Monday started with a phone call I didn't expect.
Not from Sal. Not from Jason. Not even from Adriana.
It was Paulie.
"You around today?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Be at Satriale's in an hour. Bring your brain."
Click.
No hello. No goodbye. Just instructions wrapped in threat.
I stared at the phone for a second, then put it down. I didn't owe Paulie anything, but when someone like him calls, you show up.
An hour later, I pulled into the lot and parked next to a van that smelled like motor oil and regret. Paulie was already inside, eating cold cuts like he was doing penance. No one else in the place, just the hum of the meat slicer and Sinatra on low.
He didn't look up.
"You got a system, right?"
I blinked. "What?"
"You know. That thing you run. Numbers. Code. Websites. The spooky shit."
"GhostLine."
"Yeah, that."
He finally looked at me.
"I got a nephew. Dumb as soup. Thinks he can get rich on horse racing. Blew ten grand in two weeks."
"That's unfortunate."
Paulie grinned, all teeth.
"You're gonna help him get it back."
I sat down. "How?"
"You're the brain. Figure it out."
There was no threat in his voice. Just a tone that said no wasn't on the table.
I nodded. "I'll reach out. No promises."
He patted my arm once, hard. "That's the right answer."
Before I could leave, he said something else.
"You keep quiet, DeSantis. People notice that."
"Good or bad?"
He shrugged. "That's up to you."
I called the nephew that afternoon. Kid named Nicky. Twitchy voice, sounded like he drank Red Bull for breakfast and snorted his lunch.
"I heard you're smart," he said.
"I heard you're not."
He laughed too loud.
We met at a coffee shop off Ferry Street. He brought a laptop and a notebook filled with terrible betting logic. Stuff like "underdogs always win Mondays" and "European teams play worse when it rains."
I didn't judge. Not out loud.
Instead, I asked him to let me handle his next five bets through GhostLine. He'd fund them. I'd place them with adjusted odds using an algorithm I wrote back when I still hated my job and believed in math.
"Sounds shady," he said.
"It is."
He grinned like that made him trust me more.
By midweek, the bets paid off. Nothing big, just enough to make him whole. I skimmed two percent off the top and pocketed it clean.
When I told Paulie, he smiled and said nothing.
Sometimes silence was currency.
That Friday, I met Adriana for lunch. We grabbed a booth at a little place in Nutley. She wore jeans and a hoodie, no makeup. Still looked like a star.
"You're more interesting than I thought," she said between bites.
"That's a dangerous thing to say."
She laughed. "Your voice on that last track? You ever think about doing more?"
"Music?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not a performer."
"No, but you've got presence."
"I've got strategy."
She smirked. "Same thing if you do it right."
We didn't talk about business much after that. Just music, food, and old songs from a world she didn't know I remembered.
For a second, it felt like I was just nineteen again. Not a player. Not a builder. Just a guy with a past nobody could see.
Back at the apartment, I updated the notebook.
Week Five Wins:
Paulie contact secured
GhostLine success with external client
Nicky neutralized as liability
Studio project gaining organic interest
Adriana more receptive
Civilian trust points rising
But there was something else.
A note I wrote three weeks ago, buried at the bottom of the page.
"Eventually, someone's going to test how far I'm willing to go."
I underlined it.
Twice.
Snapshot – Week Five
Mob Etiquette: 14Charisma: 15Street Smarts: 8Reputation: 17Manipulation: 15Combat Awareness: 6
Traits:
Quiet Credibility
Controlled Aggression
Precision Pressure
Foundation
Earner's Instinct
Early Investor
Community Cred
Soft Power
Ghost Mentor (Active)
Tactical Patience (New) – Bonuses when waiting, observing, or setting traps
Ventures:
GhostLine (35%)
The Boxcar (20%)
Studio Project (2.5 tracks done)
Civil Infrastructure: Garbage Contract bid pending
Paulie contact chain opened
Saturday night, I got a text from Sally.
You free tomorrow? Need you to come with me. Might be delicate. Bring a clean shirt.
That was all he said.
Which meant it probably wasn't a cleanup job.
But it might turn into one.
I laid out a black shirt, rolled a clean burner into my pocket, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Things weren't quiet anymore.
They were watching quiet. Waiting for something to move.
And I was starting to feel the weight of my own name.
Sunday morning was gray and slow, the kind of day that makes the city feel like it's paused between breaths. I met Sally outside a bakery in Ironbound, where the smell of sweet bread mixed with diesel fumes from a delivery truck.
He handed me a coffee. "We're going to see someone. Keep your ears open."
"Who?"
"Old-timer. Carmine's age. Still runs a few properties out by Belleville."
I didn't ask for more.
We drove in silence for twenty minutes, past strip malls and shuttered storefronts, until we pulled into a gravel lot behind a row of brick walk-ups. The guy waiting for us looked like he stepped out of a black-and-white photograph. Three-piece suit, hat, shined shoes, and eyes like dull knives.
"You must be the one Salvatore won't shut up about," he said, voice dry and clipped.
I nodded. "Adriano DeSantis."
He motioned us into a basement office that smelled like old smoke and mold. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and faded pictures of men with power.
He pointed at a seat. "You been around Tony's crew yet?"
I froze. Not outwardly, but inside? A click.
Tony?
He kept talking. "That fat fuck's got too many leaks. Too many feelings. I hear you're building things. Quiet things. That true?"
I looked at Sally. He gave me the smallest nod.
"Yeah," I said. "Quiet's what I do."
The old man studied me for a moment. Then he handed over a folder.
"This is a property in East Rutherford. Empty for years. Used to be a club. You can have it cheap, under the radar. But if you take it, you run it right. No junkies. No girls. No noise. Understand?"
I opened the folder. Prime spot. Near the Meadowlands. Could be a front, a venue, a meeting place. Anything.
"Why me?"
"Because you remind me of someone who never got the chance to go far. I want to see if you do."
New Opportunity: East Rutherford Property (Type: Clean Front / Club Hybrid)Requires: $45,000 investment, zoning nod, Sally's continued trust
I closed the folder and shook his hand.
Back in the car, Sally didn't say anything for a few minutes. Then:
"Now you know."
"Know what?"
"Where you are."
I nodded slowly. It wasn't just Jersey. It wasn't just the mob.
This was the world I used to watch through a screen.
And I was in it now.
Not as a spectator.
As a player.