Inside the sleek black car, Jason leaned back against the leather seat, arms spread lazily as the city lights of Gotham blurred past the tinted windows. He was still trying to process everything—the system, his face, this mysterious new life—when Nia, sitting across from him, crossed her legs and spoke without looking at him.
"Your father was angry today. The meeting was important," she said, voice calm but laced with disapproval. "It was supposed to be your official step into the family business. Your brothers showed up. Prepared. Polished. You?"
She glanced at him. "You vanished."
Jason shrugged, trying to mask the storm inside with a half-lazy grin. "Hey, I was busy getting rid of three street rats. That should count for something, right?"
Nia didn't smile. "This isn't about body count, Jason. Your father wants you to prove you're more than just a reckless playboy."
Jason raised a brow, playing into the role. "Playboy? Me? C'mon, Nia, you wound me."
She rolled her eyes. "You show up to meetings hungover. You skip training sessions. You flirt with clients' daughters. And now you've killed people in an alley. This isn't the way to climb the ladder."
Jason smirked, deflecting with sarcasm to cover his complete lack of understanding. "So what you're saying is… I'm a little behind?"
"What I'm saying," Nia said, her voice sharp, "is that your brothers are already integrated into the business. One runs our overseas operations. The other handles internal logistics. You? You're still the wildcard."
Jason let out a low whistle. "Tough crowd."
She sighed again. "You're lucky you're a natural. Even if you're a mess… you've got instincts."
Jason looked out the window, trying to piece together the puzzle of this new world he had been dropped into. Mafia family. Gotham. Brothers. A powerful father. And he was... Jason Anderson. A troublemaking heir with no ambition.
Alright, he thought. Fake it till you make it.
Soon the car began slowing down. They passed a heavy wrought iron gate with cameras and armed guards flanking either side. Beyond it, a massive mansion loomed in the distance. Gothic architecture blended with modern design. Sharp edges. Black stone walls. A long driveway lined with perfectly trimmed hedges, patrolled by men in suits and Dobermans on leashes.
Jason stared. "Damn… I lived here?"
Nia glanced at him again, eyes narrowing slightly. "You always say that when you're drunk."
The car rolled to a stop in front of the main entrance, where two butlers stood in formation. The heavy doors opened before Jason even reached them.
Inside, the mansion was cold, regal, and intimidating. Marble floors. Blood-red carpets. Portraits of powerful-looking men in suits. Armed guards lined the halls. It wasn't a home—it was a fortress.
Jason was barely through the doorway when he heard the voice.
"Jason."
He turned to see a tall man descending the stairs slowly. Broad shoulders wrapped in a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing faded tattoos—snakes, chains, a bleeding rose. His silver hair was slicked back. A jagged scar cut across his left brow. His eyes were steely blue and cold as the ocean in winter.
Dominic Anderson.
His father.
The man radiated power—the kind that didn't need to be spoken aloud. The kind that silenced rooms.
Jason straightened instinctively.
Dominic walked up to him, slow and deliberate. "You missed the meeting."
Jason shrugged, playing the cocky son. "Got… sidetracked."
Dominic's stare hardened. "Sidetracked."
Jason cleared his throat. "Handled a few… nuisances. Three thugs in the alley. They're not breathing anymore."
There was a long pause. Then Dominic sighed, eyes scanning him up and down.
"You look like hell."
Jason smirked. "You should see the other guys."
Dominic's expression didn't change. "You think this is a game? You skip the table with my partners to roll in the dirt with street rats?"
Jason opened his mouth, but Dominic raised a hand.
"Still…" the older man muttered, folding his arms. "You handled it alone. No guards. No cleanup crew. No power from the family name. Just… you."
Jason blinked, unsure where this was going.
"That," Dominic said, voice lower, "is the first real thing you've done in months."
Jason cocked a brow. "Wait—so… you're mad but… proud?"
Dominic stepped closer, his voice just above a whisper. "Don't make me regret feeling proud, boy. This life will eat you alive if you keep acting stupid. So if you want to prove you're an Anderson…"
He turned and walked past him. "Then act like one."
Jason exhaled once Dominic disappeared into the halls. Nia walked up beside him.
"He didn't kill you. That's something."
Jason chuckled under his breath. "Yeah… I think I'm starting to like being Jason Anderson."
...
As punishment for skipping the meeting, Dominic Anderson gave a simple command.
"Nia. Train him. Beat him back into shape if you have to."
It wasn't the first time that order had been given. Jason Anderson, the spoiled heir, had spent his youth under Nia's guidance—though "guidance" usually meant getting knocked flat on his back within five minutes. Jason had always been a natural with instincts and charm, sure—but fighting? He was a lost cause. No discipline. No drive. No grit. Nia had seen better reflexes in house cats.
That's why the last two hours left her completely and utterly rattled.
She lay on the mat, breathing hard, bruised along her ribs, her knuckles scraped raw. Sweat poured down her face as she glared up at the figure looming over her.
Jason.
No, not the Jason she remembered. This Jason wasn't flailing like an amateur or showboating like a bored rich kid. He moved like water. Every punch flowed into the next. Every parry came a second before hers. It was like he knew what she was going to do before she did.
This Jason was a predator. A master.
He reached down with a cocky grin and helped her up again, his breathing steady, not even winded.
"So like," he said casually, stretching his arms, "Mom was Italian, Dad was Mexican… they got married, had me… and now we're, what, Mafia-cartel royalty? That's kinda cool."
He suddenly pivoted, twisted under her guard, and swept her legs before she could react. She hit the mat again—hard.
Nia groaned, dragging herself upright. "Yes… but your dad leans more into the Mafia side. He hated his old cartel ties. Burned them to the ground after they betrayed him."
Jason tilted his head like it was news to him—which, in truth, it was. He wasn't the real Jason. Just a man trying to fill the shoes of a stranger.
Nia stood again, slower this time. Her muscles ached. Her pride more.
"What's gotten into you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You've never cared about the family. Never cared about training. So how the hell is this possible? How are you beating me, Jason?"
Jason smirked, walking in a lazy circle around her like a wolf circling tired prey.
"I've never been interested?" he echoed. "Or have I never wanted you to know that I was interested?"
Nia froze, her fists still up, but her stance wavering.
That... wasn't a Jason answer.
She studied him now. Really studied him. His eyes weren't clouded with arrogance anymore. They were sharp. Calculated. A little dangerous. Like he was pretending to be who she remembered, and only barely holding back something much bigger.
"…Why now?" she asked.
Jason's grin faded just slightly. His tone dropped an octave. Calm. Steady.
"Because it's time."
Nia's brows drew together. "Time for what?"
Jason stepped closer, and for the first time since this training session started, she felt something unexpected.
Not confusion. Not shock.
Fear.
Jason's voice was smooth as silk. "Time to start moving…"
His smile sharpened.
"…and rule this city."