“I assure you we double-checked it this time.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. Take them to the cellar,” the chef shouted angrily and flicked his wrists at Cargo.
The eggplant frying in garlic burned in Vico’s nose and made him feel sick. He was anxious to leave.
All of this felt like a distraction to him, a distraction from his true intentions. “I didn’t get involved to make money, Enzo,” he had said when his brother continued to sing about what they were bringing in. “Well, I did,” his twin had replied. “Bide your time, and we’ll both get what we want.”
Vico had been biding his time, though. For too long. LaDuca was probably worm food by now, and he still didn’t know anything new about his father’s killer. He thought he had been pretty patient. But the next time the Gap or Cargo cracked wise, he might just snap.
“Hey, who’s Doyle?” a waiter cried, leaning into the kitchen through saloon doors.
“Who’s asking?” Vico asked, his guard rising.
“Someone’s on the horn for you. It’s in the front.” The boy exited, expecting him to follow.
“Who would be calling me here?” Vico leaned in and whispered to the Gap.
“Someone worried about who’s listening at the Rainbow Gardens.” Vico hesitated, so Petrelli continued. “Go on.”
“Yeah, who’s this?” he asked, tucking the phone to his ear and turning his back to the packed restaurant.
“Someone you should address more respectfully.”
Vico’s stomach dropped.
“Mr. Reina.”
“You guessed it.”
“What can I do for you?” He was expecting to hear that someone else needed to get buried. If that was the case, he would comply. Maybe one more body would lead him to the information he wanted.
“I just wanted to let you know something,” Reina said before pausing.
“Yeah?” Vico worried the call had dropped.
“I wanted to make sure you were listening. The books are about to open, Doyle. You’re going to be brought in. Enzo and Cargo too, if we have the room. I’m going to bat for all three of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Vico’s hands began to perspire, and he squeezed the receiver firmly to ensure he didn’t drop it.
“Then you’ll get the information you want. What you do with that is your business. But I don’t want any headaches, Doyle. Understand me?” Reina’s voice was firm, severe, from the other end of the line.
“I understand.”
“You thought I had forgotten. By Gaetano Reina is a man of his word. If you do anything foolish, you’ll be the one to pay. But I said I’d tell you, and I will. You just have to get made first. Understand?” Something about Reina’s voice told Vico he was doubtful.
“I do.”
“Buy a new suit. And lay off the hooch. You’ll be summoned when we’re ready.”
The line clicked without a formal goodbye.
Vico hung up the receiver and straightened his coat. He felt acutely aware of the revolver tucked into his waistline. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a smile materialize on his face.
Gaetano “Tommy” Reina
Southwest Bronx, New York—February 26, 1930
Gaetano Reina fumbled through his keys as the girl kissed his neck.
“Come on, want to stay for one more, daddy?” she asked. He sighed and leaned away from her.
“No, I need to get home.” He didn’t really like sleeping with these bimbos from the Rainbow Gardens, but with six children at home, he couldn’t get a moment alone with his wife if he wanted to. And he had to have something.
He had a high-stress job, after all.
He was hoping that after LaDuca got whacked, he could relax a bit, but that was just wishful thinking. It had been two years since the fat bastard was buried, and there was always someone else trying to muscle in on the empire he’d built. Or, someone in his own organization threatening to send it crumbling to the ground.
He handed the girl a wad of money, and she relented. It was what she wanted, after all.
“Keep your mouth shut about this, okay, kid?” He patted her cheek and turned to leave.
He exited out on to Sheridan Avenue, the city still pulsing with energy. Traffic zoomed past him, and the smell of spoiled garbage choked his lungs. It was the city he loved, but sometimes he wondered why.
He finally managed to find the right key and crossed the street to where his Pierce-Arrow was parked. In the streetlights behind him, he saw shadowy legs approaching quickly.
