1953
Detroit's boomin'.
Chrome everywhere, like the whole damn city got dipped in a fresh coat of the American Dream. The factories are louder than hell, spitting out cars and paychecks, and up in the big boy boardroom of the Ford Motor Company, a bunch of stiff suits are losin' their goddamn minds.
At who?
At Tybalt Fuckin' Conti.
And he ain't even one of them.
Not "Mr. Conti." Not "Sir." Just Tybalt. 'Cause no man looks at him and doesn't immediately clock that he's above all that shit. Like you put a leash on a lion and called it a housecat.
He don't belong in a boardroom, but here he is.
All in black, crisp as fuck, a cigarette dangling from his mouth like he owns fire itself. He leans against the table, lazy, casual, like a king humoring his subjects.
And beside him?
Carina Marie Esposito.
Yeah. That Carina Marie Esposito. The one who made Ford's PR department. The one who could take down a whole ass man with a look. South Philly royalty.
And she's sittin' on the edge of the conference table, legs crossed, hangin' on his every fuckin' word like she's a schoolgirl, and he's the goddamn Messiah.
The suits?
They are panicked.
They been terrified of her for years, but now they're watching as she fuckin' melts, and for what?
For him.
Tybalt smirks, exhales smoke, and gives 'em the pitch.
Not about horsepower. Not about steel.
"You wanna know why this car's gonna sell?"
The whole room leans in.
"'Cause when a guy gets behind the wheel, he's gonna think he's irresistible."
And these fuckin' men? These executives? The richest bastards in the country?
They believe him.
Thunderbird sales skyrocket.
The Baby Boom? Accelerated.
Carina Marie Esposito? Ruined. Absolutely, deliciously ruined.
Decades later, somebody asks Henry Ford II how he pulled off the greatest marketing campaign in American history.
He just lights a cigar, stares at the horizon, and says:
"... Conti."
1745
Venice is all gold and candlelight, the streets filled with masked nobles playin' their little fuckin' games.
But inside a lavish suite, a kid is havin' the worst, most humiliating post-nut clarity of his life.
Flat on his back. Half-naked. Destroyed.
His name?
Giacomo Casanova.
Yeah. That Casanova.
And next to him, arms behind his head, barely breakin' a sweat?
Tybalt Fuckin' Conti.
"Too much teeth."
Casanova covers his face in shame.
"I--I tried--"
"You tried?" Tybalt exhales, swirling a glass of perfectly aged wine, lounging like a Roman emperor on his day off. "Ragazzo, women don't want a man who tries. They want a man who knows."
Casanova takes notes.
Tybalt teaches him everything.
How to touch. How to tease. How to make a woman feel like surrendering is her own damn idea.
By the time Casanova stumbles outta that room, he ain't just a man. He's a legend in the making.
But every conquest? Every noblewoman, every courtesan, every fuckin' queen he seduces?
Deep down, he knows.
It was never really his game.
He learned it all from Tybalt Conti.
1000 BCE -- The Day David Didn't Fuckin' Win
The battlefield is dead quiet.
David, the little bastard with a slingshot, winds up, ready to do some damage.
He lets the stone fly.
And--
A hand.
Catches it. Mid-air.
The Philistines gasp.
The Israelites gasp.
David?
David shits himself.
Because standing between him and Goliath, in a sleek, unseasonably modern black robe, is a man who ain't supposed to be here.
Tybalt weighs the stone in his palm. Looks at David. Looks at Goliath. Sighs.
"Kid," he says, flicking the rock away like trash, "you wanna be a hero? Don't make it about violence. Make it about legacy."
David understands.
History rewrites itself.
1588 -- The Real Reason England Didn't Get Fucked
Elizabeth I is untouched.
