The next morning dawns grey and drizzly, fitting my mood perfectly. I dress carefully, choosing a suit that's nice enough to show respect but not so flashy that it'll draw attention. As I knot my tie, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look older than I remember, lines around my eyes that weren't there a year ago. I wonder if it's the stress of the job, or just the weight of all the choices I've made.

Mrs. O'Brien shows up right on the dot, fussing over Derek as he wolfs down his Cocoa Puffs. I slip him a quick hug, swearing on a stack of Bibles I'll be home for supper. As I'm shrugging on my coat, I overhear the little guy asking Mrs. O'Brien if she reckons caped crusaders dig into a bowl of sugary cereal in the morning. The wide-eyed innocence of the question just about rips my heart out.

The meeting's set up at one of our legitimate fronts, a trucking company near the ports. Pulling into the lot, I spot a mishmash of familiar wheels. The old timers are representing in force, their oversized sedans taking up the bulk of the good spots. But I spy some shinier models too, belonging to a few of the young bucks who've been pushing for change.

Inside, the tension's so thick you couldn't cut it with a chainsaw. The conference room's standing room only, every guy in the place trying to keep a lid on it while sneaking peeks at each other. I grab a seat in the back, nodding to a couple of my closest pals.

The big boss, old man Callahan, makes his entrance flanked by his top two enforcers. The seasoned don looks like he's been through the wringer, the bags under his eyes deeper and darker than ever. But he still carries himself with that unmistakable air of authority, the sense that he's the one running the show, no questions asked.

"Alright, fellas," he rumbles, his gravelly voice commanding attention. "Let's get down to brass tacks."

For the next hour, we listen as Callahan and his lieutenants read us the riot act. The outlook ain't rosy. Busts are up, profits are down, and we're ceding ground to competitors on critical turf. And then there's the elephant in the room that nobody wants to talk about: the superheroes.

"Now, I know some of you are getting your shorts in a twist over these clowns in capes," Callahan grumbles, waving a hand like he's swatting a fly. "But mark my words. We were here long before they flew onto the scene, and we'll be standing long after they're yesterday's news. We just need to wise up, be craftier in how we get things done."

A few of the old guard mumble their assent, but I can tell the young guns aren't buying it. One of them, a real go-getter named Sean who's been stirring the pot lately, clears his throat.

"With all due respect, boss," he says, "I think we need to do more than tinker around the edges. These super-powered types, they're not some passing fad. They're upending the natural order, and if we don't fundamentally retool to meet the moment, we're going to end up as dinosaurs."

Callahan's face clouds over like a thunderhead. "And just what exactly are you advocating, Sean? That we wave the white flag? That we flush generations of hard work down the tubes because some Long Johns decided to play superhero?"

Sean doesn't so much as blink. "I'm saying we need to branch out. Shift into sectors where these cape-chasers are less likely to stick their noses. Tech, finance, maybe even go legit with some of the businesses we've been using as cover. We've got the connections, the know-how. It's just a matter of putting them to work in a new way."

He sucks in air through his nose. "We don't have to score off banks, you know."

The room devolves into a shouting match. Some guys are bobbing their heads along with Sean, while others look ready to tear his throat out. I just sit there taking it all in, feeling like I'm witnessing a seismic shift in the bedrock of everything we've ever known.

And then, almost as if I'm operating on autopilot, I find myself on my feet. "The kid's onto something," I hear myself say. You could hear a mouse fart as every pair of eyes in the joint swivels to look at me. I've never been much for grandstanding, but it's like the words are just bursting out of me now.

"Hear me out, guys. We all came up in this world, cut our teeth in the family business. But Sean's right on the money. The ground's shifting under us as we speak, and we've got to shift with it if we want to keep our footing. These heroes aren't some summer squall we can just ride out. And it's not only them. The feds are getting cannier by the day, and all this fancy tech is making it damn near impossible to operate in the shadows like we used to. We stick to the tried and true, we're going to wind up dead or buried alive in concrete. You think Bulger's sleeping soundly? That poor bastard's going to spend the rest of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop."

I pause, sucking in a lungful of stale, smoke-riddled air. I can feel the weight of every stare boring into me, but I forge ahead. "I've got a little boy at home. I'd put good money on a lot of you being in the same boat. What kind of life are we handing down to them if we just keep beating our heads against the wall? We've got skills, resources out the wazoo. Why not put them to work building something with staying power, something we can point to with pride when we're old and gray?"

The silence after I finish is so complete you could perform open-heart surgery. Callahan's glaring at me with murder in his eyes. I can practically see him imagining my mug on a milk carton. But I can also see some of the other guys nodding slowly, trading meaningful looks.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Tommy O'Malley, of all people, chimes in. "Finn's onto something, boss. Maybe it's high time we start playing the long game. I mean, take a look at what happened to the Italians last month. Half their top brass are behind bars because they couldn't adapt. We need to be smarter than that."

Callahan looks ready to explode, but one of his right-hand men leans in, whispering something in his ear. After a moment, the old timer's expression shifts from rage to something more calculated.

"Fine," he says tightly. "You boys want to shake things up? Be my guest. But let's get one thing straight. We're not abandoning our core business. We're just diversifying. And you better believe your cut still better find its way into my hands on time, no matter what."