He broke into a dead sprint, not worried about looking like a fool. Gaetano Reina didn’t take chances. He grabbed the door handle and jimmied the lock, but gave up as the footsteps approached.
A shotgun burst behind him, the glass of his car shattering before him. He jolted from a few stray pellets but didn’t stop to lick his wounds. Reina reached into the car and unlocked it.
He swung the door open as the second shot erupted.
He slumped to the ground, his body hot but numb, blood spilling over the threads of his new suit.
He crawled behind the door and tried to force his guts back inside.
The gunman stepped over him, a fedora covering his face.
Reina looked up and snarled. He wanted to tell the man to go to hell, but he was drowning on his own blood.
“Mr. Masseria sends his regards.” The assailant placed the sawed-off shotgun against Reina’s forehead.
Reina leaned against it.
“Do it,” he managed to say with all the wind left in his body. The gunman shrugged, and then complied.
Enzo
East Harlem, Manhattan—February 27, 1930
Vico and Enzo burst into the Rainbow Gardens like a shotgun blast, silencing the entire room except for the records playing.
“Is it true? Did they get the old man?” Enzo said as they approached Gagliano. His clothing was uncharacteristically disheveled, and his eyes were puffy and pink.
“Yeah, they got him,” Gagliano said, the realization settling in for both of them. “Reina is gone.”
Vico’s fists were clenched, and his face was twisting in rage. Enzo tapped his arm to calm him.
“What’s our next move?” Enzo asked.
“Tell me who did it. Tell me who did this, and I’ll kill ’em all,” Vico said.
Gagliano grabbed him by the arm and led him to the back of the bar. “You better keep your mouth shut, Doyle. You’re gonna get us all killed.” He held a finger to his lips, and his eyes darted rapidly around the room. “We don’t know who we can trust right now.”
“Was it Masseria? Did Joe the Boss call the hit?” Enzo asked.
Gagliano nodded and helped himself to a top-shelf bottle of bootlegged liquor. “We can assume he was behind it in some way or another.”
“Then tell me where Joe the Boss is. I’ll put him down,” Vico said, absent emotion.
“We already told you once, kid, it doesn’t work like that.” Gagliano winced as he took a pull from the bottle. He offered it to Vico and Enzo, but they both refused. He waved them on, and they followed him into the storage room.
It was dark, with only a single stray beam of light pouring in from a windowpane. There was a man strung up from the ceiling like a prized deer just shot.
“Still working on him,” a man gasped, clearly exasperated from the sheer effort of torturing a man. He looked like an accountant with large spectacles and a mustard-colored button-up. But his victim’s blood was splattered across his shirt and face, and caked over his hands.
Enzo knew who he was. He was Tommy “Three Finger” Brown, although no one called him that to his face. He was known as Mr. Lucchese, and was one of Reina’s most loyal associates.
“We’ve been trying to get answers out of the little prick for hours,” Gagliano said, pointing to the victim.
Lucchese plopped down on the single metal chair beside the victim and dabbed the sweat from his head with a handkerchief. “He’s out
cold. I’ll get back to work when he comes to.”
“Who is he?” Enzo asked.
“The driver. Some of our guys saw him trying to get away after the hit. He knows who did it.”
“What have you been doing? Just working him over?” Vico asked, sizing up the victim’s wounds.
“Yeah. With a steel pipe.” Lucchese chuckled.
Vico stepped toward him and flicked the man’s eyelids. When the man flinched, he turned around and smiled.
“He’s faking it.”
“You learn any medieval shit over there in France you could put to good use now?” Gagliano asked, swaying from the effects of the booze.
“Actually, yeah.” Vico pulled a dagger from his boot and kneeled beside the man. Suddenly, the captive began to squirm.
“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” he slurred, his lips busted and his mouth swollen.
“I just want to persuade you to help us out.” Vico slid the tip of his dagger under the man’s big toenail. He turned to his associates and pointed to the insertion and attempted to explain it. “Just like we did to the Jerries. You start slow, just under the big toe, and then…” It wasn’t true. Vico had never tortured anyone. But everyone was willing to believe just about anything from soldiers, and most importantly, his victim was willing to believe it.
