"Ughh… My head hurts."
The old man slowly opened his eyes and found himself lying in a narrow alley. The walls around him were rough brick, slick with damp, and the ground beneath him was cold cobblestone.
He was dressed in a dark, classic three-piece suit—typically black or charcoal gray—paired with a white dress shirt and a black tie or bow tie. He winced and clutched his forehead as the pain registered, throbbing in slow pulses.
The last thing he remembered was lying dead on his back, playing with his grandson in the tomato garden. A warm afternoon. A child's laughter.
The garden… Anthony…
He sat up, blinking against the dim light. Around him were wooden crates stacked in narrow passageways, puddles reflecting distorted shapes. The air carried a scent of smoke and coal. He furrowed his brow.
Where… am I?
He staggered to his feet, almost losing his balance. A wave of nausea hit, but he pushed through it. He noticed a murky puddle nearby and knelt down beside it. As the rippling water stilled, it offered a faint reflection.
To his quiet surprise, the face staring back wasn't that of an old man nearing his end. It was him, unmistakably—but younger. Mid-fifties, perhaps. The hard lines of his life were still present, but they hadn't yet deepened into the roadmap of age. The gray hadn't entirely taken his hair.
Huh… seems like I'm still in my fifties.
He patted down his coat, checking for anything useful or familiar. In an inner pocket, he found something cold and metallic. He drew it out slowly.
A gun.
But not just any gun. His breath caught in his throat.
It was the same revolver he used to take out Don Fanucci...
The same gun he used to "make his bones"…
The same one that had ended his innocence...
The same one he had smashed and scattered through the chimneys of Little Italy, hoping never to see it again.
He turned it over in his hands, checking the weight, the scratch on the barrel he knew so well. It was real. No replica, no dream.
This shouldn't exist. This was gone—destroyed.
And yet… it was here. In his coat. As if waiting.
He let the thought slip for now. The deeper questions—of time, death, memory—could wait. He had always been a man of patience. Of calculation.
He allowed himself a small, wry smile as he stepped forward, out of the alley and into the light.
Before him stretched a city unlike any he'd known. Stone walls with ivy, arches from another era, yet buzzing with a strange modern life. Women in shawls, children in caps, and electric signage written in unfamiliar dialects. A blend of old world Europe and something entirely alien.
"Italy? Britain? No… it's too mixed for this to be British," he murmured.
One thing was certain:
He may have died in his garden, but wherever he was now… he had unfinished business.
He moved into the crowd like a ghost returning to the world of the living, the revolver hidden beneath his coat, his steps steady and searching.
Then…
He found someone…
A young man who might have piqued his interest. If there's something he learned from his decades of being a godfather to the most powerful crime family in America, it's that he knows a promising person is present when he sees it.
The young man stepped onto the cobbled road with the moon at his back and the Capital looming ahead like a stone leviathan. His clothes, though neat, betrayed the countryside—practical travel wear worn with pride.
A high-collared white jacket clung to his shoulders, half-open to reveal a tan sweater vest over a crisp black shirt. His boots, scuffed from the long journey, thudded confidently against the path as if each step carried the weight of purpose.
He stood of average height, perhaps a little shorter than the city-dwellers who brushed past without a glance. But there was strength in his compact frame—muscle born of hard work, not vanity. His spiky brown hair fell naturally into unruly bangs that frame the face still untouched by cruelty. Wide green eyes scanned the streets ahead with a blend of wonder and wary excitement, reflecting dreams of honor, gold, and glory.
There was something striking in his bearing—not the swagger of a seasoned fighter, but the uprightness of someone who still believed the world could be changed by good intentions and a strong sword arm.
He was a boy shaped by hope, and though the city's shadow fell long and dark before him, he hadn't yet learned to fear it.
Even the old man knew from a simple glimpse of him.
"I wonder how those guys are doing?" the young man muttered to himself as he looked up at the night sky of the Capital.
