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.”

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

to Casey Vigo, inquiring, “You’ve been in New York for years. What’s your intel on the Zano clan?

in the mafia, boasting a significant populace. I’d reckon at least ten members. The present patriarch

“I’ll take Jordan to the Zano Manor. If all goes well, I’ll return

Young Master,” Hogan

***

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

American underworld, brandishing the Thompson submachine gun, often called the Chicago typewriter. Until recently, the gun adorned the main hall of Zano Manor, at position C. Only with the new generation’s decision to cleanse their reputation did it

rather, they redistributed their illicit endeavors to seemingly unrelated entities. Behind the vest-clad gangs, they quietly propelled them to conquer New York and the entire East Coast,

under Antonio Zano’s leadership, the current head, the Zano family endeavored to shed their old image and cozy up to the upper echelons. Antonio knew well that the more powerful the elite became, the more they needed entities like the Mafia. However, their hypocrisy barred overt

stand A openly, immaculate and odorless. The traditional Mafia was akin to the former—a dirty, pungent chamber pot. Antonio sought to guide the Zano family’s evolution from chamber pots to pristine, openly displayed

at Zano Manor. Today, a distinguished guest from afar would grace their halls. This guest’s visit held paramount importance for the

Manor, a 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