped forward, voice confident but respectful.
"What if we make our own warehouse for whale oil, right at the docks?" he proposed. "We can't risk storing it here in the neighborhood, especially with that heavy smell. It's not just about space, it's about peace."
Vito, standing at the edge of the group with his arms crossed, nodded slowly. "That's a good point. The docks are ideal—remote enough to avoid complaints, close enough for transport."
Genco chimed in, glancing over the plans. "We'll need a permit for that, though. Construction near the docks is under the trade overseer's jurisdiction."
Vito's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice smooth as he replied, "Hopefully our friendly overseer will take care of the trade... after a little persuasion."
A ripple of knowing chuckles passed through the room. Vito didn't need to elaborate. If gold or influence didn't sway a man, there were always... other methods.
Just as the group began discussing their next move, the door burst open. Tatsumi stumbled in, panting heavily, eyes wide with urgency.
"Tatsumi? What happened?" Genco stood up immediately.
"Bad news… Tariq's dead."
The room fell into complete silence. The laughter vanished. Even the children stopped what they were doing, sensing the shift in mood.
Vito calmly stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Tatsumi's shoulder. "Sit down, kid. Catch your breath. Gauri, get him something to drink."
Genco approached slowly, concern etched into his expression. "Where did you hear this?"
Tatsumi took a long sip of water before speaking. "I was passing through Tariq's place. Some Imperials were hauling out his furniture. I asked what happened—they said he was found strangled to death in the Entertainment District. Supposedly, he refused to honor someone's deal."
Genco frowned. "And you have any good idea who might've done it?"
"There was a merchant there. Name's Gamal. Said he saw the whole thing. Apparently they caught the killer on the spot, but something about it doesn't sit right with me."
The room grew tense, shadows forming in the corners of their expressions. Josef leaned forward, his brow furrowed.
"Gamal, you say?"
Tatsumi nodded. "Yes. The same one you warned me about. Told me to be careful."
Josef tapped his fingers against the table in thought. "If Gamal claims to be a witness... there's a good chance he's actually the one behind it. He's clever, manipulative, and never where he's supposed to be—unless it benefits him."
Vito glanced out the window, the overcast sky outside casting a dim, somber light into the room. The heavy clouds foreshadowed a grim day ahead. For him, it wasn't just the weather—it was a bad omen.
Without a word, he grabbed his overcoat from the rack and stepped out into the cobbled streets, the chill in the air doing little to soothe the unease in his chest.
"Vito, where are you going?" a voice called behind him.
Vito didn't answer. His silence was a storm in itself. His face was calm—almost serene—but beneath the surface churned a tide of quiet fury. The rest of the Five Angels, sensing the gravity of his mood, quickly followed suit, worry etched into each of their expressions.
Their steps eventually brought them to the heart of the city—the crowded plaza. It was thick with citizens, all gathered to witness yet another grim display of the Empire's justice. Nobles in fine clothing stood at the front, surrounded by guards and servants who kept a border between them and the common folk.
Behind them, the middle-born and lowborn classes were pressed tightly together, their faces void of hope, some whispering nervously. The plaza was lined with wooden barriers and soldiers stood at attention, their gazes cold and unfeeling.
Dressed in their matching overcoats and fedoras, the Five Angels blended seamlessly among the upper ranks, giving them a vantage point just a few meters from the spectacle.
At the center of it all stood a wooden platform, elevated just above a man's height. On it, a burly Imperial soldier loomed near a lever attached to a trapdoor. Towering behind him was a tall post, from which a thick rope hung ominously. Its noose swung slightly in the breeze.
"A gallows…" Vito muttered under his breath.
Seeing the noose sent a chill down each of their spines.
"It's an execution," Genco said grimly, his tone bitter.
"Yeah… another poor soul claimed by the Empire's broken sense of justice."
The crowd stirred as a procession of soldiers emerged, dragging a man in chains. He was of average build, but the bruises on his face and the shuffling of his feet made him look much smaller. His eyes were hollow, filled with defeat and despair. The guards roughly led him up onto the platform.
Chains were unshackled from his ankles and neck. The noose was pulled tight around his neck, and he stood, trembling, on the trapdoor. A soldier—higher in rank than the rest—stepped forward and addressed the silent crowd.
"This man before you," the officer announced, "has been found guilty of murdering a nobleman—an overseer of commerce within our glorious Empire."
A tense pause fell over the plaza. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry grass. Vito's eyes fixed on the accused. Something didn't add up. The man's expression, his posture… everything screamed that he was no killer.
"By decree of law," the officer continued, "he shall be sentenced to death, to hang by the neck until he is pronounced dead."
The soldier turned to the condemned.
"Do you have any last words?"
The man stood frozen for a moment, his lips quivering. Then, with a voice cracking from exhaustion and fear, he pleaded:
"I'm innocent… I swear on my life… on my lover's life. I didn't do it. Please… someone, anyone…"
His words echoed across the silent plaza, but no one moved.
The officer gave a nod. The other soldiers approached and placed a sack over the man's head. They adjusted the noose one last time, ensuring it was tight. Then they stepped back.
The executioner gripped the lever. A beat passed.
He pulled.
The trapdoor dropped. The man's body fell for a second before the rope snapped taut. His legs jerked once, then hung still.
Not a word was spoken. The crowd remained silent, eyes fixed on the lifeless form dangling from the gallows. Among them, the Five Angels stood grim and motionless—an island of calm amidst a sea of dread.
Except for Vito.
His gaze wasn't on the corpse. It never truly had been. Instead, his eyes drifted through it—past it—as though transfixed by something far removed from the present. Perhaps it was memory. Perhaps it was regret. But whatever it was, it had taken hold of him.
To Vito, this wasn't merely another execution. It was a scene he had lived too many times, written in blood and silence.
