Sal Rossi had never been a man to sit around waiting for opportunity to knock twice. When life gave him a door, he kicked the damn thing open and walked through it with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a plan already forming in his head. But lately, something had changed. For the first time in a long while, Sal wasn't just working for himself. He was working for something bigger.

Valhalla.

Since crossing paths with Odin and being offered a place among his ranks, Sal had made it his mission to prove that the opportunity hadn't been wasted. He understood that a name wasn't built overnight and respect certainly wasn't handed out like free drinks at a bar. It was earned through loyalty, hard work and showing up when it mattered.

And Sal had been doing plenty of showing up.

Two successful raids on the Truck Depot had already put money in the right pockets and given Sal a taste of what could be accomplished when the right people worked together. The jobs weren't without their risks, but that was part of the business. Every successful operation brought him one step closer to establishing himself as someone the family could count on.

Then there were the dealings in the dark alleys, where handshakes were quick, conversations were quieter and certain packages changed hands without anyone asking too many questions. Several successful drug sales had added to the growing pile of cash, each transaction another small victory in Sal's ongoing effort to make himself useful.

Of course, a man couldn't make his fortune entirely through the respectable side of criminal enterprise.

More than a hundred successful jailbreaks had seen Sal helping people escape the iron grip of the law, sometimes for a handsome fee and sometimes because the opportunity was simply too good to pass up. Add to that a healthy collection of petty crimes, purse snatchings, and the occasional con pulled on unsuspecting poor schlubs, and it was fair to say Sal hadn't exactly been spending his days polishing his shoes.

He was building a reputation.

Still, beneath the confidence, the sharp suits and the crooked grin was a man who understood just how much this opportunity meant to him.

Odin had opened a door that Sal hadn't been certain would ever open. A chance to belong to something with purpose. A chance to build wealth alongside people who understood the value of loyalty. A chance to prove that he was more than just another face looking to make a quick buck on the streets.

And Sal hadn't forgotten it.

Every successful job left him wondering whether Odin had heard about it. Whether the results had reached the right ears. Whether the man who had taken a chance on him was pleased with what he saw.

Sal wasn't looking for a pat on the back every time he brought something to the table. He wasn't that kind of man. But he'd be lying if he said earning Odin's respect didn't matter to him.

One evening, after another long day navigating the city's backstreets, Sal found himself nursing a drink and reflecting on how far he'd come. The money was beginning to stack up, opportunities were appearing more frequently and the faces around him were becoming familiar.

His brothers and sisters of Valhalla were no longer simply people he worked alongside. They were becoming his people.

And that meant something.

Perhaps Odin would cross his path soon. Perhaps there would be another job, another conversation, another opportunity to prove himself. Sal intended to be ready for all of it.

He raised his glass slightly, a quiet toast to the family that had given him a chance.

"Here's to Valhalla," he muttered with a smirk. "And here's hoping the old man thinks I'm earning my keep."

He took a long drink, set the glass down and straightened his jacket.

There was still a name to make, a fortune to build, and a whole lot of city left to work.

Sal Rossi was just getting started.

And if Odin had plans for him, Sal intended to make damn sure he was worth every bit of the faith the man had placed in him.

Odin sat back against the soft dark leather of his booth with the shadows of the smoky speakeasy cutting across his face. A highball glass sat on the table in front of him with a drop of his favourite tipple inside. He tracked Sal across the room, taking in the sharp cut of the boy's fresh looking suit. 

He waited until the smirk had faded on Sal's face before he spoke. His voice, a low gravelly rumble that cut right through the sound of the soft jazz music that was playing in the background. 

"I hear everything, Sal."

The air in the speakeasy suddenly felt thick and heavy with the smell of cheap gin and cigarette smoke. 

"You think because I wear a tailored suit and a wool coat instead of brynje that my ravens don't fly down Broadway? Huginn and Muninn don't just fly, they ride the elevated trains and sit on the fire escapes. I saw the smoke from the truck depot. I smelled the fear you left behind. I knew about the second raid before the precinct captain had even finished his first cup of coffee. And those men you broke out of cages? Well, they speak your name like a prayer to a God."

He reached out to the glass in front of him before putting it to his lips and taking a sip. 

"You've been busy, kid. Jailbreaks, street hustles, to name just a few. You're running hard, Sal. And you're running smart."

Odin placed his glass back down on the table and leaned forward, a ray of light coming through a small window caught his jaw.

"Valhalla isn't just a crew, it's an empire. And I don't hand out respect like it's free drinks. It's forged. Your brothers and sisters in this family know that loyalty isn't something you talk about over a quick drink, it's the lengths you're willing to go to in order to protect your own when the pressure peaks. They'd take a bullet for the name, and they'd expect you to do the same."

He paused for a minute, allowing the young Earner to take in the words for a moment. 

"You want to know if the Old Man thinks you're earning your keep? You are, for now. As more opportunities open up, the jobs get heavier, and the targets aren't just local truck depot's. The feds will be watching and I need a man who doesn't blink when the iron gets hot."

Odin raised his glass and solemnly toasted Sal.

"You're making a name for yourself, Rossi. Drink your beer and get some sleep. You're only just getting started."

Sal listened without interrupting, his eyes fixed on Odin as the old man spoke. A faint smirk crept back across his face, and he leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table. When Odin finished, Sal let out a quiet chuckle before bringing his fist down against the tabletop with a firm THUD, rattling the glasses slightly.

"That's what I've been trying to tell the world, old man. I'm not here to wear a nice suit, drink expensive whiskey, and pretend I'm somebody. I'm here to be somebody."

He leaned back, adjusting the cuff of his jacket before meeting Odin's gaze with an unwavering stare.

"Every job I've taken, every man I've helped break out, every dollar I've earned in those streets has been another step toward making Valhalla's name mean something. I know what loyalty costs, and I sure as hell know it ain't bought with pretty words."

Sal rose from the booth, straightening his jacket. As he did, a folded note slipped quietly from his pocket and landed near the edge of the seat, unnoticed by him. He stepped away from the table and gave the nearby brick wall a single solid THUMP with his fist, more a display of conviction than anger, before shaking out his hand and turning back toward Odin.

"I'm not afraid of the heat, and I ain't planning on slowing down. You gave me an opportunity, and I'm going to make damn sure you never regret it. The bigger the target, the better the reward. Let the feds watch. Gives 'em something to do while we get things done."

He gave Odin a confident nod, a crooked grin settling across his face as he began walking toward the exit.

"Sleep? There'll be plenty of time for that in my casket."

Sal paused at the doorway, glancing back into the smoky room one last time.

"I've got some work to do."

With that, he stepped out into the night, leaving the speakeasy behind him and the folded note resting quietly where it had fallen.