Over the next two days, Frankie and his crew rolled into Tulsa.
He spent the whole ride gaming out every possible scenario.
What was Manfredi's "gift"?
A bribe?
A threat?
Or a straight-up death sentence?
He wanted the big opportunity, but hated the idea of handing his fate to these old-school mob guys.
They preached loyalty, but lived for betrayal. It all came down to profit.
Victor's rise was built on raw ruthlessness and perfect timing, not rituals or "tradition." Frankie just rode the coattails—if Victor hadn't crushed the biggest gang in the underworld, taking out Sri would've just started a war.
He felt like he was walking a tightrope over a goldmine and a cliff.
He checked the gear: a compact pistol for close work, a Remington for reach.
But his body craved the old way—his fists.
In prison, in street brawls, his knuckles were his best friends.
By the time they hit Tulsa, the six hundred-plus workers on the two farms had already spilled the intel:
"He's got a weed grow house. Half the security we expected. No guns in sight, but they're pulling in five grand cash a day."
"He's tight with some Gypsy from a bar. Looks like they're cooking something up."
"He's sleeping with a chick from the Cannabis Bureau. She's feeding him inside info."
"And get this—some farm girl's mixed up with him too… dude's seventy-five!"
Frankie put it together fast: this guy was important enough to watch, but not important enough to keep in the big leagues. Exiled here.
He made the call:
"Indians and thirty of our guys—roll with me to the bar. Pack heat. Move fast when I say."
"That grow house? Two guys hit it. Leave the money-launderer alive. Talent like that's rare."
······
Iron Fist Bar, nightfall:
The place stank of cheap beer, sweat, and stale cigarettes.
Dim lights. Old punching bags in the corner. Faded posters of boxing legends.
Less a bar, more a dump for drunks, hookers, and losers.
Frankie wore a vest under his jacket. Two of his best guys walked in with him. The rest fanned out—controlling exits, rooftops, high ground.
Dwight Manfredi sat in the back booth.
Yeah, he was old—silver hair, face like cracked leather—but he sat ramrod straight in a tailored dark suit, totally out of place.
Two stone-faced bodyguards behind him. Bulges under the jackets. Armed.
An old geezer sat next to him.
Manfredi spotted Frankie. Gave a plastic smile. Gestured: sit.
"Mr. Frankie. Right on time. Welcome."
Frankie sat. Eyes locked. "I'm not Victor. You don't rate him yet."
"You—"
"Name's Frankie. I run Tulsa ops for our company."
He was ready to draw: "You and me? We're both bottom-feeders. Can't sit at the grown-ups' table. So why come sniffing around our farms?"
"We can help each other."
"We need you? Nah. You need us."
Frankie was done playing: "Where's the gift, General? I'm on a clock."
Manfredi raised a hand. One bodyguard slid a small metal box across the table.
Not cash. Not drugs.
An old gold pocket watch. Faint crest on the lid.
"Years ago," Manfredi said slowly, "a… business associate gave me this. It stands for a promise. Old-school trust. I hope it opens a door."
Frankie picked it up. Cold. Heavy.
He knew instantly: this wasn't a gift. It was a warning—about time, tradition, their unbreakable rules.
He set it down. Voice flat: "Pretty. But let's talk real business, Dwight. You're running a no-capital hustle, and you come at us? We dropped thirty mil on land. You think we're scared of your crew?"
The air went tight.
Manfredi's smile vanished. Ice-cold authority took over.
"Kid, some markets aren't about today's numbers. Partner with us—you get future and protection."
"My future? I punch it out myself."
Frankie didn't blink.
Suddenly, the "old guy" next to Manfredi started coughing—wet, ugly hacks. He stood, shaky, like he needed the bathroom.
As he passed Frankie, those cloudy eyes snapped alive—murder sharp.
His hunched body sprang like a trap.
A flash of steel—a thin, custom stiletto aimed straight at Frankie's throat!
