Chapter 19: Welcome to the Family Business (I Think)
From the Memoirs of Danny "Definitely Not a Mafia Boss" Fenton
By the time the sun had fully risen and the sleepy little town had collectively dragged itself out of bed, the Ghost Rider incident was already everywhere. On the news. In the newspapers. On social media. In between grumbles about the weather and complaints about rising gas prices, people were buzzing about the mysterious figure who had torn through the city streets on a bike wreathed in fire like something out of a supernatural Fast & Furious sequel.
Theories ranged from "he's clearly a government experiment gone rogue" to "nope, definitely Satan's intern doing donuts downtown." Some folks swore the rider had vanished into thin air, others insisted he leapt over a moving semi like Evel Knievel's undead cousin. Whatever the case, it was cool. Freaky. And very possibly illegal.
Danny Fenton, however, had been blissfully unaware of the flaming-ghost-motorcycle-mayhem until he dragged himself down for breakfast, bleary-eyed and vaguely wishing he could go back to bed for another three hours.
Unfortunately, there was no escaping that conversation.
"You see, Danny—isn't your father cool?" Jack Fenton boomed, practically slamming a copy of the local paper onto the breakfast table like it was a treasure map. The bold headline blared in all caps:
MYSTERIOUS GHOST RIDER ROAMS STREETS: SUPERHERO, DEMON, OR DAREDEVIL?
A big, grainy photo sat beneath it—blurry, but still catching the glow of burning wheels and a figure wrapped in shadows. It looked equal parts epic and terrifying. Like something you'd see right before realizing you left the stove on... and also the entire house was on fire.
Jack puffed up like a balloon full of dad pride. "The mayor personally asked me to investigate! Me! Jack Fenton! Paranormal Expert Extraordinaire!"
Danny poked at his eggs, half-listening, half-hoping no one noticed he was staring a little too hard at the headline. Something about the image tickled his brain, like déjà vu wearing leather and sunglasses.
Maddie Fenton, already in her teal jumpsuit and sipping coffee like it was lifeblood, nodded thoughtfully. "It does have a strong ecto-signature. The flames might even be psychoplasmic. Very advanced ghost tech—if it is ghost tech."
"It's obviously a ghost!" Jack barked. "Or a ghost possessing a motorcycle. Or maybe a motorcycle that died and came back to life! Ha!"
Danny blinked. "Can… can motorcycles become ghosts?"
"Absolutely," Jack replied without hesitation, shoveling a stack of sausage links onto Danny's plate. "Happens all the time. That's why I never trusted mopeds."
Despite himself, Danny snorted.
But underneath the usual Fenton morning nonsense, there was something different. A growing awareness. Danny didn't usually care about this stuff. He left the ghost-hunting, ecto-blasting, mad science to his parents. But now?
Now, he felt… a twinge. A spark of curiosity. Not just because the Ghost Rider was cool (which, let's be honest, he was), but because it all felt… connected.
"If the Ghost Rider is real," Danny said slowly, looking up from his plate, "shouldn't you guys be careful? What if he's dangerous?"
That froze the table harder than any ghost ever could.
Jack and Maddie looked up from their plates, forks in midair, like someone had just suggested they sell all their ghost gear and open a juice bar.
"You're… worried?" Maddie asked, blinking.
Danny shrugged, cheeks turning a little pink. "I mean, you're dealing with a flaming, shadowy guy who rides like he's starring in his own horror movie. Just saying... maybe check the safety protocols. Again."
Maddie's expression softened into something warm and maternal. "That's very thoughtful, Danny."
"See?" Jack beamed. "Our boy's got the instincts of a true Fenton!"
Danny tried to hide behind his orange juice.
His parents were eccentric, sure. But they weren't fools. Despite what the neighbors whispered about "those ghost-obsessed lunatics in the lab coats," the Fentons were trusted in high places—secret circles of scholars, hunters, and mystics who understood that the world was a lot weirder than it looked from the outside.
Danny had always stayed out of it. Until now.
"You should eat more, champ," Jack said, shoving a third helping of bacon onto Danny's plate with gusto. "You're growing like a weed! A big, ghost-fighting, brainy weed!"
