Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #3: THE TICKET
Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander（Heated Rivalry烈愛對決TV版; 1965黑幫AU）
相愛是本能，算計是事業 #3: 票
It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Blackwood Rink to Hollander's private cottage, yet it felt worlds away, tucked deep within the quietest lake district of the Suzuran Clan's territory.
When Hollander first pulled up in his Mercedes, it was already dusk. Dead wood and withered grass surrounded a patch of black water that mirrored a sea of clouds. The black waterbirds on the lake looked like doodles from the hockey recruitment poster. A sliver of gold flashed across the skyline before the sun finally dipped behind the mountains. As the sunset pierced through the massive glass windows and spilled onto the wooden floors, Ilya couldn't wrap his head around it. Why would someone in their line of work dare to live in a glass house, exposed for everyone to see?
Before he could give it much thought, the hum of an engine cut through the silence. Backlit by the twilight, the silhouette of a floatplane skimmed low over the lake, heading toward the distant horizon. Startled, the waterbirds scattered, letting out eerie, wolf-like wails as they fled the water.
Creepy Canadian wolf-birds. And the stupid Canadian boy.
Ilya was put in a guest room on the second floor, while Hollander stayed in the master bedroom on the first. Probably to keep an eye on me, Ilya figured.
Dinner on the first night was a joke. Japanese takeout that wouldn't have filled a bird, let alone a man like Ilya. By the next morning, well before dawn, he was starving. He stomped downstairs only to find the fridge stocked with nothing but colorful, pill-shaped blobs of salty aspic. Canned vegetables and ham in jelly? Fu!
Hollander ended up driving him to a twenty-four-hour diner for burgers, complaining through his sleep-deprived eyes the whole way. To avoid further torture, Ilya took over the kitchen on the second day, frying up cod cakes and potatoes. Even though Hollander still stuck to his fitness-coach-style meal plan, he started stealing Ilya's onion sour cream dip for his own food.
Every day after lunch, Hollander would call him downstairs, usher him into the back of the Mercedes, and drive them into the city. The drive from the villa to downtown Ottawa took about thirty-five minutes, and Hollander's guided tour was relentless.
Ottawa was the capital; Montreal was the second-largest city. They were separated by a provincial line and controlled by two different crime families. The Suzuran Clan ran the Ottawa River ports; the Sixth Family controlled the Old Port of Montreal. Ottawa played hockey; Montreal bet on horses. They stayed out of each other's business to avoid bringing the Royal Canadian Mounted Police down on their heads, but both were secretly waiting for the perfect moment to expand.
Sitting in the backseat, Ilya traced the Suzuran Clan's reach through the window. He had to admit, he was impressed.
Whenever Ilya teased Hollander about his family's love for "donating buildings," Hollander would coldly remind him that the Suzuran Clan built those themselves. When Hollander parked the car right in front of a "No Parking" sign, a man with a police badge would simply look the other way. On the streets, pedestrians avoided the black sedan. Men in fedoras and suits snatched stacks of cash from street vendors. Down by the harbor, the air smelled of the acetic acid from the paper mills, and suspicious black waterproof bags were piled high in the shadows. Underneath the skin of this stiff, boring city lay a set of rules that only those in the trade could read.
The Suzuran Clan siphoned gold from the river without letting the city rot.
How do they do it? Ilya wondered. He wished the Bears in Boston would take notes, but the truth was, Ilya didn't want to go back. He had been in Ottawa for a week, and the only thing he missed was a good beef sandwich, not the junkie-filled harbor of home.
Still, Ilya knew what the Yaponchik were playing at. Those 'little Japanese' seemed to think Russians didn't understand construction fraud; Ilya saw the trap in those documents as clear as day. He had helped their ship survive a blizzard in Boston three years ago, and his repayment was to sign his own death warrant? His tab with the Suzuran Clan wasn't going to be settled that easily.
Neither Ilya nor Hollander brought up "the pen" anymore, just as they never talked about their "messing around" during the week. Shane Hollander had, of course, saved him from a death sentence, but Ilya wasn't about to say thank you. They weren't ordinary citizens, and Ilya hated owing favors.
Especially owing favors to a bed partner.
BLACKWOOD RINK, OTTAWA, ONT. 19:42, 3-NOV-1965
***
The Mercedes came to a stop beside Blackwood Rink. It was a Wednesday night game, and the parking lot was busier than usual. The man in the payment booth was busy counting a thick stack of cash.
