At exactly 4:00 AM, the heavy silence of the Plaza was broken by the synchronized growl of high-performance motors. They weren't police wagons; they were Kingston M-2s, black and gleaming under the streetlights, rolling into position with military precision. Ten of them surrounded the Matranga office, blocking every exit and sealing off the street entirely.
Inside the backroom, the fifteen men gripping their weapons froze. They watched through the grimy windows as car doors opened in unison. Forty men stepped out. They wore no masks this time, just sharp black suits and heavy coats that did little to hide the outlines of Winchester rifles and trench guns. They didn't move like street thugs; they stood with the disciplined posture of a professional army.
A voice, amplified by a megaphone, cut through the night air.
"We are coming in. If you fire a single bullet, we will riddle the building with enough lead to turn the brick into dust. Nobody will find enough pieces of you to bury."
The threat hung in the air, absolute and cold.
Inside, the Matranga lieutenants looked to Sam Matranga. The boss stood by the desk, his face pale in the harsh electric light. He pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket, his hands shaking slightly as he lit it. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly to steady his nerves.
Sam nodded to his men to open the door.
Nobody faulted him. Against forty men with military rifles, bravery was just a complicated way of committing suicide. Pietro lowered his revolver. Russo placed his knife on the table.
The front door opened.
Four men entered first, wielding Winchester trench guns, scanning the room with professional efficiency. They fanned out, creating a secure corridor. Then, from the cool morning air, a fifth figure stepped inside.
He was tall, possessing a physique that was fit and slender rather than bulky, yet he filled the room with an undeniable presence. He wore a tailored suit that cost more than the building they were standing in.
Silence rippled through the gangsters as recognition hit them.
"Michael Kingston," one of the soldiers whispered, his eyes wide.
"Him?" Russo breathed. "The movie star? The Kingston heir?"
Sam Matranga stared. He had seen the pictures in the papers, heard the stories of the oil tycoon and the Hollywood mogul. But seeing him here, in a dirty backroom in the Plaza, surrounded by a private army... his mind couldn't bridge the gap.
Michael didn't speak to the underlings. He walked past the shotguns and sat in the empty chair directly facing Sam. He crossed his legs, his expression unreadable.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Sam's heavy breathing.
"You," Sam finally said, his voice raspy. "You are the one interfering?"
"I am," Michael confirmed, his voice calm.
"What do you want?" Sam asked.
Michael looked to his guards. He nodded to the head of the detail, a man in his early forties named Miller, the head of Kingston Security Services in Los Angeles.
"Clear the room," Miller ordered. "Send the unnecessary people out."
The Matranga men tensed, hands twitching near their weapons.
"Relax," Michael said, his voice bored. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have walked inside. I would have leveled the building from the street."
Sam gestured to his men. Slowly, the room emptied until only the core remained: Sam, Pietro, and Tony Russo.
"Now," Michael said, the silence settling around them. "We can talk."
Russo scoffed, forcing a sneer to mask his unease. "Talk? You bring a private army just to have a chat? Tell me kid, are you going to be alright without your posse holding your hand?"
Michael countered softly. "The question is... will you be alright without yours?"
Sam narrowed his eyes. "You are just a young boy with rich parents trying to play the hero. You don't understand how this world works."
Michael stood up and removed his coat, revealing a black waistcoat over a crisp blue shirt. He folded the coat neatly over the chair, smoothing the fabric with deliberate care.
"Oh?" Michael asked, turning his cold gaze on them. "Will you teach me?"
Pietro stepped forward, his fists clenching. "Yeah. If you haven't brought an army to hide behind. Like a coward."
Michael sighed. "Men like you don't understand words. You only understand force. So let's get on with it."
"What?" Pietro asked, confused.
"You are the best in your gang, right?" Michael asked, slowly loosening his cuffs. "Confident in your abilities? Good. Defeat me, and I leave you alone."
The three gangsters looked at each other, surprised by the sheer arrogance. They hesitated, looking for the trap.
"If you are afraid," Michael added coldly, "come all three at once."
That broke the hesitation. Anger flared in Pietro's eyes. "Don't regret it."
Sam, Pietro, and Russo fanned out, surrounding Michael. They were hardened criminals, men who had fought in the alleys of Palermo and New Orleans. They knew how to hurt people.