Danny smiled awkwardly. His appetite had definitely increased lately, and it wasn't just from late-night snacking.
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You ever sit down for breakfast, minding your own business, only to be told that your new part-time gig is… running the mafia?
No? Just me?
Figures.
I was halfway through a stack of pancakes the size of a ghost bear when Naruto's voice popped into my head like the world's most casual bombshell.
"Tell them you've taken a part-time job."
I blinked, mid-syrup-drip.
"What job?" I asked suspiciously, already smelling a trap bigger than the one Tucker fell into trying to hack the school vending machines.
"Cashier at a shop," Naruto said, all innocent-like.
Uh huh. Sure. Because I totally scream "checkout lane enthusiast".
"What's the real thing?"
Naruto paused for a second. I could practically hear the grin behind his silence.
"Good. You didn't just believe it directly. The real job is to become an agent for the local mafia and take down the outsiders."
...I choked.
Not like, coughed-a-bit choking. I mean a full-on, pancake-to-the-lungs, eyes-watering, fork-flinging, somebody-call-911 moment.
"Mafia?!" I wheezed, trying not to hurl syrup. "Are you seriously asking me to become a criminal?"
"The mafia is mine," Naruto said casually. "I need you to build up your skills before taking them over and using them for more... productive purposes. They've shifted to cleaner work—think less Godfather, more community outreach with flair."
So there I was, trying to process the fact that Naruto—the super-powered world-hopping ninja overlord I now answer to—had gone full mafia don in his spare time.
Apparently, when I sleep, Naruto just casually restructures organized crime.
Awesome. Totally not terrifying at all.
"You'll be seeing it firsthand tonight," he added cheerily, like we were discussing a movie night, not an undercover mafia mission. "Your first task."
I stared at my eggs like they were going to sprout legs and sprint away from the insanity.
"Right," I muttered. "Because what every teenager needs—besides acne and algebra—is an honorary title in the underworld."
But honestly?
I was kinda intrigued.
Yeah, yeah, I know—bad life choice alert. But I've already faced killer ghosts, a flaming biker mystery, and an increasing need to eat the fridge dry every three hours. My life isn't exactly normal anymore.
"I shall become the Big Boss," I whispered like I was quoting some epic line from a mafia movie, except it came out more like a kid pretending to be cool in the mirror.
And then—bam—I caught my own reflection in the toaster.
Wide-eyed. Nervous. Still wearing pajamas with tiny rocket ships.
"Big Boss," I repeated again, with a little less enthusiasm.
My parents were still talking ghost tech like they hadn't just been partially tuned out by their teenage son slowly realizing he was on track to become Danny Fenton, Mob Intern™.
"Oh, Danny," my mom said suddenly, looking up and smiling warmly. "Are you okay? You look a little pale."
Pale? Lady, I was practically ethereal.
"I'm great," I lied through my haunted molars. "Just... thinking about career goals."
"Oh, good for you!" Dad boomed, slapping me on the back so hard I nearly fell into my plate. "Start small, dream big! Just like I did! You'll see—before you know it, you'll be inventing ghost vacuums and anti-ectoplasmic thermobaric grenades like the rest of us!"
Yup. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.
Except, y'know, the tiny voice in my head going: Congratulations, Danny. You've officially joined the ranks of the morally gray protagonist club.
I glanced at my half-eaten pancakes, sighed, and pushed the plate away.
"Guess I'm going to need a lot more syrup if I'm going to survive this."
Because tonight?
Tonight, I wasn't just fighting ghosts.
I was walking into a boardroom filled with guys named "Vito" and "Chains" and probably a talking raccoon named Tony who ran black-market cheese deals. (Okay, that last one might be a fever dream. Hopefully.)
Whatever the case… this is my life now.
Ghosts. Mafia. Missions.
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You know your life's gone completely off the rails when your ninja ghost mentor starts lecturing you on moral character and tells you that going on a date with your sister is somehow part of your training.
To clarify: not a romantic date. More of a "let's hang out and pretend we're normal siblings" sort of thing. Still weird, though. Thanks, Naruto.
Jazz was slipping her shoes on by the door when I remembered—our arrangement. I blanked for a second. Arrangement? Did we join a sibling bowling league? Were we finally confronting Mom and Dad about their "Frankencereal" experiments?