"You are even worse at planning dates than I thought," Ilya teased as they climbed out of the car. "A date at this shitty rink?"
Hollander led him toward the back entrance, the first time they had used this door. "It's not—this is not a date!"
"Hollander, you disappoint me. I thought there would be a candlelight dinner waiting," Ilya said, feigning shock as he hovered by the door. "Or have you finally decided to murder me?"
"Maybe," Hollander rolled his eyes, nudging the door open with his shoulder. "Get in!"
As they walked down the long corridor, Ilya began to look around. The flickering overhead lights at the far end led straight toward Hollander's office. He thought to himself, maybe no date, no candlelight dinner, but surely we can squeeze in a midnight tryst.
Shane Hollander was a sexy bed partner, but a difficult one. He had a strict rule: no sex at the cottage. But ever since the first time Hollander had let Ilya take care of him with his mouth, it was like a fuse had been lit. Hollander was constantly reluctantly accepting Ilya's flirting, leaving more and more indecent marks behind in the office and even in the car earlier that afternoon.
Ilya didn't want to admit it, but this Canadian boy was starting to spark something real in him.
"Hollander, hey..." Ilya called out, catching him before they turned the corner. He grabbed Hollander's wrist, his fingers slipping playfully into the cuff of his sleeve. "Hollander, it was just joke."
Hollander shoved his hand away and turned around. "No touching in the stands. Not a finger," he snapped, but Ilya caught the faint crimson blooming on his cheekbones.
"Ah..." Ilya raised his hands in surrender. "But you look so pretty. That makes it a very difficult request."
The pretty boy stammered, his freckles bunching up into a pink flush. "I—stop calling me pretty! Asshole."
Ilya looked Hollander up and down, letting his gaze turn intentionally lecherous as it swept over the grey suit. "Is that wool flannel? Do you have any idea how good that looks on you? Though, I did like that leather jacket you wore before," Because it offered a better view of Hollander's backside.
He shrugged at Hollander's long black overcoat. "But this coat makes you look more like one of those high-society types. What was the name? 'Low-rent' Elite?" He exaggerated his accent, butchering the word on purpose.
Hollander rolled his eyes, his ears turning red as he corrected him. "It's 'Laurentian' Elite."
At least the air between them wasn't as stiff as it had been earlier, when Ilya thought a shootout was about to break out in the rink. Hollander sighed, looking down and fiddling with the double-breasted buttons of his suit. Anxious, but cute.
"I've shown you all of Ottawa and the harbor. This is all that's left. This place is where Suzuran began," Hollander said, taking a deep breath as if gathering his courage. "Rozanov, just... behave today. Okay?"
"Okay." Ilya looked him straight in the eyes. When Hollander used that serious tone, Ilya found he couldn't help but obey. He really didn't like making things hard for those pretty freckles.
They stepped out of the back corridor and reached the edge of the rink. Only three of the five rows in the stands were sparsely occupied. Was it just because this was a suburban arena?
"Today's game is completely sold out," Hollander said.
Ilya looked at him, startled. "So... people just haven't sat down yet?"
"This is about as many people as we ever get. The rest are 'ghosts'." They climbed to the top row of seats. Hollander turned to face Ilya. "This is the 'soap,' Rozanov. It doesn't matter how many people actually show up. Every single ticket is sold, every single game."
"What do you mean—wait," Ilya narrowed his eyes, and then it clicked: Inflated sales numbers to create a legal drawer for illegal cash. "I get it. What else?"
"Every ticket today represents a spectator. Almost everyone in Canada drives, so of course, our parking lot is full."
Hollander took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of the neighboring chair. As he sat down, Ilya's gaze stayed fixed on the sharp line of his suit pants. With a smirk, Ilya sat down beside him.
"Let me guess? The hourly rate here is probably higher than parking downtown." Another way to inflate revenue.
Hollander nodded in agreement. Suddenly, he pointed toward the stands. Down by the rink, the hot dog vendor was doing a brisk business. A crowd of spectators surrounded the stand, handing over bills, but none of them walked away with a hot dog.
Ilya understood instantly. "Do you close the books once the puck drops?" Sports betting was always the easiest "juice."
Hollander nodded again. "Want to try a hand?"
Ilya declined, his eyes drifting back toward Hollander's legs. He wiped his palms on his own trousers, trying to clear the sudden sweat. "Is that all?"
