Sunday came quiet.
Overcast skies. No calls. No summons from Sally or Jason. Just the hum of the fridge and the cheap vinyl floor under my socks.
Most guys would've taken it easy. Slept in. Watched a game.
But in this life, quiet meant opportunity.
So I took the car and drove into Montclair.
Not to meet anyone from the crew, but to follow up on a conversation I had with Mike Amari, one of Gino's contacts from the Boxcar. He was a local promoter, mostly college bands and underground acts. But he had family trouble. A brother who gambled too much, owed the wrong kind of people, and had started ducking phone calls.
Mike hadn't asked me for help.
But he'd mentioned it. And that was enough.
I stopped by his shop, an old record store tucked under a barbershop. Inside, crates of vinyl and a busted stereo that played jazz on a loop. Mike was rearranging flyers on the bulletin board.
"You work Sundays now?" I said, stepping inside.
He looked up, surprised. "You lost?"
"Nah. Just figured I'd drop in."
He shrugged. "I'm always here. Trying to keep the lights on."
"How's your brother?"
That stopped him.
He lowered the flyer. "He's... surviving."
"He owe someone local?"
Mike hesitated. "I don't wanna make it your problem."
"Too late," I said. "Name?"
"Artie."
"Who's he owe?"
"Guy named Griggs. Works with some Albanian crew down in Paterson."
I nodded slowly.
Griggs wasn't big-time, but he had a reputation for breaking noses over parking tickets. Strictly mid-tier muscle.
"I'll talk to him."
Mike stepped in front of me, nervous. "Wait. I didn't mean... I'm not asking for favors."
"You didn't. I'm offering."
He exhaled, unsure if he should be grateful or worried.
"Why?"
"Because people remember who steps in when they don't ask."
Paterson was a mess. Always had been. Always would be.
I found Griggs in a pool hall that smelled like wet carpet and stale beer. He had two guys with him, neither impressive. They clocked me as I walked up.
"You Griggs?"
He turned slowly. Tall. Built like an ex-linebacker who drank through retirement.
"Who's asking?"
"Ade DeSantis."
He blinked. That name still carried weight now. Not heavy yet, but heavier than nothing.
"I hear you've got a guy named Artie Amari on a leash."
"Maybe."
"I'm buying out his debt."
That caught him off guard. "You?"
"Yeah. He owes you what, twelve?"
"Fourteen."
"Ten cash now. Four next week."
He squinted. "And why do you care?"
"I don't. But someone I might want in my corner does."
Griggs leaned back. "You one of Soprano's?"
"Not exactly."
He grinned. "Good. That guy's a lunatic."
We shook on it. I handed over a thick envelope, made sure he counted every bill.
Reputation +2 → 15Manipulation +1 → 13Street Smarts +1 → 7Trait Gained: Soft Power – Civilians begin offering favors or warnings voluntarily
Back in Montclair, Mike couldn't believe it.
"He's really off the hook?"
"He's clear. Keep him clear."
"I don't know how to thank you."
"Don't."
I handed him a slip of paper.
"Put this on your bulletin board. Private studio work. Beats, mixing, songwriting. New act. You'll get a call this week. Just act like it's a real thing."
"It is, right?"
"Yeah. But it's not about the music."
He looked at me.
"You're building something."
"I'm building options."
That night, I sat at the desk, cleaned my boots, and stared at the growing tangle of names and threads on my corkboard.
Griggs. Gino. Owen. Mike. The Boxcar. GhostLine. And in the center, circled in red ink: Ade.
Not a soldier.
Not a capo.
Something else.
Then the system blinked again.
Snapshot – Week 3
Mob Etiquette: 13Still sharp. Knows how to show face and fade out without being dismissed.
Charisma: 14People want to believe him. Especially when he's quiet.
Street Smarts: 7Territory mapping expanded. Civilian networks forming.
Reputation: 15Now seen as "the DeSantis kid who gets things done."
Manipulation: 13Persuasion engine humming. Deals made without raising voice.
Combat Awareness: 6Holding steady. Physical presence noticed.
New Trait:
Soft Power: Ade's growing civilian influence leads to passive trust, favors, or tips from non-mob contacts.
Path Progress
Earner: 40%
Shadow: 11%
Enforcer: 6%
Politician: 3%
Ventures:
GhostLine Sportsbook (15%)
The Boxcar (15%)
Studio Track Project (In progress: 0/3 tracks)
I closed the notebook and stood.
The street outside was still. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once and then fell silent.
No threats. No pressure.
Just calm.
Which meant the storm was coming.
And I was finally ready to meet it.
Two days later, Gino called.
"You're not gonna believe this."
"Try me."
"One of the artists I put in the Boxcar rotation? She wants studio time. Like, real studio time. Demo, mixing, the works."
"You tell her about the private label thing?"
"Yeah. Said it's low-key but serious. She's in. Wants to bring her own songwriter too."
"Good," I said. "I'll send the address. You just vet her. No cokeheads."
"Please. This is Montclair, not Bushwick."
Wednesday night, I hit the studio.
It was a borrowed basement space in East Orange, cobbled together with secondhand gear and soundproofing that didn't quite work. But it was ours. The producer was a Dominican guy named Yeyo with magic in his fingers and bad opinions about every rap album after 2003.
We laid down two samples that night, hook heavy choruses lifted from songs I remembered from my old world. Old-school synths, Y2K nostalgia with just enough edge to make it feel local.
Gino was thrilled.
"This shit is gonna move."
"It's not for charts," I said. "It's for leverage."
"Same thing, if you play it right."
Studio Track Progress: 2/3 CompletedPassive Income (Music Royalties): Pending activation
Later that week, I walked into the pork store to grab coffee.
Paulie was at the counter with a sandwich and a look like someone had just told him he wasn't invited to his own funeral.
He glanced at me as I came in.
"Kid, you hear about that thing with the Albanians in Paterson?"
I froze slightly. Just enough to taste the pause.
"What thing?"
He shrugged. "Someone leaned on a guy named Griggs. Paid off his debt to a no show gambler. Weird, huh?"
I nodded, careful.
Paulie squinted. "Word is it was done quiet. But smart. No blood. No threats."
I didn't blink.
"You know who did it?"
He stared at me a second too long.
"Maybe."
Then he smiled.
"Maybe I don't care. Guy was a pain in the ass anyway."
He walked out with his sandwich.
I waited five minutes before I left. Long enough to breathe. To think.
Passive Notice: Power Drawn Attention – Mid-level players now aware of Ade's indirect moves
Back at the apartment, I dropped my keys and stared at the floor.
I wasn't invisible anymore.
The network was growing. The name was spreading.
And whether they loved it or hated it...
They'd have to start dealing with me.