Gunshots echoed like thunder in the narrow streets of Harlem. Smoke and the stench of cordite clung to the air. The battle between the Vongola and Harlem's ruling gangs had ended as swiftly as it began.
Bodies lay scattered—many unconscious, some moaning in pain, and others… no longer breathing.
And standing amidst the carnage, a young man in a crisp black suit adjusted his tie with unnerving calm.
"Time to wrap it up," said Lucian Black, his voice low, almost amused. The tall man's blood-red eyes gleamed beneath windswept bangs, the number 6 flickering briefly in his irises like a curse branded into his soul.
He holstered his twin revolvers, both still smoking.
Behind him, Varia agents fanned out like shadows—silent, efficient, terrifying. The Harlem Snake Pit, a gang that once ruled with fear, was now reduced to rubble and silence.
"P-please… have mercy!"
The whimper came from Cornell Stokes, better known as Cottonmouth. The once-proud gang boss was now face-down on the cracked pavement, blood dripping from a busted lip.
Lucian stepped over to him, pressing his heel lightly into Cottonmouth's back.
"I warned you," Lucian said with a smirk, voice like velvet soaked in venom. "You had your chance."
"I-I'll give you anything! Money, guns, turf—just let me go!"
Lucian crouched beside him, gripping his jaw and forcing him to look up. "You don't seem to understand," he whispered. "This isn't about turf."
He leaned in closer, eyes burning crimson.
"This is about order."
Bang.
The shot rang out like punctuation. Cottonmouth slumped, unconscious. Alive—for now.
Lucian stood up and dusted off his gloves as Tsuna, the Vongola's tenth-generation boss, finally approached with his usual calm.
"Was that really necessary?" Tsuna asked, voice mild but firm.
Lucian gave a shrug, sliding his revolver back into its holster. "Mercy is your department. I just clear the road."
Behind them, cleanup had already begun. Varia agents moved in coordinated squads, gathering weapons, restraining survivors, and seizing buildings. A new flag was going to fly over Harlem tonight—and it wouldn't be stitched by local thugs.
It would be the sigil of the Vongola Famiglia.
Tsuna stepped forward and addressed the remaining gang members who had surrendered, now lined up on their knees.
"You have two choices," he said. "Serve us—or leave this city tonight."
One man opened his mouth to protest but caught Lucian's gaze and immediately looked down. No one dared to test him after what they'd just seen.
One by one, the men nodded.
Elsewhere in the city, news was already spreading.
"Did you hear?" a corner boy whispered in Spanish Harlem. "The Italian Mafia just took Harlem."
"No," his older brother corrected. "Not Italian. Something worse. They're… different. Organized. Global."
"They've got a boss who looks like a damn high school kid," someone else muttered. "But the one doing the killing… He's got demon eyes."
Back at Vongola HQ, located in a newly claimed brownstone in the heart of Harlem, Tsuna sat with a quiet sigh. His fingers tapped the mahogany desk lightly.
Across from him, Reborn—still trapped in his cursed infant form—nursed an espresso.
"You're making waves fast," Reborn said, eyes sharp beneath his fedora. "Too fast, maybe."
Tsuna didn't answer right away.
"They need order," he said finally. "We give them that."
"And what happens when the Avengers notice?" Reborn asked. "Or Kingpin? Or worse… S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
Tsuna's lips curled into a faint smile. "Then we'll introduce ourselves."