The stars shimmered faintly above the city's maze of stone alleys and towering silhouettes. He let out a breath, half longing, half tension, until a rustle behind him made his instincts flare. In one swift motion, he drew his sword, the steel flashing cold under the moonlight.
A figure had emerged from behind. It was the old man, dressed in black, with a calm, weathered face and both hands raised, palms out.
"Relax, ragazzo. I'm already too old to mug you."
Ragazzo?
The word tripped over the young man's mind. Confusion flashed across his face, followed quickly by a deep blush of shame. The sword dropped slightly in his grip.
"I—I'm very deeply sorry," he stammered, bowing his head in apology. "It's just… I've been encountering swindlers and thugs ever since I first stepped foot here."
The old man tilted his head, eyes shifting past Tatsumi to the pair of unconscious bodies slumped against the alley wall. One lay awkwardly over the other, limbs sprawled, clearly beaten into submission. He didn't need to ask.
His gaze lingered on the young man's hands—knuckles bruised and red with impact.
A flicker of memory stirred.
Santino… always so brash. Never thought before swinging. Always a fire burning in his chest.
The image faded as quickly as it came, and the old man's eyes returned to the present.
"I see," he said slowly, nodding with faint approval. "Can't blame you, though. This is your first time in a place like this."
There was something deeper in his tone. A weight of experience behind the words. As if he, too, had once walked into a hostile city, young and armed with nothing but resolve.
"Oh, where are my manners – my name's Tatsumi," the young man said, a bright smile lighting up his face as he extended a hand.
"Vito, Vito Corleone," the old man replied with a faint but courteous smile. He took the offered hand and shook it with a firm, practiced grip, a gentleman's gesture from another age.
"By the way, Vito-san, what brings you here to the Capital?" Tatsumi asked, tilting his head in curiosity.
Oh, stronzata, Vito thought, mentally kicking himself. I was nearly too focused on young Tatsumi here that I forgot about learning more about this place.
The question had caught him unprepared. He had been so absorbed in studying the young man—his candid nature, his earnestness—that he'd nearly lost sight of his own purpose: understanding where, or perhaps what, this place truly was.
He had to improvise, quickly.
"Curiosity, my boy," he said smoothly, slipping into his well-worn cadence. "I'm a man from a… distant land. I lost my way here and have nowhere to turn to."
That should do. Better to play the lost traveler than have him think I'm some vecchiu pazzu—just another mad old man wandering the alleys.
Tatsumi's expression softened with concern. He understood all too well what it felt like to be displaced.
"That's… rather unfortunate, Vito-san," he said, eyes full of empathy. "If you want, you can stay by my side until we can find you a place to stay."
Vito studied the young man, a flicker of doubt passing through his eyes. Tatsumi's offer was sincere—too sincere. Uncommon in a world where generosity was often a mask or a trap.
Find me a place to stay? That's rather generous of you…
"It's okay," Vito began, gently waving a hand. "I don't want to be in your debt—"
"No, I insist," Tatsumi cut him off, voice firm. "After all, I can't let you haunt me in my sleep if something happens to you. Besides, it's the right thing to do."
The old man paused. For a long moment, he simply looked at Tatsumi. The boy's conviction, his simple belief in doing good—no matter how small the gesture—struck something deep within him.
What a selfless young boy. You gave me an offer I can't refuse. You have my respect.
He immediately accepted Tatsumi's offer to be by his side.
"Well then."
Tatsumi settled his backpack with a grunt and reached inside, pulling out a large, brown blanket. He handed it over to the man beside him.
"I hope you don't mind sleeping outside tonight. The first time I set foot in the capital, I got all my money swindled by a woman with a... well, let's just say she had a rather large chest."
The older man accepted the blanket without a word of judgment. His expression remained calm, his eyes reflecting something deeper, more familiar.
"I know that feeling, boy… I know," he said, his voice tinged with sorrow.
A distant look passed over his features, and for a moment, he was no longer in this strange world, but back on his own. Back to the moment he had first arrived in New York, still a child. He could see himself again: a young boy on Staten Island, clutching a worn suitcase, empty pockets, and a heart heavy with loss. Everything dear to him had been taken by a cruel hand—by a local mafia boss who had no mercy for a frightened child.
