I stood over Bumpy Johnson’s grave, the rain soaking through my coat, and knew the world had changed. No more kings. No more rules. Just opportunity.

I looked at the men around me—my brothers, my crew—and saw not soldiers, but employees. This wasn’t the old way. This was business. Real business. I’d seen how the mob operated: layers, cuts, leaks. I cut them all out. Went straight to the source in Thailand. Brought it back in coffins of dead soldiers. No taxes. No tariffs. Just pure, uncut heroin—Blue Magic.

It spread like fire. Harlem, Brooklyn, Queens. Even the Italians were buying from me. I wore mink coats, bought my mother a mansion, married a beauty queen. I sat in better seats than the mob bosses at the Rumble in the Jungle.

But I saw him that night—Richie Roberts. Cop. Honest one, they said. He was watching. Not chasing. Watching.

Now, Jimmy Zee’s in cuffs, wired for sound. They’re following the shipment. I can feel the walls closing in.

What do I do?

Burn the stash? Cut a deal? Or let the blood flow?