The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air as SirComeSize stepped inside. The diner was the kind of place that didn’t attract attention. Perfect. He adjusted his jacket, scanned the room, and made his way to a corner booth. A nod to the waitress was all it took for a steaming cup of black coffee to land in front of him.

“Keep it coming,” he muttered, sliding her a quarter.

This wasn’t a stop for coffee or pie. SirComeSize had heard the whispers—this was where people with ambition came to be noticed.

For years, SirComeSize had been running jobs on his own. Small-time stuff: numbers, deliveries, and the occasional bit of muscle work. It was enough to get by, but he wanted more. He’d grown up watching the real players, the ones who owned the streets and lived without looking over their shoulders. Respect, loyalty, power—that was the life SirComeSize wanted.

He didn’t just want to work for the mob; he wanted to prove he belonged. Word had it the Gallo crew was sniffing around for fresh talent. Whether it was true or just street talk, SirComeSize wasn’t about to let the chance slip away.

He leaned back in the booth, the toothpick dancing between his teeth. SirComeSize wasn’t the type to make noise or draw attention, but he knew when to seize an opportunity. If someone from the crew walked in tonight, they’d see a man who was ready to follow orders, ready to prove himself.

The waitress stopped by again, lowering her voice. “You waiting for someone, sugar?”

SirComeSize smirked, tossing the toothpick onto the table. “Yeah,” he said, his gaze flicking toward the window, where shadows stretched long on the street outside. “I’m waiting for my shot.”