Late evening in the Iron & Oil Garage.
Rain hammers the steel shutters, neon flickers green and yellow across piles of tools, busted bumpers, and oil-stained workbenches.
Babs sits in his office, leaned back, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The ash is too long, but he doesn’t bother knocking it off.

In the background, Vito is beating on a half-dead alternator, while Ezio flips through a catalog that’s probably older than both of them.

Then—
knock, knock.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
Confident.

Babs lifts his eyes slowly.
“Who the hell knocks at this hour…”

The door opens, and in walks a man who looks painfully out of place in this part of town.
Expensive coat soaked with rain, polished shoes, neatly trimmed grey hair. Around fifty, but carries himself like a man who’s survived enough to be feared — and enough to act like nothing surprises him anymore.

He steps in like he owns the room.

“Gentlemen… forgive the late intrusion. My name is Marcel DeLuca.”

Vito lowers the hammer, but only so his hand is free to slide toward the pistol tucked under his belt.
Ezio stands instantly, eyes scanning DeLuca from shoes to collar.

Marcel raises his palms slightly.
“No need for tension. If I intended to cause problems, I wouldn’t have come alone.”

Babs stands, flicks the cigarette into the ashtray, and mutters:
“If you’re here to sell encyclopedias, friend, you’re ten years too late.”

A faint smile — polite, but not sincere.

“I’m not here to sell. I’m here to offer.”

He steps forward, pulls a leather folder from his bag, and spreads a map across the desk with crisp precision.
A stretch of land. Outlines of old industrial structures. Marked zones.

“Three hectares,” he begins.
“Abandoned yard, two warehouses, a defunct processing facility with heavy concrete foundations — everything you need to relocate Iron & Oil and expand what you already do… openly, without cramming yourselves into this little corner of hell.”

Vito narrows his eyes. “How do you know what we do?”

Marcel interrupts him with a single raised finger — calm, effortless authority.

“I know enough to understand you’re growing. And I know you need… more space.”

He then produces another document — a rough design of a facility: part scrapyard, part industrial hub, part shadow operation.

“My proposal is simple,” he says, tapping the center.
“Here — your main garage. Larger, modern, officially a repair shop… unofficially whatever else you need.”

He slides his finger left.

“Here — a legitimate scrapyard. Tow trucks, salvaged vehicles, parts sales, paperwork clean as a nun.”

Then he taps on the right.

“And here… a crusher. A big one. Industrial grade.
For the cars that never existed — if you understand me.”

Ezio gulps.
Vito tilts his head and whispers, “This guy knows too much.”

Marcel continues, undisturbed:

“I bring the land. I bring vehicles. I bring business.
You run the operation.
I take a small percentage of the overall profit — nothing brutal, nothing crippling. And in return…”

He lifts his gaze to Babs.

“You do me a favor when the time comes.”

“What kind of favor?” Babs asks, voice flat.

“Not now. Not soon. But the moment will come.”

The sentence hangs in the air like a heavy piece of machinery waiting to fall.

Marcel calmly folds the map, slides it back into his bag, and steps toward the exit.

“Think about it,” he says.
“There’s no rush. The yard is locked, empty, legally mine — but it won’t stay that way forever.”

He pauses at the door, glancing once more through the dim, cluttered space.

“I’ll be back soon. Hopefully next time, we speak as partners… not strangers.”

Then he leaves, opening the door just enough for the cold night air and rain to spill inside before everything goes quiet again.

The door shuts.

Vito: “Boss… what do we do with this?”

Ezio: “I don’t like the feel of him… but the opportunity is huge.”

Babs stands silent, eyes fixed on an oil stain on the floor, mind racing through everything he just heard.
He exhales smoke slowly through his nose.

“Vito…” he says quietly, not turning.

“Call MsRain ...”

When I answered the phone, it was Stefan_Babic. Unbelievable, this was his business, his domain.  I couldn’t understand how someone could walk into someone's business, thinking they had something to offer.  DeLuca, DeLuca, the name kept running through my head, but I couldn’t put a face to the name. Using the term “hectares” instead of acres made me wonder where he was from.  The last time I heard hectares was in reference to a diamond mine in South Africa.

When he told me he said, “I know enough to understand you’re growing, and unofficially whatever else you need, it didn’t sit well with me.

Usually, I don’t trust people like him, people who see too much, people who don't play dumb. In the real world, cockiness and overconfidence are acceptable. It’s a long road from being a retired assassin to living as a civilian, and I didn’t trust my judgment.

Stefan, we need to vet him.  The man coming alone doesn’t mean jack shit to me. I will follow your lead on this one.