When I died, it wasn't poetic.
No tunnel of light. No ancestors waiting with open arms. Just metal crunching bone, the hiss of airbags, and the sickening spin of glass across my vision like a cracked snow globe.
Then: silence.
Then: a paisley ceiling. Cigarette smoke. Sinatra humming something low and tragic on vinyl.
My name was Dawit Tekle. Thirty five years old. Eritrean born parents, a country that got colonized by Italy. Raised in the Netherlands. IT support technician, amateur historian, and full time modern life burnout. I loved ancient empires, hated my 9 to 5 , and once fantasized about living in a world where power came from presence not paper.
Now I had it.
I sat up in a bed that wasn't mine. My body was too light, too young, too… off. I caught a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror.
Nineteen. Lean. Olive skin. Curly hair slicked back. I looked like a discount Freddie Prinze Jr. if he'd been born in North Jersey and hung out behind strip malls.
Where the hell am I?
That's when I noticed the crucifix on the wall. The smell of bacon grease in the air. The hum of a TV somewhere in the apartment local news, American accents. A calendar on the fridge said 1999.
And then there was the knock.
"You up, Ade?" a man's voice called from the hallway.
Ade?
I opened the door.
There stood an older man in a cardigan, cigarette dangling from his lip, the kind of guy who looked like he used to bury people before breakfast. Silver hair, sunken eyes, and a stare that said he'd seen everything, twice.
"You hungry or what?" he said. "You look like someone dropped you off the back of a garbage truck."
I followed him into the kitchen. The table was cluttered with yesterday's paper, two cups of coffee, and a loaded .38 just sitting like a napkin holder.
He pointed to a chair. "Sit."
I sat.
Mob Etiquette +1 → 6(Followed instruction without hesitation.)
The man slid a cup toward me.
"I'm your uncle," he said. "Salvatore. But everyone calls me Sally."
He sipped his coffee. "Your mother's back in Italy for now. Said you needed a little structure."
Structure. Right. Sure.
"Look, I ain't big on second chances, but you keep your mouth shut, your head down, you might actually make something of yourself. We're DeSantises. We don't beg, and we don't run."
I nodded like I understood. I didn't. But I wasn't about to interrupt a man who left a loaded gun next to the sugar bowl.
Reputation +2 → 4(Earned initial trust.)
Sally puffed on his cigarette, then tapped ash into a chipped cup.
"You ever work?"
"Yeah," I said. "Back in Rotterdam. IT."
"Eh? The fuck's that one of those phone store jobs?"
"Something like that."
He chuckled and leaned back. "Well, don't worry. We got other kinds of work around here. You ever been to Satriale's?"
The name dropped like a weight in my stomach.
Satriale's.
I blinked once.
Satriale's Pork Store.
And now I saw the signs. The cadence. The names. The accent. The furniture. Even the fuckin' wallpaper.
Holy shit.
"I... think I've heard of it," I said carefully.
"You will. Guy named Tony runs most of the North Jersey action these days. Big guy. Sits in the back. You'll meet him eventually."
Tony.
Tony Soprano.
That was the moment. The exact second I realized what world I'd landed in.
Not just some mob movie dreamscape.
I was in The Sopranos.
And I was Adriano DeSantis a name that, so far, had zero plot armor.
I sat in stunned silence for a second too long.
"You alright?" Sally asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Yeah. Just… coffee's strong."
He smirked. "You'll get used to it."
Charisma +1 → 12(Maintained composure under pressure.)
Later, I stepped out onto the street to clear my head. North Jersey looked like it had a filter over it yellowing light, broken sidewalks, gas stations that doubled as confessionals.
I lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a reincarnation with swords and dragons. This was 1999, New Jersey, and I'd just been handed a life with mob ties and a countdown timer.
And then, in the back of my mind:
System Online: Omertà Overlay Activated
Skill categories now tracking. Reputation system active.
That's when I started laughing. Out loud. On a cracked sidewalk.
I wasn't a hero. I wasn't special. I was a background character in a world where most names ended up in ditches.
But this time?
This time I had a system.
And I already knew who was going to die.
The walk helped. I needed time to process, to breathe. A day ago, I was some underpaid tech in a European office park wondering whether chicken salad could kill me. Now I was a nineteen year old with mob blood and a system tracking my every move.
Every step I took seemed loaded. Every eye on the street, every honk, every dog barking in some distant backyard it all felt amplified. More real than anything I'd felt in years.
I passed a corner bodega and stepped inside. Rows of expired chips. A counter guy who looked like he hadn't blinked since Reagan got shot.
I grabbed a pack of Camels.
The guy behind the register raised an eyebrow. "You legal?"
"I'm DeSantis," I said.
He blinked, then rang me up in silence.
Street Smarts +1 → 4(Name used as currency.)
Outside, I lit up and leaned against the side of the store.
I'd seen this world from the couch before. I remembered how it unraveled who flipped, who died, who disappeared. But it wasn't some TV show now. It smelled like hot concrete and old motor oil. It moved like it could swallow you for saying the wrong thing.
And me? I was just a civilian with a borrowed face and a mysterious cheat code. I didn't even know who I could trust yet.
But I did know where I stood.
I wasn't Tony. I wasn't even Chris. I was background. Disposable. A loose nephew of a guy who used to matter.
And that?
That gave me freedom.
Nobody watched the benchwarmer. And that made me dangerous.
That evening, I sat across from Sally at his club. A place with more dust than customers and a TV that only played horse races.
"You remember anything from the old country?" he asked suddenly, sipping brown liquor.
"Bits and pieces."
"You ever hold a gun?"
"Not yet."
He smirked. "You will."
I didn't ask how or when. I just let the silence do the talking. It filled the space like respect.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you come with me to Satriale's. Just sit, listen, keep your mouth shut."
"Got it."
"I mean it. These guys? They don't like mouthy kids. You talk outta turn, they'll slap the accent off you."
I nodded.
Mob Etiquette +2 → 8(Observed hierarchy. Stayed silent.)
He leaned forward, eyes sharper now. "You understand what this life is?"
"I'm starting to."
"You don't get second chances. You don't get breaks. You get one shot at becoming something. You screw it up, you end up in a trunk on Route 3."
"Understood."
"Good. Because I'm sticking my neck out for you."
And just like that, the real weight of it sank in.
This wasn't a dream to enjoy. It was a war to survive.
That night, I lay in bed with the window cracked open, listening to the buzz of New Jersey nightlife sirens, cars, someone yelling about a Mets game on the radio.
I stared at the ceiling, hands behind my head, and reviewed what I had.
One: I was nobody here. Which was good. I could grow under the radar.
Two: I had knowledge fragmented, yes, but dangerous in the right hands.
Three: I had the Omertà Overlay system. Whatever the hell it really was.
It wasn't just stats. It felt deeper like it was syncing with my instincts. Helping me read people, situations, danger.
A flicker crossed my vision again:
Skill Menu Updated:
Mob Etiquette: 8
Charisma: 12
Street Smarts: 4
Reputation: 4
Manipulation: Locked
Firearms: 0
Combat Awareness: 1
I stared at the numbers like they were gospel.
Then another flicker.
Upcoming Event: Satriale's Sit-In – Tomorrow, 9:00 AMRecommendation: Observe. Do not speak unless spoken to.
Helpful. Creepy. Maybe both.
I smirked to myself.
Who needed dragons and swords? I had pork chops and potential.
And I wasn't here to rewrite fates.
I was here to build my own.