"Vito," Genco said gently, placing a reassuring hand on his old friend's shoulder. "There's nothing more for us here."
Vito blinked, his expression softening, as though returning from a long journey.
"My apologies," he murmured. His voice, low and steady, cut through the tension like a blade. "I was lost in thought."
With a final glance back—not at the body, but at the gallows themselves—he turned and walked alongside the others. Away from the scaffold. Away from the crowd. Away from the Empire's cruel theater.
Yet, despite their departure, the image lingered.
It burned into memory, etched deeply into the hearts of all who had witnessed it—Vito's most of all.
Just behind the platform, another set of eyes followed their retreat.
An Imperial soldier, rugged and broad-shouldered, stood among the guards. He looked to be a battle-hardened man in his middle years, with tan skin and short black hair threaded with white, gathered into four tied ponytails at the back of his head and wrapped in cloth. A short, coarse beard framed his mouth.
His most distinguishing feature, however, was a large, star-shaped scar stretching over his left eye socket—now hollow—and the fierce red glow of his remaining eye, set against an inky black sclera.
There was something unnatural about him. His teeth were sharp, almost beastlike. A demon in uniform.
He watched them go. His gaze didn't wander. It followed the older man, eyes narrowing.
"Hmph… interesting," he muttered under his breath, barely audible above the soft murmur of the dispersing crowd. A smirk tugged at his lips. "But I'll pass."
With that, he turned back toward his post, blending once again into the background of the Empire's grim machinery.
But like Vito, he would remember this day.
Back at the company store in Little Italy, the Five Angels gathered in Vito's study, quietly contemplating their next move. The room, dimly lit by the heavy clouds rolling overhead, seemed to mirror their collective mood—murky, unsettled, and heavy with uncertainty.
Vito leaned back in his chair, his expression pensive, resting his head on the palm of his right hand. His eyes, deep with thought, flicked across the faces in the room as if measuring the weight each of them carried. Behind him stood Gauri, ever the silent sentinel, arms crossed and gaze unmoving, his figure like a statue of resolve.
Tatsumi slouched in a chair nearby, visibly exhausted from witnessing the execution. His hair was slightly disheveled, and shadows pooled under his eyes. Josef sat close to the doorway, arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently on the creaky wooden floor. Genco leaned casually against the frame, tapping his fingers against the wood, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and calculating.
"Okay, let's cut to the chase… Tariq's dead. That puts a huge blow to our business," Josef said, breaking the silence with a frustrated sigh, his voice heavier than usual.
"Yeah, no kidding," Genco replied with a shrug and a sarcastic tilt of his head. "I won't cry over his death, but how's that a blow to our business?"
"Read the permit. It has his signature on it. Which means, when we need to renew it, we'll need a new signature. His signature's worthless now."
"Oh great," Genco muttered. "So what? Dig up his corpse and ask, 'Hey, I know you're dead, but our business permit is expiring, and we need your autograph real quick'?"
"That's not the point, Genco," Josef snapped, leaning forward, eyes flashing. "The point is, we're screwed if we can't secure a new permit soon."
"And while you're all stressing about the business," Genco added, voice rising, "don't forget—an innocent man got hanged for that crime. Are we just gonna brush that off like it never happened?"
"You really think I forgot that?" Josef retorted, his voice low and sharp. "He had a lover, damn it. A future. Now that's gone."
The room grew more heated as their exchange escalated, the tension flaring briefly like a match igniting dry straw. A palpable silence followed.
"Guys," Tatsumi interjected, raising his voice just enough to cut through. "Look, I know that's important, but let's focus on what we do know for now."
He sat up straighter, rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Tariq is dead. And, like Josef said, that's a setback to our company. But we still have options."
Josef nodded. "Exactly. Just because the paper is worthless now doesn't mean we are. We can find another route."
Tatsumi continued, "I talked to a merchant named Gamal. He claims he saw the murder. But Josef warned me about Gamal's ways, so it's safe to assume he orchestrated it—and had someone else take the fall."
A heavy pause settled over the room. The sound of a distant cart rolling down the cobbled street outside was the only interruption.
"What if Tariq was on Gamal's payroll?" Gauri suggested quietly. "And he told Gamal about Genco Pura?"
Josef frowned. "If that's true, then Gamal's first move would've been to come after us. To try and muscle in or take over our market."
"Unless… he still doesn't know who's really behind Genco Pura," Tatsumi said slowly, leaning forward. "The only one he met was me—since I'm the one who got the permit signed. He doesn't know the bigger picture."
He turned toward Vito, his tone respectful. "So, what do you think, Vito-san?"
All eyes shifted to Vito. He leaned forward, placing his arms on the table, fingers clasped in contemplation. There was a long silence before he spoke.
"Josef," he said, "does Gamal have muscle to back him up?"
"No," Josef answered, shaking his head. "But he's got several Imperial officers under his payroll. I've seen him slipping coin pouches to them more than once. He buys influence, not loyalty."
"So he's not like Janis," Vito mused aloud, voice almost a whisper.
"Not even close," Josef confirmed, eyes narrowing.
Vito exhaled slowly. "Very well. We close down for a week."
Tatsumi's eyes widened. "Yes, Vito-san, but… why close shop?"
"We let him believe he's won," Vito explained calmly, his voice firm and measured. "Give him room to expand, to grow cocky, to think he has the upper hand. All the while, we watch. We listen. We document everything he does. And when we return…"
He looked at each of them in turn, eyes steeled with quiet resolve, his presence commanding the room.
"…we strike. And we hit so hard, he won't know what hit him. We don't just take back what's ours—we make sure he never threatens us again."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, one by one, they nodded in agreement. The strategy was risky—but sound. Calculated. Ruthless, even. But necessary.