The next morning, at dawn.
Luke climbed out of bed early, washed up, and went through his usual daily routine of getting bald and getting stronger.
Push-ups, squats, sit-ups, sunbathing...
By the time he had finished the whole sequence, the hands of the clock on the wall had already reached 8:20.
"Bucky should already be on the ship..."
Luke shut his door and prepared to go find Rogers.
They had originally planned to see Bucky off, but Sergeant James Barnes, who was heading to England, said he did not want his friends to see him with weak knees.
The whole of New York had probably been under nonstop artillery fire last night.
With a crisp military uniform and a few sweet words,
a young man overflowing with hormones could easily charm a pretty girl.
Maybe that was one of the perks of serving the country.
"Morning, Luke!"
The florist downstairs greeted him warmly and called out, "Frank's looking for you. He seems to be in a pretty bad mood!"
"Got it! Thanks, Uncle Dalle!"
Luke stopped, changed directions, and headed toward Uncle Frank's house.
Those street punks from yesterday had probably gone whining to their boss, and the news had reached his uncle through the Irish Mob.
Ten minutes later, Luke skillfully pulled the key out from beneath the doormat and opened the door.
"Uncle Frank, I brought you Aunt Bertha's roasted mushrooms and potato pancakes!"
Carrying a hearty, steaming breakfast, Luke walked into the living room and saw an old man with graying hair and a slightly hunched back.
From his looks and build alone, one could still vaguely see traces of the sturdy, powerful man he had once been.
"Luke! You troublesome little brat!"
The old man saw Luke and immediately started cursing angrily. "That sissy bastard Hobson went whining to Mr. Hoffa again, saying you beat up his boys!"
"Hobson reported even something like that to Mr. Hoffa? Then why didn't he tell Mr. Hoffa that his mother died on the toilet a few days ago?"
Luke feigned surprise while pulling plates and cutlery from the cupboard.
"Eat while it's hot! I specifically asked Aunt Bertha to add meat filling to the potato pancakes!"
The old man named Frank sat at the dining table and said, "Don't think you can buy me off with this! Luke, you troublemaking bastard, last time those Italian guys... Mmm, this tastes amazing! I could eat it forever!"
The truth was, no one could escape the law of loving something once they tried it.
After Frank finished that breakfast, he never mentioned Hobson or his underlings again.
Instead, he spent more time trying to persuade Luke to join the rapidly expanding Irish Mob.
"Mr. Hoffa thinks highly of you. That clever idea of doing business with the military camps got the gang some 'retired' firearms! Those Italian guys haven't been acting nearly as cocky lately!"
Frank could not understand why his nephew was so resistant to joining the gang.
The idle street punks in Brooklyn would have killed for the chance to join the mob and become one of its officers.
At least then, no one would dare bully them again!
"Not interested! If I really wanted to get involved with the mob, I'd rather go back to school!"
Luke made himself a cup of coffee and answered casually.
He knew this was the most turbulent period in American history. Just as the newspapers said, "Violence, like cherry pie, is an American specialty."
Ever since Prohibition, all kinds of gangs had sprung up like mushrooms after rain.
Most of them had begun as impoverished immigrant communities, such as the Irish and Italian people.
Unlike the English and Germans, who had arrived in North America with large sums of money to develop it, these so-called "immigrants" had merely moved somewhere else to remain at the bottom of society.
Many could not even afford rent and could only take the harshest, most exhausting jobs.
Immigrant communities living together gradually formed slums.
New York's later-famous Hell's Kitchen had been born that way.
As some sociologist had once said, poverty often bred nationalism.
Because the Irish and Italian people were Catholics, they were regarded as unassimilable "savages" in Christian-dominated North America.
The ever-present rejection and discrimination made life extremely difficult for these immigrant groups.
So, to resist exploitation by foremen and religious persecution, the Irish and Italian people spontaneously formed all kinds of violent organizations.
That was the prototype of the American mob!
Back then, gangs were merely groups of poor people and were not taken seriously.
That changed when a special group known as the City Boss began to rise.
They were a profession that emerged alongside industrial society. Their primary duty was to raise campaign funds for political candidates and buy votes—the "brokers" of later generations.
As everyone knew, America was a nation of immigrants.
In the past, no one thought highly of those low-status, impoverished immigrant groups.
But the City Boss keenly discovered their value, and the gangs that had initially formed among workers gradually began to change.
One accepted the protection of interest groups, while the other provided politicians with reliable votes.
The two sides hit it off immediately!
But no one had expected what came next.
Prohibition brought enormous wealth to the gangs, while unions rose and labor movements became increasingly frequent.
The beast known as the mob finally tore open the cage of society's laws!
They held enough wealth in one hand and used votes to win over politicians with the other.
They also worked with unions to gain legitimate status.
For a time, they expanded rapidly!
The Irish gang Uncle Frank belonged to had close ties with Mr. Jimmy Hoffa, a senior figure in the Teamsters Union.
This union represented nearly one million truck drivers and warehouse workers, and at its peak, it would have as many as 2.3 million members.
It could be said that anyone running for mayor or office who had the union's support was practically declaring victory in advance.
The mob, unions, and politicians formed a tightly bound chain of interests.
Unfortunately, that glory did not last long.
Luke thought silently.
Whether the Irish or the Italian people,
their power had once reached its peak.
The former successfully helped Kennedy become president, while the latter had close ties with Edgar Hoover, the first Director of the FBI.
But the mob was ultimately nothing more than a deformed product of social unrest.
After World War II ended, its decline became inevitable.
It became a tool in the hands of politicians and interest groups, never again returning to its former glory.
There was no future in becoming a mob boss in the Marvel World, even with a position like Kingpin's!
That was what Luke truly thought.
"You ambitious little bastard! You refuse to join the gang, and you refuse to become a truck driver and take over my position someday! Looking at you, do you think you're going to become a War Hero?"
Frank grew angry when he saw Luke's unconcerned expression.
He had a good relationship with Mr. Jimmy Hoffa of the Teamsters Union, so after he could no longer keep working, he became the honorary chairman of one of the union's local branches after retirement.
Though it was only a title, he still received a generous salary every month.
If he put in a word, the gang and Mr. Hoffa would probably take especially good care of Luke.
"Uncle Frank, stop worrying about all that! Here, cover yourself with this blanket!"
Luke did not argue. Smiling, he draped a thick blanket over Frank's legs.
If he followed Captain America and joined the Howling Commandos, he might really earn the honor of being a War Hero!
Unfortunately, even if he became a hero, he would still be a tool and mascot in the hands of politicians and capitalists.
So Luke had other plans.
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