Darkness peeled away in layers.
The first thing Luke felt was weight—tailored fabric settling on his shoulders, the unfamiliar heaviness of a suit worn not for comfort, but for authority. The second was sound: distant traffic, horns, voices in English and Italian overlapping in a low, constant hum.
Then the smell hit him.
Cigarette smoke. Coffee. Old stone and rain-soaked asphalt.
Luke opened his eyes.
New York.
But not the New York of postcards and skylines. This was the early post-war city—gritty, crowded, alive with ambition and menace in equal measure. Brick buildings pressed close together, fire escapes clinging like metal vines. Neon signs flickered weakly in the afternoon gloom. Everywhere he looked, men in dark suits moved with purpose, eyes alert, hands never far from their coats.
Power walked these streets.
Luke stood beside a black sedan parked at the curb. Its polished surface reflected a face he recognized instantly.
Michael Corleone.
The expression was controlled, almost detached. Dark eyes held no warmth, only assessment. The war had left its mark—not in scars, but in the way his gaze never lingered too long on any one thing.
Luke breathed once.
The memories slid into place.
He knew this body.He knew this posture.He knew what was expected of him.
A door opened.
"Don Michael," a voice said respectfully.
Luke turned.
Al Neri stood there, face impassive, hand resting casually at his side. Loyalty radiated from him—not blind, but absolute.
"The meeting's ready," Al added. "The families are waiting."
Luke nodded.
No unnecessary words.
Inside the car, the city rolled past in muted tones. Street vendors shouted. Children darted between adults. Somewhere, laughter spilled from a bar doorway, sharp and fleeting.
America.
The promised land.
For millions, it meant opportunity. For the Corleones, it meant territory.
The car crossed into Lower Manhattan. Luke watched the neighborhoods change subtly—immigrants clustered together, old-world customs colliding with modern ambition. Italian groceries beside Irish pubs. Churches shadowed by gambling dens.
This was a nation still defining itself.
And so was Michael.
The Corleone compound loomed ahead, stately and insulated from the chaos beyond its gates. Guards stood watch, expressions unreadable. Inside, the air was quieter, heavier, as if the walls themselves absorbed secrets.
Family.
The word carried weight here.
Vito Corleone was gone, but his presence lingered in every corridor. In the way men lowered their voices. In the reverence with which his name was still spoken.
Kay.
Luke felt the shift the moment he thought of her. Distance. Strain. A marriage built on half-truths and silences. She lived in a world adjacent to this one, close enough to be touched, yet forever barred from its core.
And then there was the rest of the family.
Sonny's absence still echoed—violence answered with violence.Fredo, smiling too eagerly, shoulders hunched beneath a lifetime of being overlooked.Connie, fierce and wounded, bound to the family whether she wished it or not.
Luke absorbed it all without comment.
This was not a family held together by love.
It was held together by necessity.
As Luke stepped into the meeting room, the conversations died instantly. Eyes turned toward him—measuring, wary, deferential.
This was Michael Corleone's New York.
A city of deals made in shadow, of loyalty tested daily, of blood spilled quietly so that others might sleep peacefully.
Luke took his seat at the head of the table.
The chair felt cold.
He folded his hands, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
Inside, he thought of the Wish List.
Prosper legitimately.Save my daughter.Make peace with Fredo.
None of that could be said here.
Not yet.
In this city, survival came before redemption.
And as the men began to speak, Luke listened—already mapping the long, dangerous road that would lead this criminal empire out of darkness, or bury him beneath it.