Hollander gestured toward the ice. "Last year, we replaced three sets of cooling pipes. We employ thirty janitors, fifteen security guards, ten parking attendants, ten ticket agents, and a rotating coaching staff every year. But in reality? We only replaced one set of pipes, and we only have twenty-two actual employees."
Ilya felt a genuine jolt of shock. His eyes widened. "And?"
"The 'employees' who don't show up for work are usually people who owe us money, No one cares where they ended up." Hollander replied, a hint of pride in his voice.
Pay non-existent money to non-existent people, create debt vouchers for them, and suddenly, dirty money becomes legitimate income.
He turned to Ilya. "Does Boston do it the same way?"
"Ne-a." Ilya shook his head. Boston wasn't that complicated. He sank back into his seat, leaning toward Hollander as if sharing a secret. The scent of soap and starched laundry from Hollander's shirt made Ilya's heart skip a beat.
"Mostly it's just the 'juice' from underground casinos, lottery and poker. Oh, and jukeboxes. We'd spend all day stuffing bills from our pockets into the machines, by the end of the night, the jukebox had 'earned' five hundred dollars. Or a whole shipment of Chevrolet parts 'disappears' from the docks. It happens every day. If it falls into the harbor, nobody's brave enough to fish it out."
Ilya shrugged, his shoulder brushing against Hollander's shirt. He stared at Hollander's leather belt. Even though Hollander insisted on eating like a bird every day, his cinched waist looked like it belonged in a Lycra bodysuit, it was certainly more impressive than Elaine LaLanne on American TV. Especially Hollander's thighs. Ilya couldn't help it, he nudged Hollander's knee with his own. Hollander didn't move away. Ilya rested his hand on his own knee, accidentally brushing against Hollander's leg. Again, Hollander didn't flinch.
Ilya let out a low chuckle. "A lot of shop owners owe us money, too. They don't have to pay back the high interest. They just have to add a few extra zeros to their ledgers for us. Those owners become our 'business partners'."
Hollander gave a satisfied hum at the answer. He shifted his posture but still didn't brush Ilya's hand away. "And besides all that, you still have the harbor business."
Ilya's hand began to rhythmically rub against Hollander's thigh in agreement. Hollander's knee pressed back against his. Even though the game had started and they were both staring at the ice, Ilya wasn't watching the players. He was thinking about the texture of the wool flannel and the heat of Hollander's inner thigh.
"Rozanov, we should..." Hollander's breath was shallow and clipped. "...stop."
"Why?" Ilya's hand slid to the very top of Hollander's thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. Hollander cursed under his breath and nearly vaulted out of his seat.
Hollander glared at him. "Are you getting hard again—" Before Ilya could finish the sentence, Hollander slapped his hand away and looked toward the stairs.
A man in a sharp black suit was walking up the steps. Hollander's expression shifted, turning into a mask of professional gravity Ilya hadn't seen before. The man stopped in front of Hollander, but his eyes stayed locked on Ilya, as if trying to see straight through him. Ilya didn't blink, he just stared back with a cold.
"He..." Hollander glanced at Ilya, then waved a dismissive hand. "He's fine."
Despite the reassurance, the man studied Ilya's face for a long moment before finally handing over a small slip of paper. "Here are the numbers for tonight. The 'Sieve' is scheduled to leak twice in the final frame. We've also had a word with the 'Zebras'. They'll pull two in the second to give the other side some five-on-four opportunities." The goalie takes a dive for two goals in the third, while the ref whistles two penalties in the second, forcing a five-on-four power play.
Hollander scanned the paper. "What about the 'Hats'?"
"No new faces. The 'Big Hat' is already in the VIP box with a glass of whiskey. No wind from the outside, it should be quiet until the doors close," the man replied. Even the Police Chief was on the payroll.
"Good. Thank you." Hollander tucked the note into the inner pocket of his suit.
The man seemed surprised that Hollander was ending the conversation so quickly. He waited, making sure there were no further orders. "Yes, wakagashira, (わかがしら)" he said, bowing slightly. He shot one last look at Ilya before turning and heading back down the stairs.
Once the man was out of earshot, Ilya asked, "What is 'Waka-kaka-ra'?" He remembered Yuna using the same word.
"Wakagashira," Hollander corrected. "It means second-in-command. A lieutenant. Like you."
