The Valentino Gang was one of the most influential and deep-rooted criminal organizations in Night City. Their operations weren’t scattered across the city like other syndicates—they had a clear ho: Heywood. Especially in enclaves like Glen and Regency, the Valentino na carried weight like family lineage in a noble house.
More than just a gang, they were the living embodint of xican culture in Night City. Over a century of history had carved their presence into the concrete of the city’s southwest districts. They were family to one another, loyal and bound by blood or sothing stronger—brotherhood.
And so, for Jack Wells, this wasn’t just another mission with the ’David’ team.
It was sothing more personal.
"Heading into Heywood today?" soone from the crew had asked.
Jack only grinned, tapping the hood of his candy-red classic car with the kind of pride that could only be inherited. "This ain’t no mission, man," he said. "This is a hocoming. I’m going back in style—to see my old mom and my brothers."
The salty sea breeze rolled in along the coast of Night City as Jack leaned back behind the wheel. His old-school stereo crackled out romantic ranchera music, a touch of nostalgia in every note.
It only took thirty minutes from the center of Night City to Heywood. And when Jack pulled into the familiar street where Wild Wolf Bar stood like a weathered sentinel from the old world, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
"Damn... haven’t been back in a minute," he muttered, switching off the car and stepping out.
The Wild Wolf Bar wasn’t much to look at during the day. Unlike its neon-soaked, bustling nightlife persona, the bar now looked deserted and quiet under the harsh afternoon sun. But that made it all the more real for Jack.
It wasn’t about the lights. It was about ho.
Jack pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
Gone were the rowdy fights and loud laughter. Instead, the place had the lazy stillness of an old neighborhood haunt. A few regulars sat scattered along the counters, sipping cheap beer and sharing quiet conversations over plates of stale fries.
Behind the bar, an elderly woman with streaks of silver in her dark hair sat quietly, reading glasses perched low on her nose. She was engrossed in the newspaper in front of her, flipping the pages with worn but steady hands.
Jack’s eyes softened.
That was his mother—Mrs. Wells, the matriarch of the Wild Wolf Bar and a legend in Heywood in her own right. She had run this place for decades with an iron will and a loaded revolver.
Jack’s throat tightened slightly, but he quickly composed himself.
He cleared his throat with two exaggerated coughs and strode toward the counter with casual swagger.
"Boss," he said, tapping the wood, "one glass of vodka. Ice. Li juice. And ginger beer. Heavy on the li."
Without looking up, Mrs. Wells snapped back in her usual sharp tone, "You sure have a fancy taste... Just like that no-good son of mine who vanished off the face of the earth—"
She looked up, and the words stopped cold.
Her eyes locked on the man in front of her, and for a heartbeat, she didn’t move.
Jack broke into a sheepish grin, raising two fingers in a peace sign. "And make sure it’s served with extra love, yeah?"
The response was imdiate.
"You little son of a—!"
A tal cup flew across the counter, barely missing Jack’s head.
Mrs. Wells vaulted over the bar with a revolver in hand, her voice echoing like a war drum. "You no-good bastard! You finally rembered you got a mother? You think you can waltz in here like nothing happened?!"
"Wait! Mom! Calm down!" Jack yelped, diving behind an overturned stool.
"I’ll give you ’calm down’!" she roared. "My love’s all in this gun, you ungrateful brat! You want more love?! I got plenty of rounds!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The revolver barked, sending bullets flying across the room. Guests ducked and scattered in panic. Glasses shattered. A neon beer sign exploded in sparks. The jukebox caught a stray round and short-circuited with a fizz.
"Mom! Mom! I was wrong! I swear, I was wrong!" Jack shouted, shielding his backside.
"Not half as wrong as you’re gonna be if you don’t stop that damn grinning!" she snapped, taking aim again.
BANG!
Another round clipped the wall next to Jack’s head.
After about five minutes of chaos, gunfire, shouting, and a lot of overturned furniture, the bar finally quieted down.
Smoke hung in the air. The bar was wrecked—chairs scattered, bullet holes peppering the walls, and glass crunching underfoot. It looked like a war zone.
Just then, the front doors burst open.
A dozen heavily ard n in gold prosthetics, tattoos of crosses, and tight leather jackets rushed in. Every one of them was a Valentino Gang mber, and they were bristling with energy.
"Mrs. Wells! What the hell’s going on?!"
"Did soone attack the bar?! Who do we need to put down?!"
The n looked around wildly—until they saw Jack on his knees at the bar, face bruised, lip bleeding, and hands held up in surrender.
anwhile, Mrs. Wells stood over him with her revolver still smoking, panting slightly from exertion.
The Valentinos froze.
One of the captains blinked. "Uh... wait. Mrs. Wells... what’s going on here?"
Mrs. Wells snorted and tossed the gun onto the counter with a clatter.
"What’s going on? That little bastard of mine decided to co crawling ho today, so I gave him a proper welco."
She waved dismissively at the ss. "While you’re here, make yourselves useful. Help clean this place up!"
Then she bent over and started picking up the shattered bottles like nothing happened.
Jack scrambled to his feet, rubbing his sore backside. "You heard her! Don’t just stand there gawking. Move your asses and help clean up! Right, Ma?"
Mrs. Wells rolled her eyes. "Hmph. At least you’ve got so sha left."
The Valentino mbers exchanged looks, then burst out laughing. One of them clapped Jack on the back, while another picked up a broken stool.
It didn’t take long before the bar was slowly restored to order.
The ss was cleared. Glass swept up. Tables turned upright. Soone even managed to fix the jukebox temporarily.
But the atmosphere had shifted.
It wasn’t just a bar anymore—it was ho again.
"You still know how to find your way back, huh?" Mrs. Wells said coolly, wiping her hands with a rag. "Didn’t you say you wanted to beco a ’legend of Night City’? What, now you can’t even survive out there?"
That prompted another round of snickers.
"Yeah, Jack," one of the gang mbers teased. "Still dreamin’ of being a legend? You’re more likely to end up a mural on so back alley."
"Exactly! Legends in Night City? They’re all six feet under!"
"Hey!" Mrs. Wells snapped, giving one of them a solid thump on the head.
"Ow! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!" the younger gang mber yelped, rubbing his skull.
"Don’t go jinxing my son just yet," she grumbled. "He might be a pain in the ass, but he’s not dead. Not while I’m around."
Everyone laughed again, the tension long gone.
Jack looked around at the people—his people. His family.
He sighed, then smiled at his mother.
"Ma... this ti, I didn’t co back empty-handed," he said softly. "I got sothin’ cooking with David’s crew. Big stuff. Might even make a na for us."
Mrs. Wells paused.
For a second, she studied him—not as her wild son, but as a man standing tall in front of her.
Then she nodded once, ever so slightly.
"You better not die before I do," she muttered, walking off toward the kitchen.
Jack smiled wider. "Wouldn’t dream of it."
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