Reloaded Script - Mafia

Then the package arrived. A single USB drive wrapped in a black handkerchief embroidered with the Marchetti family crest—a wolf eating its own tail.

He set the house on fire and escaped through a drainage culvert he'd dug five years ago—for exactly this reason. Paranoia, he realized, was just foresight in a heavy coat.

Leo took the ID. It said "Thomas Reed." But for the first time in five years, he didn't feel like hiding.

Silas raised the phone. "I'll say your name before the fire reaches the first rack."

Leo walked out of the church into a gray Staten Island dawn. Nina handed him a new ID. Carmine lit a cigarette with the same brass lighter.

"You're not a don," Leo said. "You're a typist with a god complex."

"Then we both lose," Leo said. "But I've been dead once. Your turn." Silas never spoke the name. Instead, he dropped the phone and ran. The fire caught—not from the lighter, but from a short circuit in a faulty power strip (Carmine later claimed credit: "I loosened a screw three days ago. That's called pre-production .").

"What's that?"

"So what now?" Nina asked.