Five minutes in and Vince had already kicked Jaesung twice to interrupt his incessant snoring. His calves were throbbing in agony from the thrashing. His glares generally burned holes through his boss, but now he was unfazed. Next to him, Feng had fallen asleep in place with his eyes wide open. Only the dead could master that.

Stuffed like pigs, hundreds of men packed the behemoth auditorium. The room reeked of sweaty balls and guys that apparently hadn’t washed themselves in weeks. What happened to the style and class the mafia once waltzed around, roaring to the rooftops that they had? Whatever. It was all crap anyway.

They lined the five families of the Maniaco up, each in their own group all watching the stage. Out of all of them, their little band of misfits were the smallest. While the others had a fair number of manpower, they had assembled a meager five men throughout the years. If their numbers didn’t show how bottom of the barrel they were, that they were the only ones not wearing suits probably did.

“Hey, Jaesung.” Scooting up to him, Feng nudged his shoulder to grab his attention.

“What?” His reply was blunt, seeking to deter his friend from bringing more scrutiny to their merry group.

“Look at that guy’s hair on the stage. All the way to the right on the end.” Feng pointed, finger in front of Jaesung’s face.

Jaesung slapped it aside. “I can’t see, dumbass. Who the hell are you pointing at?”

“Want to hop on my shoulders?” asked Jett. He was on the other side of Feng, smile expanding.

“I’d let you on mine, but you’d crush me.” Trace said it without even batting an eye.

Was Trace calling him fat?!

“Did your parents not teach you manners, or are you unable to comprehend them?” Jett sounded amused. Picking on Trace was his favorite pastime.

Before Trace could react, although clearly frustrated, Vince cut him off with a tone laden with silent fury. “What did I tell you boys earlier?”

“Not to make a scene?” Of course Feng responded. He never figured out what social ques were.

Vince’s scowl had Feng frozen, mouth gaping open. Before they could produce more of a scene, Jett took Feng and turned him around. Their boss let out a grunt, but the hostility thinned ever so slightly.

Minutes went before a figure walked onto the podium. All the chatting ceased just as soon as it had begun. It was impossible to not recognize who had appeared. A deep, rugged scar traveled across the man’s forehead down to his ear. An eyepatch concealed his left eye, sheltering the grotesque scar that previously bore his other murky brown eye. They could sense his presence all throughout the auditorium, a sense of dread sticking to them.

A shiver rushed down Jaesung’s spine at the head’s appearance. This was why he joined the Maniaco. This awareness that washed over him, fear blended in with hope that followed along with the strong, fueled his weak resolve and inspired him.

He didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere. A gook like him, someone different, would never grow into one of interest in the real world. But there, standing alongside everyone with goals similar to his, he felt more accepted and alive than he ever did anywhere else. It became hard to squelch the rapid beating in his chest.

“Today, I, Vittorio Maniaco, have summoned you all here today for a special announcement.” His rich, heavy Italian accented voice thrummed throughout the hall. “Starting tomorrow, we’re at war.”