Not like me, Ilya thought. A Vor v zakone wasn't a lieutenant. That was different, a "Thief-in-law" commanded the winds and the rains. Even if Ilya didn't hold that kind of power anymore. He reached up and scratched the tattoo beneath his collarbone through his shirt.
"Are you and Yuna Hollander related?" Ilya watched the man walk away. He was clearly one of Hollander's direct subordinates.
"Don't—" Hollander started, then cut himself off. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Don't use the Kumicho's name so casually in front of others. And she is..." He looked down. "My mother."
Ilya let out a dry hum. He watched the man in the black suit return to the ticket booth, remembering the man's restless eyes and Hollander's earlier anxiety. "I really shouldn't be sitting here, should I?"
"My mo—the Kumicho," Hollander bit his lip, the surface glistening. Ilya felt a sudden urge to lick it. "She doesn't want you involved in too much."
"Oh." Ilya gave a short, startled huff, like a man finding a 'Sold Out' sign on something he actually wanted. He crossed his arms and leaned back, catching Hollander's eyes darting down toward his own legs. "I thought we were partners. So, what? You still want to kill me and feed me to the wolves? Do I need to sign my death warrant first?"
Hollander caught his breath. Ilya pretended to focus on the ice. "I don't—we don't—" Hollander paused, sighing. "I've been trying to convince her."
"Why?" The question left Hollander speechless.
Ilya didn't know exactly how the Yakuza worked, but in Boston, defying the boss usually earned you a bullet. He wondered what Hollander was plotting. If it was a coup—
"You have talent, Rozanov,"
Ilya turned to look at him. Hollander's gaze was steady, filled with a confidence that Ilya found baffling.
"You shouldn't just be..." Hollander waved his hands as if he didn't know where to put them, eventually settling on the buttons of his suit. "...be used as a pawn." He finally landed on a word that stung.
"Suzuran needs your guts and your wit," Hollander's pace quickened, his voice turning almost cheerful. "If we join forces, everything would be so easy."
In the "House" of the Russian Bears, Ilya had been the one with the best chance for the throne. He had the respect and the business mind to win over more than just a couple of districts. But times had changed. Between the missiles and the tension between the U.S. and Russia, his brother Alexei's white powder business was what the streets wanted now. Ilya didn't want that filth, the very thing that had killed his mother.
He hadn't fled his home in America just to start a new business, he had fled to stay alive. He knew that the moment his father breathed his last, New York would storm the house and put a bullet between his eyes. Alexei would step over his corpse to shake hands with the Five Families.
Nothing was ever easy.
Maybe Hollander was too green. Like Ilya, they had been born to the bloodline. But Hollander was just like the boy Ilya had seen at the station on that first day—naive, charming, and far too good for this industry; Or maybe their "affair" had fueled Hollander's delusions. Ilya never slept with business partners for this exact reason, it made things messy; Or maybe Ilya should never have hoped for a new life in Canada, only to be haunted by this beautiful boy he couldn't shake.
Ilya had become the one to ruin him.
"I appreciate the compliment," Ilya said, his chest aching. He watched the smile on Hollander's face shatter as his next words landed. "But in 'The House,' nothing means anything without the boss's permission."
Ilya wanted to reach out and touch that flannel suit again, to offer some comfort, but he held back.
"Hollander," he said instead, his voice cold. "Illegal business isn't playing house."
The light in the beautiful boy's eyes flickered, wounded and trembling.
Ilya didn't dare look at Hollander anymore. He turned toward the ice, where the black wolf-birds scrambled through a clumsy face-off to take possession of the puck. The roar of the crowd and the sound of blades scraping the ice echoed through the rink. They didn't speak again until the final whistle. The second the game ended, Hollander was on his feet. He moved fast, almost as if he were escaping. While the rival fans celebrated their victory and the crowd began to pour out of the stands, Hollander cut through the throng toward the back corridor.
Ilya caught up, stepping quickly into the hallway. Before Hollander could push open the back door to leave, Ilya called out. "Hollander!"
Ilya shouted. "I'm still looking forward to that candlelight dinner!" He watched for a reaction while mentally scrambling for an excuse. Hollander had been in such a rush that he'd even forgotten his coat. Ilya had grabbed it without thinking, just as he had called out to him without thinking.
Hollander stopped. His shoulders slumped. Ilya didn't know what he was expecting. Guilt from his earlier words churned in his stomach. He knew he shouldn't have any extra thoughts about this Canadian boy, but now... he just wanted to see Hollander's face. Maybe then he would understand what he was doing.
