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As the last thug slumped, Toni pried open the crate. Inside wasn’t olive oil. It was pristine, military-grade body armor. The kind the Forelli family uses.

The docks were a maze of shipping containers and silence. Three men in cheap suits stood by a crate marked “Fragrant Olive Oil.” Amateurs. They didn’t even have a lookout. As the last thug slumped, Toni pried open the crate

Toni smirked. Vincenzo. Still using middlemen. Still too scared to ask him directly. As the last thug slumped

The Liberty City autumn air tasted like rust and regret. Toni Cipriani stood outside the Momma’s Restaurante, the neon sign buzzing a flickery red against the wet asphalt of Portland. He’d been back less than a week, and already the city felt like a straitjacket—too tight, frayed at the edges. frayed at the edges.