August 6, 1984, Huntington Pizza, Jones Street, Newark, New Jersey
Only three customers were in the pizzeria: a heavyset Black man eating steak, and two others sitting near the door, idly flipping through newspapers.
The kitchen's back door burst open as Sean, a tall white man with striking features, rushed in and hugged the surprised owner.
"Sean, what are you doing?" the owner asked, frowning as he broke free.
"I've got great news – I'm quitting!" Sean shouted excitedly.
"You're what? Say that again," the owner's face darkened.
"I'm fucking quitting! Just got word that my father – the one I never met – is dead. I've inherited a fortune!" Sean's face flushed with excitement as he pumped his fist in the air.
Suddenly, tires screeched outside as a silver Buick pulled up to the pizzeria.
Two identical bald twin brothers stepped out, both wearing silver-gray suits and sporting beards.
"Boss, it's the Salamanga family!" The men by the door dropped their newspapers and looked up.
The heavyset Black man seemed oblivious, continuing to eat his steak with singular focus.
Without warning, the bald men pulled out submachine guns.
The staccato of gunfire filled the air.
The two men by the door were riddled with bullets before they could react. The previously calm heavyset man tried to run but was gunned down as he stood.
After emptying their clips, one of the bald men drew a pistol and fired repeatedly at the fallen man until the chamber clicked empty. They tossed the weapons back in the car.
The entire attack took thirty seconds – enter, kill, exit – leaving behind a bullet-riddled pizzeria and five bodies in pools of blood.
Sean lay on the ground, eyes wide with terror and disbelief, fingers clawing at the floor. He hadn't even had a chance to enjoy his inheritance.
In the silent aftermath, Sean's body twitched. The flesh at the back of his head began to move, slowly pushing out a bullet that fell to the floor with a metallic 'ding.'
"Ah!" With an agonized groan, Sean sat up, clutching the back of his head.
So much for a painless death by headshot.
He exhaled softly and examined his bloody hands.
"Shot in the head again... huh."
The blood on his hands made it all too real. Waves of dizziness washed over him as his thoughts scattered like broken glass. He clutched his head and screamed again.
His mind was chaos, but one thought remained clear: the police would arrive soon. He had to leave.
Fighting through the confusion, he remembered the back door. As he pushed it open, one word echoed in his mind: "Salamanga."
"I'll remember you," Sean whispered, gripping the bullet in his palm.
He stumbled into the back alley, shielding his eyes from the sun as he made his way home. Once inside, he collapsed, unconscious.
Police sirens wailed as squad cars surrounded the pizzeria. Officers moved in with drawn weapons, their movements tense and precise.
"Looks like the shooters are long gone," a young officer said, surveying the carnage. "Jesus Christ, this looks like a war zone. How many rounds did they fire?"
"There's another victim unaccounted for," Officer Mike said, standing where Sean had been lying.
"You sure about that, Mike?"
"Look here." Mike walked to the back door and pointed to blood on the handle. "Someone left through here."
"I'll check with the nearby businesses and residents," the younger officer said, heading out.
Two hours later...
Officer Mike Ermenshott double-checked the house number before them.
"Anyone home?" Officer Rich Roberts pounded on the door.
After several unanswered knocks, Roberts called out, "Sean, we know you're in there. We're the police. Open up or we're coming in!"
Inside, Sean's eyelids flickered as he slowly regained consciousness, his vision still unfocused.
BANG! Roberts backed up and rammed the door with his shoulder. After several attempts, the door gave way. Mike rushed in, gun drawn, and found Sean slowly rising from the floor, covered in blood.
"Don't move! Police!"
Sean sat up carefully, looking at the gun pointed at his head, then at their badges. "I see," he said calmly. "May I ask why two officers are breaking into my home?"
Mike and Roberts exchanged surprised looks at his composure. "Huntington Pizza, Jones Street, two hours ago. Ring any bells?"
"Well, I could tell you I was in the back kitchen during the shooting and that I'm a victim, not a perpetrator," Sean said, shrugging as he stood up. He looked down at his bloody clothes and hands. "But first, I need a shower. This is uncomfortable."
"Also, either call an ambulance or take me to the hospital," he added, pointing to the back of his head. "There's a rather large hole here. The bleeding's stopped, but it needs cleaning and stitches."
"Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?" Roberts jabbed his gun toward Sean. "You're a suspect, not a tour guide!"
Sean frowned, studying Roberts. "If you found this address, you know I work at the pizzeria."
"Employees can be killers too."
"Whether I'm guilty is your burden to prove. Until then, I'm an innocent citizen and taxpayer. That's how modern criminal justice works – it's a basic human right. Don't make trouble for yourself. I can sue for civil rights violations." Sean held his ground, staring Roberts down.
Roberts faltered, realizing the predicament. "A pizza shop worker who knows the law, huh?"
"Oh, now you're discriminating against service workers? As a police officer, you represent the entire Newark Police Department. Are you saying the department discriminates against service industry workers?" Sean's mouth curved into a mocking smile, further agitating Roberts.
"You... you..." Roberts' face reddened. He couldn't shoot, but he couldn't back down either.
"Alright, young man," Mike intervened, speaking for the first time since entering. He was retiring soon and had no appetite for this confrontation. "You wanted to shower?"
Sean turned to the older officer, noting his calmer demeanor. "I don't believe I caught your name, officer."
"Just call me Old Mike."
"Old Mike. Thank you." Sean nodded, ignoring Roberts as he began removing his bloody clothes.
Meanwhile, in Westchester County, New York...
Along the upper Hudson River, an hour's drive from Manhattan, sat a world-renowned estate. The Rockefeller manor sprawled across 4,000 acres – sixteen million square meters of land, five times the size of the Summer Palace.
A middle-aged woman in a white dress addressed an elderly butler. "Is everything prepared for tomorrow's funeral?"
"Yes, madam," the butler replied with a slight bow, his beard neatly trimmed.
"And the illegitimate child has been notified?"
"He has been informed, madam."