They rushed him.
Pietro threw a heavy haymaker, aiming to take Michael's head off. Michael didn't retreat; he stepped inside the guard, checking the swing with his forearm while driving a rigid palm strike into Pietro's solar plexus. Pietro folded in half, gasping as the air was violently expelled from his lungs.
Russo lunged from the side, trying to tackle Michael to the ground. Michael pivoted on his heel, side-stepping the rush. As Russo passed, Michael delivered a chopping blow to the back of his neck, sending him crashing face-first into the floorboards.
Sam tried to capitalize on the opening, throwing a flurry of street-brawl punches. Michael didn't block; he parried, his hands moving in a blur to deflect the blows before they could connect. He caught Sam's right cross with an intercepting grip and snapped a short, devastating hook into Sam's ribs.
They were tough men. They bore the punches and scrambled back up, fueled by adrenaline and shame. But it didn't matter. Michael moved through their attacks like water, his fists finding gaps they didn't know they had. He wasted no movement, his strikes landing with surgical accuracy on nerve clusters and joints.
After sixty seconds, all three men were on the floor, huffing and puffing, blood dripping from their noses and lips. Michael stood over them, his silhouette steady against the flickering electric light of the backroom. He didn't look like a man who had just fought three people; he looked like a man who had just finished a light stroll.
"I know you are still not convinced," Michael said, his voice devoid of mockery.
He watched Pietro wipe a smear of blood from his jaw, his eyes burning with a hateful, confused fire.
"You think that was a fluke," Michael said, his voice dripping with a calm, clinical coldness. "You tell yourselves the rich boy can't handle the steel. That in the streets, a man is measured by his knife."
Michael stepped back, spreading his arms wide.
"Prove it," Michael challenged, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the room. "Draw your blades. I want no excuses when you lose."
They were way past humiliation now. The rage of being beaten by a "rich boy" overrode their fear. Sam, Pietro, and Russo drew their long blades—wicked stilettos that had ended many lives.
They circled him, lethal intent in their eyes.
They attacked with knives.
Michael moved, dodging the flashing steel with millimeters to spare. He swayed his head away from Pietro's slash, let Russo's thrust pass under his arm, and sidestepped Sam's gut-shot. To them, he was a ghost; to him, they were moving in slow motion. They were experienced street fighters, but Michael retained the memory of a man who had fought against masters of the blade in his previous life. He didn't even need to use his Gift; their movements were too obvious.
After thirty seconds of dodging, Michael stopped playing.
Russo lunged for the throat. Michael let the blade pass inches from his eyes before his hand snapped out, gripping Russo's wrist in a vice lock, freezing the arm in mid-air.
At the exact same moment, Pietro slashed from the right side and Sam thrust from the back.
Michael pivoted. He unleashed a lightning-fast snap kick that connected squarely with Pietro's hand. The impact was so severe it numbed Pietro's fingers instantly, sending his knife spinning high into the air.
Without breaking momentum, Michael turned, still holding Russo, and drove a straight kick with his toe directly into Sam's solar plexus. Sam felt every ounce of air leave his lungs. His grip failed, and his knife began to drop toward the floor.
Michael twisted Russo's wrist violently, forcing him to release his weapon with a cry of pain.
Then, in a display of skill that bordered on the impossible, Michael moved.
As Sam's knife fell toward the floor, Michael whipped his leg out, kicking the handle of the falling blade mid-air. The knife flew across the room like a bullet and embedded itself deep into the wooden wall with a solid thunk.
Almost simultaneously, he performed a high side kick on Pietro's knife—which was still arching down from the ceiling—sending it rocketing into the opposite wall, where it stuck, quivering.
Finally, he caught the knife falling from Russo's hand and threw it casually with a flick of his wrist. It flipped once and buried itself into the seat of the chair where Sam normally sat.
From Michael gripping Russo's wrist to him lodging the knife into the chair, it took just four seconds.
Absolute silence filled the room.
The three men stood frozen, staring at the knives embedded in the walls. They had never seen anybody move like that before. They didn't think it was humanly possible.
They were shell-shocked. The skill gap between them was not something that could be bridged with training or anger. It was a total, utter defeat.
"I think you have now accepted your defeat," Michael said calmly, retrieving his coat. "Now. Let's talk business."