That was all. He told himself he had no other motives.
Hollander didn't open the back door. Instead, he turned and started walking toward the other end of the hallway. Ilya followed until they stopped in front of a familiar door. The overhead lights flickered, making their shadows stretch and snap in the dim light.
"Sushi. Is that okay?" Hollander's voice was low and hollow. He fumbled with his keys at the office door.
Ilya decided not to push his luck tonight. "Yeah. But order more this time. Last time wasn't enough."
Hollander looked up. He was still frowning, but at least he didn't look as crushed as he had moments ago. "Even if you're still hungry, don't make me drive you for burgers at four in the morning again."
Ilya laughed. "Oh, and you forgot this." He shook the black overcoat. "You wouldn't want a coat that smells this good to get stolen." He held it to his face, inhaling the scent on purpose, and watched as a look of shock, followed by a deep blush, crept across Hollander's face.
Dinner and a tryst. It seemed both were back on the table.
Hollander pushed open the office door.
－
Ilya's second time eating sushi with chopsticks wasn't as difficult as the first. The green paste didn't sting quite as much either. But just like last time, Ilya mocked Hollander's tiny appetite, and Hollander shot back that Ilya's palate was too unrefined to appreciate the delicacy of raw fish. They bickered like children, tossing their utensils at each other to cut through the lingering awkwardness.
But when Hollander held out the glass ashtray, Ilya didn't reach for a cigarette.
Instead, he lunged across the coffee table, hauling Hollander up from the sofa. Their lips collided, a messy, lingering kiss. Ilya tasted the salt of the soy sauce and the sharp burn of wasabi against his tongue. He pushed deep into Hollander's mouth, letting the boy's hands ruin his curls while he offered the scent of his own aftershave in exchange for the clean smell of Hollander's soap. He shoved him against the wall, wedging a knee between his legs until Hollander's gasps couldn't even finish the syllables of his name. Ilya nearly came right there in his pants.
He knew they would end up like this. He had to admit it—he was hopelessly obsessed with this Canadian boy.
He was obsessed with the way Hollander fiddled with his fingers when he was anxious, the way his skin flushed beneath his freckles, and those shimmering brown eyes that looked at Ilya with such admiration, calling him talented. Why do you have to be the only son of a Yakuza boss? Ilya wanted to ask in desperation, but he kept it to himself.
Instead, he shoved Hollander into the office chair.
It was a black leather executive chair with a four-pronged base and rollers. Its aluminum armrests were elegant and cold, the kind of chair you'd see in a glass skyscraper, the kind of chair built for the powerful. From the moment Ilya had first seen that chair, he'd wanted to use it.
The black chair rolled backward, but Ilya gripped the silver armrests and hauled it back into place. Hollander crashed into his kiss, hooking his arms around Ilya's neck, pulling him down for more. He unbuckled his belt, and Hollander did the same. Every time the chair tried to slip away, Ilya dragged it back. When he finally stripped away those grey wool flannel trousers, Hollander didn't offer a single word of protest. Then, the cold office air hit their bare skin.
He flipped Hollander over the back of the chair, forcing him to kneel on the seat meant for the elite. He kissed his hips, his lower back, and licked the small dip at the base of his spine until he found his way into the heat between them. Hollander's groans were the most beautiful sound Ilya had ever heard. He reached into the desk drawer for the Vaseline and the lambskin condoms. They hadn't been there at first, but they'd "messed around" enough times that Hollander had started keeping a kit hidden in the drawer.
Hollander had left markers for their affair everywhere. The thought made Ilya's pulse thrum, his heat replacing his tongue as he pushed inside.
His Canadian boy sobbed with pleasure against the leather.
Ilya drove into him so hard that the chair slid out from under his feet every time, but he just gripped the metal armrests, pulling it back over and over, again and again. His beautiful boy arched his back, dancing to the rhythm of his own moans. He was the most stunning stripper Ilya had ever seen, yet he was still wearing his white shirt, revealing only the faint outline of the tattoos beneath his collar.
Ilya wanted to see exactly what flowers those leaves belonged to. He reached down to lift the hem of the shirt, but Hollander slapped his hand away and glared back over his shoulder.
