The Charismatic Charlie Wade

As Jagoan spoke, a plan crystallized in his mind.

Having been in New York for this long, certain issues demanded a thorough resolution. With the Zano family’s reach extending into Chinatown, encompassing Hogan’s decades of hard work, there was no room for self-restraint.

He turned to Jordan, his tone resolute, “Jordan, change into those chef’s clothes and join me.”

Jordan’s gaze darted to the five imposing figures of the Burning Angels. “Mr. Jagoan, what about them?” he inquired urgently.

“Dispatch them, one bullet at a time. Make every shot count,” Jagoan affirmed, a steely determination in his voice. The five stood, trembling with fear. They never fathomed that the once-bullied cook, who wouldn’t even dare to breathe too loud, now harbored a resolute intent to end them all.

Witnessing Jordan’s unwavering resolve, Jagoan’s smile curled slightly. “It’s premature to end them now. Let Uncle Hogan and Casey Vigo keep a close watch. Once their affairs conclude, we’ll revisit this,” he advised.

Hogan wasted no time, seeking guidance, “Master, what’s your strategy? Is there something I should tend to?”

Jagoan’s grin persisted. “No, Uncle Hogan. When Jordan and I depart, lock up shop and await our return. Should any trouble arise, and someone with a keen eye stirs up strife, use these five as leverage and summon Micheala immediately.”

preferred not to invoke her aid. Her intervention would dampen the intrigue of the matter. Still, he recognized his limitations. Taking Jordan to meet the Zano family meant fortifying the roast goose shop against potential threats

Jagoan’s intention promptly and nodded in approval. Jagoan then turned to Casey Vigo, inquiring, “You’ve been in New York for years. What’s your intel on the

the Zano family,” Casey Vigo reported promptly. “They hold sway in the mafia, boasting a significant populace. I’d reckon at least

to the Zano

caution, Young

***

from Sicily, had lorded over New York for decades. Deeply entrenched in the mafia legacy, they held an enduring relic from World War II—a Thompson submachine gun, a cherished emblem passed

the old Zano, who’d relocated from Sicily to New York, established their dominion in the American underworld, brandishing the Thompson submachine gun, often called the Chicago typewriter. Until recently, the gun adorned the main hall of Zano

the vest-clad gangs, they

upper echelons. Antonio knew well that the more powerful the elite became, the more they

any mafia family seeking their favor had to clean house first. Essentially, what the upper crust desired wasn’t a hidden, shameful chamber pot but a lavatory that could stand A openly, immaculate and odorless. The traditional Mafia was akin

grace their halls. This guest’s

sprawling table, over ten meters long, was impeccably set. Flowers flown in from France adorned it, alongside the finest crystal and silverware. Forty-seven-year-old Antonio observed, with a mixture of