Don Shane Stetson sat with his father Dynamite at the HQ, enjoying a bottle of Irish whiskey together. While business always seemed to be booming, Shane and Dynamite always made time to just sit and enjoy each others company. Shane noticed Dynamite running low in his compita glass. He motioned for the glass, grabbed it and went to the ice box. With a light scoop, Shane placed the ice cubes into the glass, then reached over to the whiskey bottle to pour it in. He walked back over to Dynamite who gave him a nod, then sat down.

“I think we’ve got a little more time today,” Dynamite said. “I never really told you my whole story. I figured I owe you that especially considering all the time you spent looking for me back in LA.”

Dynamite set down his glass.

“It all started in Detroit…” Dynamite said. Shane started to picture everything is his head.

The city of Detroit was bustling with people walking about their days. Cars were zooming everywhere and a mixture of ambulance sirens and car backfires were the sounds of the city. Dynamite had walked up to a mysterious, unassuming warehouse where he was told he could find work. He knocked on the door, only to find no answer. He looked around and noticed a sign saying “Deliveries in rear” with a red arrow pointing the way. He let out a quick chuckle. With no other option, he followed the sign around the back.

Around the corner, he was greeted by a door with a small slot that opened to allow the person on the other side to look. He let two knocks meet the door, where the slot opened. He could see only a pair of eyes.

“Yeah?” The gruffy voice asked.

”I was told this was the place I can find work,” the young Dynamite replied. “The name is Dynamite.”

The slot instantly shut, then a series of locks could be heard unlocking. Finally, the door opened and he stepped in.

Don Wyzguy was a man that ruled in the shadows, occasionally stepping out to the Streets but generally staying secure in the HQ. He led the Ligambi Crime Family: Parisi Crew on the rough streets of Bricktown, Detroit. One day, he had one of his Consiglieres call Dynamite into his office. Dynamite, a young Wise Guy, steadily walked with the Consigliere where he was guided into the office.

“Have a seat,” Wyzguy said to Dynamite, who sat down as the Consigliere closed the door behind him.

Wyzguy looked Dynamite up and down, Dynamite unsure of what his Don wanted to talk about. Finally after a brief and awkward silence, Wyzguy cleared his throat.

“What’s your jacket size, 38 regular?” Wyzguy asked. Dynamite nodded.

“You’ve been doing some great work for us, hell, you’ve been earning more than a lot of my Capos,” Wyzguy said, “I want to offer you an official spot in the family and be my Right Hand. Paulie is stepping down and Giuseppi is happy where he is at as my Left Hand.”

Dynamite breathed a sigh of relief, but also realized how fast things were moving. This was a great opportunity. He stood up.

“I appreciate you recognizing my efforts and accept,” Dynamite said.

Arriving back from collecting protection money from some of the local businesses, Dynamite pulled up to the Wyzguy HQ. He noticed that the front doors were left devoid of the two assigned bodyguards. Dynamite cautiously walked up to the door and noticed it unlocked. He pulled out his revolver, walking in and scanning the area. All seemed to be clear, but he headed toward Wyzguy’s office. As soon as Dynamite reached for the door, he heard a gunshot on the other side of the door. Dynamite opened the door to see a masked shooter, gun still smoking. Dynamite quickly looked toward the direction of the shot and saw Wyzguy on the floor, lifeless.

The masked man looked toward Dynamite, and Dynamite aimed with precision toward the shooter’s hand and shot, the shooter dropping his gun and holding his hand in pain. Dynamite ran up to the shooter and pistol-whipped him on the top of the head, the shooter falling limp and unconscious.

Dynamite ran to Wyzguy who had no pulse and had already bled profusely. He winced, closed Wyzguy’s eyes and looked angrily toward the shooter.

He grabbed the assailant and tied him to Wyzguy’s rolling chair and rolled him toward the basement. After carrying the unknown man down to the basement, he tied him up to a sturdier chair and pulled his mask off, still not knowing who this was. He waited for the man to come back to consciousness.

After an hour, the man began to wake up.

“Who the fuck sent you?” Dynamite shouted, the man quickly realizing his predicament.

“Fuck you,” the man replied.

Dynamite pulled a pair of pliers from a nearby toolbag. He walked over to the tied-down man and clamped down inside the man’s mouth onto a molar and pulled with force, leaving a bloody mess and the man yelling.

“You wanna talk to me now?” Dynamite yelled. “You’ve got at least 20 more to work with.”

“Okay, okay,” the man replied, spewing out blood. “I don’t have a name, but I was sent to clean up by the Regime. I was not told to take out anyone else except for Wyzguy.”

Dynamite realized that there was something far more nefarious in play, but with his crew leader gone, he would have to await further instructions. He pulled the gun to the man, and placed a shot to the forehead, putting the man out of his misery.

Stepping off the plane, Dynamite enjoyed the fresh Los Angeles air. He had never been to LA, let alone California, but heard that the place was beautiful and glamourous. There was just something about the place that seemed magical, or could have been just the fact that he was in a city where he could run into a celebrity. Dynamite spotted a man holding a sign that read “Dynamite” outside after he had grabbed his checked luggage.

“Christopher?” Dynamite asked the man.

“Yes,” the man replied. “I am his personal drive and was told to take you to Billy Mastrosimone.”

“Perfect,” Dynamite replied, “Lead the way.”

Christopher grabbed Dynamite’s two pieces of luggage, nestled them into the trunk and opened the back door for Dynamite, who stepped in. The driver hopped into the driver’s seat and headed toward the Mastrosimone HQ.

Years had gone by working with Don Mastrosimone, Dynamite serving as his Right Hand. He learned to keep his ears open and eyes on the Streets to protect his boss from any threats. Dynamite was in his own office when Don Mastrosimone knocked on the door frame of his open office and walked in. Mastrosimone has an uneasy look on his face.

“What’s wrong, boss?” Dynamite asked, setting all his attention to Mastrosimone.

“I’ve received an order to make a decision on wacking Liv42Day, and we have an hour to act.” Mastrosimone somberly said.

“The fuck?” Dynamite replied. “She’s one of our top earners and I have no doubts about her.”
“They said they have evidence that she is conspiring against the regime, but refuse to show me the evidence,” Mastrosimone said.

“Then fuck them, let’s tell them we won’t do it,” Dynamite said, anger in his voice.

“You know how these things work, if we don’t them we risk the whole family being killed over this, and quite frankly we don’t have the manpower to defend against that,” Mastrosimone replied.

Dynamite let out a defeated grunt, looking at the floor and thinking, right hand holding his head.

After some thought, he looked up at Mastrosimone.

“Okay,” Dynamite softly replied, “I’ll have it done immediately, but I won’t forget this.”

“I won’t either, trust me,” Mastrosimone replied, a sadness in his eyes.

Between the murder of Wyzguy and now the murder of one of his fellow family members, Dynamite’s resentment of the Regime began to exponentially grow to hatred.

Stetson was in awe of his father’s stories and gave more clarity of how his father became so hardened and stoic. He could tell Dynamite felt a sense of relief finally being able to tell his story and to his son of all people.

Stetson got up and grabbed the whiskey bottle, and motioned to refill his and Dynamite’s glasses. He put the bottle down and raised his glass.

“Here’s to you, remembering those that were lost and will never be forgotten, to all your work,” Stetson said.

Dynamite nodded, they clinked glasses and took a swig.