The sight of those bunched-up freckles and the pride in those dark eyes forced a laugh out of Ilya's chest. The fact that another man's defiance could ignite such a fire in his gut was something Ilya didn't want to examine too closely. Instead, he just kissed the back of that beautiful head. When Hollander begged him not to stop, Ilya pulled the boy's jaw back, licking lips as red as raw tuna, listening to his boy moan into his mouth.
Then, white streaks splattered across the black leather.
For the second round, Ilya took that red mouth instead.
SOMEWHERE, OTTAWA, ONT. 00:18, 4-NOV-1965
***
Just like every other tryst during those seven days, they were exhausted by the time they got back to the car. The late-night office was nothing more than a corner for their stolen pleasures. Eventually, Hollander would always call Ilya back to the car, driving him back to that glass house. The place where they couldn't lick each other's lips like candy.
As the Mercedes rounded a corner, Ilya suddenly gripped the back of the driver's seat and pointed out the window.
"Wait! Pull over at that corner," he shouted, his stomach growling from the sex.
"What corner? The food truck?" Hollander leaned toward the windshield to get a better look. "Are you still not full!" By the time he could shout, Ilya had already bolted out of the car.
The temperature had plummeted since nightfall, colder than the day before. Ilya huddled into his overcoat as he approached the truck.
"I'll take one of whatever you're selling," he said, his breath hitching in white clouds. Under the dim streetlights, he could barely make out the menu.
"Russian?" the man asked, looking up from beneath his beanie as he held his spatula.
Ilya glanced at the menu and gave a dismissive click of his tongue. "A beef sandwich."
The man tossed the meat onto the grill. A moment later, as if suddenly remembering something, he slipped a pinky ring off his finger and tucked it into his pocket before returning to the sizzling meat. Ilya stamped his feet to stay warm, his eyes locked on the grill, but his hand slid inside his suit jacket.
A gold pinky ring. Ilya hadn't seen the engraving, but the thing looked heavy—maybe 18 karat, or at least 14 karat. Regardless of the gold content, that ring was worth more than the entire food truck. A tiny truck, parked on a suburban corner near midnight, selling snacks to the few cars that passed by.
And this ordinary vendor was wearing a gold ring and recognized Ilya's accent.
The vendor scooped the meat and onions into a roll and wrapped it in parchment paper.
"Are you done yet!" Hollander's voice rang out from behind him.
Ilya didn't look back. He couldn't turn his back. He kept his eyes fixed on the man as he handed over the paper-wrapped sandwich, noting how the vendor pointedly avoided his gaze. Ilya gripped the handle of his gun.
"Keep the change." Ilya tossed down two Canadian dollars, far more than a beef sandwich was worth, and took the package.
The Mercedes honked twice. Ilya backed away, keeping his eyes on the vendor until the man ducked back behind the grill. Only then did he turn around.
"Coming!" Ilya called out, walking back to the car.
Before he opened the door, his fingers searched the napkins tucked beneath the sandwich. There, he felt it—a horse racing schedule with a specific date circled in ink.
－
♪Listening: BANKS "Under the Table"
I got a problem, problem when I look in your eyes
You're mine and you know it
I'd still do it even if we were cursed
Won't you be my problem? It's okay with me if it hurts
Glossary and Historical Notes:
- Aspic: Jell-O Salads were culinary trend that swept North America in the 1950s and 60s. Aspic is a savory gelatin made with meat stock, often encasing cold meats or vegetables. And certainly to an immigrant like Ilya, these meat jellies often look deeply unappetizing.
- "Fu!"(Фу!): A Russian exclamation intended to signal displeasure or disgust with something gross. It is equivalent to the English "Ew" or "Yuck."
- The Five Families: Refers to the five major Italian-American Mafia crime families that have dominated organized crime in New York City since the 1930s.
- The Sixth Family: A title traditionally given to the Rizzuto crime family based in Montreal. They earned this nickname due to their immense power and blood ties to the New York families, effectively functioning as a sixth branch.
In reality, the real Rizzuto family didn't seize absolute power in Montreal until the bloody coups of the 1970s. - Yaponchik (Япончик, Little Japanese): This is an Easter egg referring to the real-life Russian mobster Vyacheslav Ivankov. Despite being ethnically Russian, he was nicknamed "Little Japanese" due to his slightly Asian facial features.
- Elaine LaLanne: Known as the "First Lady of Physical Fitness." Along with her husband, Jack LaLanne, she pioneered televised exercise in the 1950s.
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