Chapter One: Blood Inheritance
The first thing that hit me was the smell of cologne mixed with something sharper underneath. Whiskey, maybe. Or blood.
My head pounded like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. When I cracked my eyes open, I found myself staring at an ornate ceiling decorated with frescoes that probably cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. Golden trim everywhere. Crystal chandelier hanging overhead like a weapon waiting to drop.
"Where the hell am I?"
I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. My body felt wrong that is lighter, younger, like I'd been stuffed into someone else's skin. The hands I brought up to my face weren't mine. Too pale, too smooth, fingers adorned with rings that looked like they could buy a small country.
Then the memories slammed into me.
Not my memories. His memories. Regis Volpe nineteen years old, heir to the Volpe Crime Family, one of the most feared organizations in the underworld . Son of Don Salvatore Volpe, who sat at the table with nine other men who controlled the criminal empires spanning continents. They called themselves the Ten Dons.
I knew this world. Holy shit, I knew this world.
The silk sheets beneath me cost more than my old apartment's rent. The Armani suit draped over the chair by the window probably ran six figures. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see Yorknew City sprawling endlessly in every direction a glittering metropolis of skyscrapers and neon that shouldn't exist outside of manga panels. But it did. It was real. I was here.
Hunter x Hunter.
My stomach lurched. The timeline clicked into place from Regis's memories. September 1997. Two years before Gon Freecss would leave Whale Island to take the Hunter Exam. Two years before everything in this city would go to hell when the Phantom Troupe showed up to massacre the Underground Auction.
Two years before my—Regis's—father would die screaming.
A sharp knock rattled the door.
"Young Master Regis. Your father requests your presence in the strategy room. Immediately."
The voice belonged to Marco, one of Father's enforcers. Ex-military, built like a tank, absolutely loyal. The memories told me he'd killed seventeen men last month during a territory dispute with the Gambino Family. Hadn't even blinked.
"Give me five minutes," I said, surprised at how steady my voice came out. Different from my old voice it was deeper, with an edge of authority I'd never possessed before.
"You have three."
I swung my legs off the bed and stood, catching my reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. The face staring back at me was a stranger's. Sharp cheekbones, gray eyes like winter steel, dark hair that looked styled even though I'd just woken up. Lean muscle beneath expensive silk pajamas. The face of someone born into violence and wealth.
"This is insane."
But I couldn't afford to think like that. Not here. Not in a world where people could punch through concrete and conjure chains from thin air. Where a group of mass murderers called the Phantom Troupe would eventually slaughter half the mafia leadership in a single night.
"Nen." The word surfaced from the depths of Regis's memories. Life energy weaponized into supernatural abilities. Six types: Enhancement, Transmutation, Emission, Conjuration, Manipulation, Specialization. Powers that could level buildings or steal someone's very soul.
Did this body know Nen? Could I use it?
I rifled through Regis's memories desperately. Found fragments—watching Father's bodyguards train, hearing whispered conversations about "aura" and "Hatsu," seeing men move faster than humanly possible during executions gone wrong. But nothing concrete. Regis had been too pampered, too sheltered. The heir was meant to give orders, not dirty his hands with supernatural combat.
Shit.
I dressed quickly, pulling on tailored black slacks and a crimson dress shirt that fit perfectly. Found a shoulder holster in the closet with a loaded Beretta. The weight felt familiar in ways that made my skin crawl Regis had been shooting since he was twelve. The old man had made sure his heir could kill if necessary.
Two minutes later, I was walking through marble corridors that screamed obscene wealth. Paintings I recognized from art history classes originals, not replicas. Sculptures worth millions. Guards posted every twenty feet, all armed, all watching me with unreadable expressions.
The Volpe estate occupied the top fifteen floors of a building in Yorknew's financial district. From here, Father controlled trafficking routes, underground auctions, protection rackets, and legitimate businesses that laundered enough money to fund small wars. The Ten Dons divided the world into territories, and Father's empire stretched across the Southern Peninsula].
The strategy room door was already open. I stepped inside.
Five men turned to look at me. Father sat at the head of the long table sixty-two years old, built like a bear, with scars running across his knuckles from decades of personally beating people to death. Beside him stood Viktor, the family consigliere, and three capos whose names I pulled from memory: Antonio, Carlos, and Luca[4].
"You're late," Father said. Not angry. Just stating fact.
"Overslept."
His eyes narrowed. For a second, I thought he'd call me out somehow sense that I wasn't really his son. But then he just grunted and turned back to the map spread across the table.
"The Hao Family is moving product through our territory without permission," he said, tapping a section of the map marking Yorknew's warehouse district. "They think we're distracted by the upcoming auction. They're wrong."
The Underground Auction. Held every year in September, where the world's richest criminals gathered to bid on stolen art, ancient relics, and human lives. In two years, the Phantom Troupe would massacre everyone there. But right now, in 1997, it was still the crown jewel of the mafia's operations.
"We send a message," Viktor said coldly. "Make an example of their people."
Father nodded. Then his gaze slid to me. "Regis. You'll oversee it."
My blood went cold. "Oversee what?"
"The message. You're nineteen. Time you got your hands dirty properly. Take Marco and six men. Make sure the Hao Family understands their mistake."
The room went silent. Everyone was watching me. Testing me. Waiting to see if the pampered heir had the stomach for real violence.
I met Father's eyes. Behind them, I could see decades of calculated brutality. This wasn't a request. It was a trial. If I refused or showed weakness, I'd lose whatever respect Regis had built. Worse, I'd make Father suspicious.
In this world, weakness will got you killed.
"When do we move?" I asked.
Father smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Tonight. Viktor will brief you on the details. Don't disappoint me, son."
I nodded and left the room before anyone could see my hands shaking.
As I walked back through those blood-soaked marble corridors, one thought crystallized with brutal clarity: I wasn't in some manga anymore. This was real. The violence was real. The danger was real. And if I wanted to survive what was coming the Troupe, the slaughter, the collapse of everything the Ten Dons had built I needed to learn fast.
Two years. That's all I had.
Better make them count.