The meeting wraps up soon after, with Callahan doling out assignments to different crews. As we file out of the room, there's a current of nervous energy in the air, a blend of anticipation and uncertainty. We're venturing into uncharted territory, and no one's quite sure where it will lead.

As I'm walking to my car, Sean catches up to me. "Finn, you crazy son of a gun," he says with a grin, clapping me on the shoulder. "Didn't know you had that in you."

I shrug, suddenly feeling bone-tired. "Yeah, well. Sometimes a man's gotta speak his piece, you know?"

Sean nods, sobering. "Hey, listen. A few of us are getting together later to game out our next steps. You want in on that?"

I hesitate, thinking of Derek waiting for me at home, of my promise to be there for dinner. "Not tonight. Got some family matters to attend to. But keep me in the loop, alright?"

Sean looks a bit disappointed but nods all the same. "Sure thing. We're going to need guys like you in our corner if we want to make this work."

My mind races the entire drive home. Did I do the right thing, speaking up like that? Or have I just painted a target on my own back? And even if Callahan goes along with these changes, will it be enough? Or are we just forestalling the inevitable? I keep picturing Derek, trying to envision the kind of future I want for him. A future where he doesn't have to constantly look over his shoulder, wondering if today's the day the law or some caped crusader finally catches up to us. A future where he can be proud of his old man, not ashamed.

Maybe, just maybe, it's time to contemplate a real change. Not just putting a new spin on the family business, but getting out altogether. Starting over somewhere new, somewhere Derek can grow up free of all this darkness and uncertainty.

Lost in thought, I almost miss the sight of my boy playing on the stoop with some of the neighborhood kids as I pull up. When he spots me, his whole face lights up with pure joy.

"Dad!" he yells, sprinting towards me. "You're home!"

I scoop him up into a hug, holding on tight. "I am, buddy. I am. And you know what? I think it's about time you and I had a serious talk about the future. What do you say we go grab some ice cream?"

As he chatters excitedly in my ear all the way to the ice cream shop, my resolve crystallizes into something solid and unshakeable. One way or another, come hell or high water, I'm going to give this kid the life he deserves. A life where he can hold his head high, where his dreams and ambitions can soar unfettered.

And if that means leaving behind the only world I've ever known?

Then so be it. No sacrifice is too great, not for my boy. Not for our future.

----------------------------------------

The ice cream parlor's a madhouse. Kids hopped up on sugar zigzag between tables while harried parents try to coral them. Derek and I hunker down in a corner booth, a monstrous sundae between us. My boy's got chocolate smeared from ear to ear, grinning like he's won the lottery as he goes at that ice cream like it owes him money.

"Ease up there, champ," I say, tossing him a napkin. "Thing's not growing legs and walking off."

Derek just giggles, diving back in. I watch him, and Christ, it hits me like a sucker punch - this love. This moment. Just… this.

"Dad?" Derek looks up, all big eyes and trust. "Are you a superhero?"

I blink. "Come again?"

He shrugs, shoulders nearly touching his ears. "Tommy at daycare. He said his dad's a superhero. Fights bad guys and stuff."

Something twists in my gut. Guilt? Fear? Both? "Nah, kiddo. Just a regular schmoe trying to keep up with you."

Derek nods, mulling it over. "Okay. But you're still my hero, Dad."

I have to look away, throat tight. When I turn back, there's Derek, face a warzone of ice cream and pure, uncut innocence. I ruffle his hair, wishing I could bottle this moment.

But I can't, can I? Outside our little bubble, the world's shifting. And if I don't roll with it, I might lose the only thing that matters. It's a cheap shot, really - getting walloped by feelings like this. The universe pulling no punches.

Walking home, I make a silent vow. To Derek. To myself. Whatever it takes to give this kid the life he deserves. Even if it means burning everything else to the ground.

We're barely through the door of our building when Mrs. O'Brien materializes from her apartment like some kind of geriatric ninja. "Well, look who it is!" she crows, accent thick as day-old porridge. "Thought you'd run off to join the circus, so I did."

I snort, shaking my head. "Not today, Mrs. O. Just treating the little man here."

Her face goes soft as she looks at Derek. "Ah, and doesn't he deserve it. Good as gold, this one."

We swap pleasantries for a bit before calling it a night. Inside our place, the familiar funk of home wraps around me. Derek bolts for his toys while I make for the kitchen.

There's something zen about the routine. Chop, brown, stir. Light-years from the life I lead outside these walls - all danger and violence and watching my six.

I'm setting the table when Derek comes tearing in, waving a piece of paper like it's the deed to the city. "Dad! Look what I made!"

I take it, and Christ, it's like a punch to the solar plexus. Two stick figures, big and small, holding hands. Up top, in wobbly crayon: "My Family".

"It's… it's something else, bud," I manage, voice rough. "That us?"

He nods, chest puffed out. "Yeah! Did it at daycare. Mrs. O helped with the writing."

I scoop him up, paper crushed between us. "It's perfect. And you, you little monster? You're everything."

The rest of the night's a blur - bath, books, bed. As I'm tucking him in, Derek looks up, eyelids at half-mast. "Dad?" he mumbles. "You're not gonna go away like Mom, right?"

"Not a chance," I say, voice hard as nails. "I'm right here. Always."

Derek nods, eyes fluttering shut. "Promise?"

I plant one on his forehead. "Cross my heart."

I kill the lights on my way out. His nightlight flickers to life.