Before I could fake my way through it, Naruto's voice coolly reminded me: "You agreed to spend time with your sister today. 5 PM sharp."
Right. Sibling bonding. I was totally on top of it.
"Jazz, don't forget about our arrangement," I called, casually—like I hadn't forgotten it five seconds ago.
Jazz gave me a smirk, one eyebrow raised like she knew exactly how scrambled my brain was. Which, in all fairness, she probably did.
"I know. 5 PM sharp," she said with a wink before heading out the door.
She didn't say it, but the smirk screamed, "I knew you forgot, you nerd, but I'm too emotionally mature to roast you for it." Classic Jazz.
As soon as the door shut, Naruto's voice returned with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.
"Master, I remember you bragging about bagging many women. Are you... you know?" I asked him, half-joking and half-hoping he wouldn't answer.
"I have no interest in such things anymore," Naruto replied, the way people talk when they're 300 years old and emotionally dead inside. "This is just to help Jazz. By helping Jazz, both of your bonds as siblings level up."
Level up? Was our relationship a video game stat now? Next thing you know, I'll unlock S-Rank Sibling Hug Technique.
Still, the comment about "bagging women" hung in the air awkwardly. Naruto didn't seem fazed. I, on the other hand, wanted to crawl into a ghost zone and never come back.
"Do you not want to help your sister?" he asked, as if I had just declared war on family values.
"Of course I do," I muttered, suddenly unsure what I was agreeing to anymore. Was this just about spending time with her? Or was there some hidden lesson buried in this like a morality-flavored landmine?
"You need to learn and establish correct principles as the core of your personality. Right now, your core consists of cowardice, laziness, selfishness, and a small amount of kindness."
Oof. Harsh.
"I can't be that bad!" I argued.
Naruto didn't yell. He didn't mock me. He just hit me with the one question I wasn't ready for.
"Tell me, do you know anything about your parents?"
Silence.
Total mental shutdown.
Because the truth? I didn't. Not really. I knew Mom liked weaponized coffee mugs and Dad once tried to reverse-engineer a sandwich using a specter scanner, but that's... kinda it.
I never really asked about them. Or listened.
I just assumed they'd always be there—yelling about ghosts, building death rays, and somehow keeping the lights on with a lab powered by who-knows-what.
"I'm… trying," I muttered.
"You're learning," Naruto agreed, voice softer now. "Keep going. But remember, those bad qualities need to go. Without persistence, you wouldn't last a week in this training."
I nodded to myself. Maybe for the first time, I actually believed it.
I didn't need to be perfect—I just needed to stop coasting. Start choosing who I wanted to be.
And right as I had my dramatic soul-searching moment...
"Now for the exciting part," Naruto said. "You've got a new ride."
Huh?
"What kind of—"
And that's when I saw it.
Through the window, gleaming like a dragon forged in the fires of coolness and gasoline, stood the most insanely awesome motorcycle I'd ever seen.
The Fireblade.
I ran outside like a cartoon character with toast in his mouth, practically sliding across the lawn as I circled the bike.
It had runes on the tires. FLAMING. RUNES.
"Oh. My. GOD," I gasped, eyes wide like a kid in a candy store made entirely of motor oil and fire.
I reached out to touch it.
"You're not riding it until you pass some missions," Naruto said.
Cue the record scratch.
"You cruel monster!" I shouted dramatically, dropping to my knees like I was in a soap opera. "You dangled it in front of me!"
"It's a visible reward to motivate you," he replied, completely unmoved. "And now you can pull out your full power. You've been holding back, but no more."
I wanted to protest. Maybe scream a little. Hug the bike and refuse to let go. But he had a point.
This was the carrot. I just needed to prove I was ready.
"So… are we leaving it here?" I asked, already wincing.
"Yes."
NOOOOOOO.
I staggered back to the house like I'd just been told Santa wasn't real. Each step away from the Fireblade felt like betrayal.
But deep down? That bike wasn't just metal and magic. It was a promise. A reminder that I could be more. That I would be more.
Even if I had to survive sibling bonding, mafia missions, and spiritual therapy sessions with a ninja ghost to get there.