Peter Clemenza lives in a pretty upscale neighborhood.
Cars line the streets everywhere, so the area clearly isn’t hurting for money.
The place is full of classic American-style villas, two-story homes with red brick walls on the first floor and white siding above.
Fredo walks up the small staircase and knocks on the door.
A woman’s voice comes from inside.
“Who is it?”
Fredo answers directly, “Aunt Clemenza, it’s me.
Fredo Corleone.”
The door opens.
Standing there is Peter’s wife, Mrs.
Clemenza.
Even now, you can tell she must’ve been quite beautiful when she was younger.
The moment she sees Fredo, she smiles warmly.
“Oh, Fredo, what brings you here?”
“I came to see Uncle Peter.
Oh, and I brought some fried pastries for you.”
As he speaks, Fredo hands over the bag in his hand.
That’s how genuinely close relationships work.
You don’t show up with flashy luxury gifts.
At their level, nobody’s short on money anyway.
Small everyday gifts feel more personal, more like family.
Mrs.
Clemenza accepts the pastries with a smile.
“That’s thoughtful of you.
Come in already, don’t stand outside.”
Fredo closes the door behind him and walks inside.
“Aunt Clemenza, is Uncle Peter home?”
“He is.
He’s upstairs.
I’ll call him down.
Here, have some water first.”
“Thanks, Aunt Clemenza.”
(TN: There’s no name for Peter Clemenze Wife in the series)
Fredo takes the glass and drinks.
A moment later, heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs.
The staircase groans under a weight it clearly wasn’t emotionally prepared for.
One of the Corleone Family’s most trusted caporegimes—the big guy himself, Peter Clemenza—comes downstairs.
The moment he sees Fredo, he grins.
“Fredo, what brings you to my place today?”
“I came to visit you, Uncle Peter.
You’re one of the family’s old guard.
It’s only right I stop by.”
Big Pete drops onto the couch and asks, “In that case, wanna stay for dinner later?”
Fredo waves it off.
“I’ll pass.
I’m eating with the family tonight.
Mostly, I came by to thank you for helping me out and giving me a place to train.”
Clemenza laughs.
“That’s nothing.
So how’s the training going?”
“Pretty good.
I’m really getting into fitness, boxing, and firearms lately.
I’m even thinking about setting up a shooting range somewhere outside the city.”
Clemenza thinks for a second.
“If you’re into that stuff, I’ll send you some guns sometime.
Have some fun with them.”
Fredo immediately smiles.
“Then thanks in advance.
Oh right, Uncle Peter, there’s actually something I want to ask you.”
“Oh?
Just say it.
If I can make it happen, I’ll handle it.”
“It’s about Rocco.
He’s been teaching me boxing and shooting recently, and I want him working under me full-time.
Would that be alright?”
Clemenza doesn’t even hesitate.
“No problem.
He’s yours.”
“Thanks, Uncle Peter.”
“Small matter.
What kind of guns do you like?
I’ll get some for you.”
“Colts, sniper rifles, shotguns, staplers…
y’know, the usual.”
…
Amid endless flattery and shameless hype, Big Pete completely loses himself in the moment.
He starts bragging about all his glorious exploits from back in the day.
Honestly, having a younger Corleone actually sit there listening to him ramble makes him happier than a kid at Christmas.
After chatting for over half an hour, Clemenza promises Fredo a whole pile of equipment and personally walks him to the door in high spirits.
He even guarantees everything will be delivered within the next couple days.
No joke, these mob veterans are absurdly generous.
Which also proves one thing:
The mafia business really does print money back in the day.
Back at the Corleone estate, after dinner, Fredo goes looking for Sonny.
He wants a couple larger vehicles, maybe two or three.
Sonny doesn’t even question the request anymore, though he still asks what they’re for.
Then he casually tosses Fredo several bundles of cash and tells him to buy them himself.
Holding the money, Fredo stands there slightly stunned.
After explaining he actually wants used vehicles for his men to drive, Sonny finally takes him somewhere personally.
In the end, Fredo picks out three Chevrolet Suburbans.
The grandfather of SUVs.
Each one seats eight comfortably, though if you really squeeze people in like sardines, you can probably cram ten or more inside.
The mob really is rich enough to do whatever the hell it wants.
Sonny suddenly asks, “So how’s the boxing training coming along?”
Fredo shrugs.
“Pretty decent.
Probably enough to beat you.”
Sonny immediately snorts.
“You little punk.
Fine.
We’ll spar tomorrow.”
“Sure.
Let’s do it.”
As the older brother, Sonny clearly wants to teach his younger brother a lesson.
Fredo happily accepts.
The next morning, at the Corleone estate, Fredo wakes up early again.
Ever since his physique improves, his sleep quality becomes ridiculously good.
He barely sleeps and still feels completely energized.
After finishing his morning run and breakfast, he heads out with Sonny.
Sonny even sends a few guys along to help drive the vehicles.
They first stop by the safehouse out in the suburbs.
After arriving, Fredo enters the house, leaves behind the keys, and tells the men to stay prepared at all times—to get themselves back into wartime condition.
After giving a few more instructions, he leaves with Rocco.
The three Suburbans from last night stay behind for the crew.
After that, Fredo and Sonny head off to find a place to spar.
“Bang—!”
Out of respect for his older brother’s dignity, Fredo generously waits over ten minutes before knocking Sonny out cold.
Sonny stands there afterward in complete disbelief, seriously questioning his entire existence.
He trains since childhood.
And now he loses to his younger brother, who only recently starts learning?
Fredo can practically see three giant question marks floating over Sonny’s head like a meme.
“Sonny, you gotta believe something.”
“What?”
“There really are geniuses in this world.”
Sonny stares at him blankly.
Fredo continues shamelessly.
“For example, maybe I’m just a once-in-a-generation prodigy.
Before, I just wasn’t interested.
But now that I start learning this stuff, turns out I pick it up insanely fast.”
Sonny looks at his brother helplessly and lets out a long sigh.
“Alright, alright.
You’ve got some skills.
I’m leaving.
I’ve got work to deal with today.”
“Sure, drive safe.
Oh, and Sonny?
Increase my allowance next month, alright?
I still haven’t figured out a business yet, and feeding all these guys costs money.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Sonny throws on his jacket and walks out while cursing.
Speaking of money, Fredo tosses a towel over his shoulder and pulls out a cigarette.
Beside him, Rocco quickly lights it for him.
Taking a drag, Fredo glances at Rocco.
“Rocco, we’ve got manpower now.
Problem is, we need a way to make money.
Got any ideas?”
Rocco thinks for a moment.
“Protection rackets?
Freelance jobs?”
Fredo exhales a cloud of smoke and stares at it drifting through the air, looking genuinely troubled.
This question really is difficult.
Back in his previous life, he’s just a broke nobody.
Even after transmigrating, he still doesn’t magically become some business genius overnight.
And the original Fredo?
That guy is a spoiled second-generation mob heir who only knows how to party and burn money.
Making money?
Not a chance.
He’s a professional spender.
Fredo sighs.
Forget it.
For now, they’ll just take it one step at a time.
After all, the mafia isn’t exactly poor.
He crushes the cigarette beneath his shoe and goes back to training.
Shout out to Arnaud for becoming my P Knight, my cats eat fish tonight.
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