This wasn't part of the plan!
Not even Manfredi's style!
In a heartbeat, Frankie leaned back on instinct.
The blade grazed his neck—hot line of blood.
"GO!"
Manfredi jumped up, stepping back. His bodyguards drew.
But Frankie's crew was faster.
He kicked the table up—blocked the line of fire. One of his guys already firing.
Chicago typewriters—crude, loud, perfect.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The bar exploded.
Screams. Glass shattering. Gunfire.
Firepower crushed everything.
But the fake-old-man assassin? Missed once, stuck like a leech. Lightning fast. No way he was elderly. Elite training.
Knife danced—every strike lethal.
Frankie dodged the kill shot. Rage ignited.
This wasn't a meeting. This was a hit.
Manfredi never wanted a deal—he wanted Frankie dead and the operation taken.
Frankie ripped off his jacket. Muscles flexed under the tight tank.
No time for guns. This guy was too quick up close.
Another thrust.
Frankie sidestepped—pure boxing footwork. Left hook crushed the assassin's arm.
CRACK.
Bone snapped.
The killer grunted. Didn't stop. Other hand shot out—clawing for Frankie's eyes.
Frankie dipped, slipped, then unloaded a vicious right uppercut from hell.
The assassin blocked—but Frankie's power was forged in street wars.
BOOM.
Fist blew through the guard. Landed clean on the jaw.
The killer staggered. Didn't fall.
Spit blood. Eyes wild. Charged again.
The bar became a gladiator pit.
Gunfire popped around them, but between Frankie and the assassin? A bubble of pure violence.
Frankie locked in.
World narrowed to the enemy.
Footwork light. Guard high. Eyes tracking every twitch.
Assassin lunged—knife to the gut.
Frankie timed it. Short, explosive right straight—dead on the nose.
CRUNCH.
Nose collapsed.
Scream. Stance broke.
No mercy.
Combo like a storm:
Jab—BANG—eye socket.
Straight—BANG—bloody nose again.
Left hook—BANG—liver.
Right hook—BANG—jaw finisher.
Every punch a detonation. Blurs of speed.
Street-honed, ring-perfected.
The assassin folded like a cheap suit.
Final blow: perfect right uppercut. All body weight behind it.
Lifted the killer off his feet. Sent him flying—crashing through a table. Out cold in wood and glass.
Frankie stood panting. Knuckles shredded.
He looked up. Cold sweep of the room.
His crew had dropped one bodyguard. Had Manfredi at gunpoint trying to slip out back.
The other guard bled out on the floor.
Outside team stormed in. Locked it down.
The rat-tat-tat of the Chicago typewriter ended all resistance. Echoed for blocks.
Frankie walked to Manfredi. Picked up the cold pocket watch. Slid it into the old man's breast pocket. Patted his frozen cheek.
"Your gift, General."
Voice hoarse from the fight, but terrifying: "Your sales channels? Mine now."
He turned to his crew: "Clean this up. Grab them. Get everything—New York contacts, networks, all of it."
He stepped out of Iron Fist Bar. Night air bit cold.
His hand throbbed. But inside? Calm. Even disgusted.
Threat neutralized. Gains beyond expectation.
He didn't just kill a problem—he claimed the throne in the most brutal, direct way possible.
As the East Coast beast reached out, he cut off its arm—and planned to eat it.
Tulsa nights were still dark.
But Frankie's path? Clearer in the blood.
He hated mob life more than ever. Wanted the sunshine his brothers had.
He clenched his busted fist.
In this world, power speaks last.
His iron fists just proved they were still hard enough—Victor's only metric. Without it, he'd be the next Sri.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Cops were fast.
Frankie grabbed a Chicago typewriter—simple, reliable, loud. Only flaw: jams. But they loved it.
He opened up on the cop cars from a hundred yards. Shattered windshields. Pinned them down.
"Move! Move!"
"Half the team north—police chopper in seven. We're gone now!"