The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the stink of desperation. Frankie_Bellini was just another hungry face in the alleyways of Corktown. A wiry, sharp-eyed kid with dirt under his nails and a monkey on his back. He had the look of a ghost who’d seen too much too young, eyes always darting, hands always twitching. Whether it was withdrawal or the rush of his next score, no one could really tell.

He lived off the streets, barely. A cracked window here, an unlocked car there, a purse snatched from an old lady fumbling her rosary. Anything that gave him enough coin for a meal… or a fix. But petty crime didn’t give him purpose. What Frankie wanted. What he craved. Was something more. A name. A family. A legacy built on shadows and power.

One night, dressed in black from head to toe, Frankie found himself lurking outside an old red-brick warehouse just off Bagley Street. The moon cast silver lines across the damp pavement as he crouched behind a stack of crates, eyeing the loading dock. He didn’t know what was inside, but something about the place felt... important. Alive.

Then came the voice.

“You planning on breakin’ in… or breakin’ your neck, kid?”

Frankie turned sharply, his hand inching toward the switchblade tucked in his boot. But the man who stood before him wasn’t just another dockworker or beat cop. This man wore a sharp coat, carried himself like a general, and had eyes that burned like lit cigars. Fredo_Trapani.

Leader of the Trapani Crew. A name whispered in backroom bars and behind confessionals with equal fear and respect.

Frankie didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Fredo looked him over. The dirty coat, the scuffed shoes, the hunger, the sickness, and that spark. The spark of someone willing to go too far for too little. The kind of spark that, when aimed right, could burn down a city block.

“You got the look of a lost dog,” Fredo said, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. “But even a mutt can find purpose if he bites for the right cause.”

Frankie stood taller, wiped the sweat from his brow. “I ain't lookin' to beg,” he muttered, voice rough from smoke and hunger. “I’m lookin’ to earn. I got steady hands and no fear.”

Fredo smirked. “No fear, huh? We’ll see about that.”

And just like that, Frankie_Bellini was given his first job. Not a big one. Just a watch, a warning, a message to send. But it was enough. Enough to get his foot in the door of the warehouse... and the underworld behind it.

He was no longer a street rat.

He was becoming somebody.

And the city of Detroit? It better start paying attention.