Working as a police officer in Mexico

At 4 a.m. in New York.

Outside John F. Kennedy International Airport.

Dressed in a black suit, wearing a hat and scarf, Mike Corleone entered the restroom where two black men were smoking cigarettes; they exchanged glances when they saw him.

They were obviously either unemployed vagrants or petty thugs.

Their favorite haunts were KFC, park benches, and airport bathrooms, where you could often find people as sodden as muck.

As Mike Corleone was taking out his tool to urinate, the two men approached him, whistled, and said, "Hey, hand over some money."

The other man glanced at him before finally speaking, his voice magnetic but with a hint of hoarseness, "A robbery?"

"Right! Hand over all your money… OH! Shit!"

Mike Corleone turned his hips, and his urine sprayed onto the other's shoes; the black man cursed in frustration and, as he grabbed his head, Mike forcefully pressed it into the toilet bowl, while the other man, cursing, rushed over.

He pulled a gun from his coat and fired three shots at the approaching man; the silencer muffled the sound effectively.

One shot to the head, two to the chest—if Jesus is coming, he better convert to Buddha.

Mike Corleone let go, and the black man he'd nearly drowned in urine collapsed on the ground, retching, his complexion unable to turn pale against his dark skin.

When he saw his companion's body on the ground, his pupils shrank and then he saw a pair of feet standing in front of him.

"Good night, sir."

Bang!

The bullet pierced through the skull, and the man fell to the ground like a dead dog.

Mike Corleone tucked the gun back into his coat, moved to the sink, washed his hands, while behind him lay two bodies with blood seeping out beneath them.

He turned off the tap, admiring his handiwork and, with a gentle motion, removed his hat, tipping it with gentlemanly grace as he said, "Goodbye."

He left the restroom, walking away in his leather shoes.

"Boss!"

As soon as he walked out, dozens of burly men stood waiting, all bowing in unison, their voices echoing as bystanders kept their distance.

This was New York!

The most infamous metropolis for chaos in the world. Continue your journey on empire

Mike Corleone, leading the way, slid into a black sedan parked by the curb; his underlings piled into SUVs, speeding away under the complex gazes of the pedestrians.

"So cool!" A blond boy wearing a newsboy cap just exiting the airport with his luggage couldn't help but exclaim in admiration, his eyes shining.

"Shelby, these are not good people," his father cautioned, with a stern face.

The blond boy shrank back, silent, but his eyes were filled with curiosity about the underworld.

"Heading back to the hotel, boss?"

"To the Lucchese Family!" Mike Corleone growled, "Mr. Casare is not happy after being threatened by them in Detroit, Mr. Victor is not happy, and if they're not happy, I'm not happy."

"Then the Lucchese Family must be made unhappy."

"Kill them!"

"Understood!"

The motorcade raced towards District 9, where members of the Lucchese Family were gathered.

In the SUVs behind.

The underlings held M16s, and one was even hoisting an M249 light machine gun, while another strapped grenades to his chest, looking every bit the bandit.

The FBI was going to have a headache.

The five SUVs floored the accelerator, racing past the boss's sedan, heading out first.

Mike Corleone quietly read a book titled "Victor's Struggle."

District 9, the traditional territory of the Lucchese Family.

There stood a church dating back to the 19th century where their children would marry, and surrounding it were numerous bars and residential areas, mostly inhabited by the Lucchese Family.

A criminal family that had moved from Italy and developed over centuries had become a symbol, deeply embedded in the local culture.

The one thing that hadn't changed, perhaps, was their reverence for violence.

They certainly hadn't forgotten their traditional craft.

And now it was Sunday morning, just barely dawn, and many members of the Lucchese Family were already out to pray at church.

It was almost laughable.

A criminal family that maintained daily prayers before and after meals, before bed, and also remembered every significant day of Jesus.

Wasn't it like…

Gangsters praying to Brother Er?

If Brother Er knew what they were doing, he'd rise from his grave to slash them in the head.

The 71-year-old godfather, Otto Lucchese, plagued by senile plaques and unsteady on his feet, was escorted by his servants to the church.

He knelt devoutly.

Following him were the core family members.

"I pray for God's blessing that the Lucchese Family's prosperity never fades, Ah Men."

"Ah Men~"

Supported by his eldest son and grandson, Otto Lucchese stood up.

"Father, Oswald was beaten by the Mexicans in Detroit."

"Cough, cough, cough... Is it serious?"

"He's got a broken leg, and the doctors say he might have to live as a cripple from now on," the eldest son said softly, watching the old man's reaction.

That Oswald was his half-brother from another mother, a wilful child usually up to no good.

Yet Otto Lucchese doted on him, aware that he had killed a serviceman's wife and was pursuing him.

He had used his connections to help, but never imagined the soldier would defect to the Mexicans.

Thinking they would respect the Lucchese Family's presence…

Old Otto's cloudy eyes flashed, "Who did it?"

"Casare Gonzalez, a trusted follower of Victor, the Mexican tyrant."

"Tyrant, eh?"

Shivering lips muttered, "But this is the United States!"