Tatsumi noticed the shadow of memory settle over the man's face. As Vito leaned back against the wall, Tatsumi could only wonder.
Damn... he must've had a troubled childhood. Wherever he's from, it wasn't kind to him.
A soft clatter broke the silence. The sound of a carriage's wheels against the stones drew Vito's gaze. He looked up just as the horses neighed and slowed.
"Stop," came a smooth voice.
The noblewoman inside gestured delicately, and her coachman pulled the reins. The carriage halted. From it descended a young woman of arresting beauty.
Her golden hair flowed in soft, shoulder-length waves, glowing in the warm blush of the setting sun. A sky-blue, feathered accessory adorned her head like a crown, subtle yet regal. Her eyes, crystalline and blue, held a quiet curiosity, gentle and disarming.
She wore a sleeveless light blue dress, its white frills fluttering with each graceful movement. A fitted black bodice hugged her form, and beneath it, a pristine white blouse extended to her wrists, its cuffs neat and buttoned with care. At her collar, a blue ribbon tied in perfect symmetry.
Her boots, white and spotless, clicked softly as she stepped down from the carriage, approaching the pair with a poised elegance.
"Do these two not have a place to stay? How unfortunate" she asked, her voice rich with genuine pity.
"Again, my lady?" a guard behind her groaned in protest.
"I can't help it. It's in my nature," she replied gently, stepping closer.
Tatsumi stirred awake. Vito, ever watchful, did not move—but his gaze met hers.
"Did you two come from the countryside?" she asked, her voice light and curious, though her eyes stayed fixed on Tatsumi.
Tatsumi blinked, still gathering his thoughts after the abrupt awakening. "Huh? Yeah."
She nodded with a small, sympathetic smile. "If you two don't have a place to stay, do you want to come to my house?"
Her tone was sweet, almost melodic, and the way she smiled—warm, gleaming, perfect—might've moved any man to trust her.
The two men stared at her for a long moment, their silence betraying hesitation. That smile, so radiant, made something tighten in Tatsumi's chest.
Suspicious, he thought to himself.
Beside him, the older man did not speak. But his stillness said much more. For the first time since awakening in this strange world, he felt it—an instinct not dulled by time or age, but honed by decades of survival.
Always be wary of those who lead with kindness, he thought. Even the brightest of smiles can hide the cruelest intentions.
He met her eyes evenly, with a half-smile that never reached his own.
"We don't have any money," Tatsumi tried to turn down her offer, attempting to hold on to a sliver of pride.
"You wouldn't be sleeping here if you did," she replied matter-of-factly, her voice calm but firm, leaving no room for rebuttal.
Both of her guards stepped forward behind her. The atmosphere subtly shifted.
Vito remained still, his demeanor unreadable, yet keenly aware. He made no sudden moves. His hands stayed relaxed, but his eyes never left the guard with the rifle.
"Lady Aria can't leave people like you around," said the first guard, hand resting on his hip, clearly used to this sort of encounter.
"You should just accept her goodwill," the second added, the butt of his rifle clicking faintly as he shifted his stance. A silent message: we're watching.
Aria turned slightly and gestured to her guards to stand down. Her movement was graceful, but final—she had made her choice.
She turned back to them, softening her expression. "What do you want to do?"
Tatsumi scratched the back of his head, unease flickering behind his eyes. He didn't want to owe her anything. Not her, not anyone. But as he looked at Vito—stoic, silent, calm—he was reminded of how little they actually had.
We need shelter. We need a chance.
"Well… it's better than sleeping outside," he finally muttered.
Aria's face lit up with delight. Her smile returned, warm and full of satisfaction.
"Then it's settled."
The carriage door opened.
And Vito, without a word, stepped forward first, casting one last glance at the rifleman's grip.
Kindness comes dressed in silk, but it's often stitched with chains.