He slowly carved the sharpened dagger downward. The captive moaned and screamed. Lucchese hurried to replace the gag in the driver’s mouth. “You just cut down. We’re gonna flay the first three layers of the skin on the soles of his feet. Every step this bastard takes for the rest of his life, he’s gonna remember this moment,” Vico continued. The victim’s moans echoed off the walls, tears ripping from his eyes.
After Vico’s dagger had traced the edge of the victim’s footprint, the man began to shake his head vehemently.
“Ready to talk?” Gagliano asked. He continued to nod. “Take off the gag.”
“Okay…okay…the two guys that done it were Pasqualino Manzelli—they call him Patsy. And Joseph Ronaldo.”
Enzo and Vico both looked to Gagliano to see if he knew the men. He nodded his head.
“What else do you know?” Vico asked calmly, like he was comforting a child.
“Nothing.”
Vico continued to cut at the man’s foot.
“Please, stop! I was just the driver!”
“Who ordered it?”
The man, crying, stopped to consider it. “Come on, he’ll kill me!”
Vico grabbed the man’s legs forcefully and cut deep.
“Masseria! Masseria ordered it!”
Vico pulled out the dagger and cleaned it on the man’s shirt.
“Good.” Gagliano bit his thumb nail. “At least we know.”
Lucchese cut the rope, and the captive slumped to the ground, barley able to roll his face off the ground.
“We going to war?” Enzo exhaled.
“In time. We ain’t ready yet.” Gagliano led Vico and Enzo from the room as Lucchese mounted the man and began to strangle him.
“We have to do something,” Vico said.
“We will. But we have to wait for the right time.” Gagliano, nervous now that he knew who had killed his friend, drained the remainder of his liquor.
“Reina was going to tell me what happened to Alonzo Consentino. We had a deal. Can you tell me?” Vico said, getting to the heart of the matter.
“No can do.” Gagliano burped.
“Why not?” Vico’s voice was low and threatening. It even intimidated Enzo.
“Because I would get killed.” Gagliano looked underneath the bar counter for another bottle.
“Who would kill you? The person who killed Alonzo? You won’t have to worry about that,” Enzo said. He immediately regretted it, fearing Gagliano would be suspicious. He wasn’t, though, as he was too drunk to care.
“No. I’m not sure who would do it. Your pal Alonzo must have been a big deal, Doyle. Hell of a barber, maybe.” He chuckled. “They had to take it before the general assembly to get clearance to kill him. That means if I say a word about it to guys who aren’t connected, I’ll end up in garbage bag floating in the Hudson.”
“Connected?” Vico asked.
“Yeah, brought into the family officially.”
“I killed LaDuca. I made my bones, and I was supposed to be brought in,” Vico said. Enzo nodded, feeling the same way.
“And you were going to be brought in. Both of you. Cargo too. But after the old man got whacked, we can’t do anything about it. I received word this morning.” He finally turned and paid attention to their queries. “Joe the Boss has appointed a boss for our family. Some old greaseball named Joseph Pinzolo. He isn’t even one of ours. They said the books are closed. No new members.” Gagliano shrugged, disappointment and resentment present in every word.
“We all know you’re the boss. We’ll follow you,” Enzo said.
“Yeah, well…most of the boys don’t feel that way. They don’t want to start any trouble with Masseria.” Suddenly, he slammed the bar counter with his fist and pointed at them. “But listen to me: this is my family. I am the boss here. I’m gonna kill that old bastard Pinzolo, and then I’m going for Joe the Boss. You hear me?”
“We hear ya,” Enzo said for them both.
“If you want in, if you want your information, you kill Pinzolo. When he’s dead, I’ll see what I can do.”
Patsy Manzelli
Northwest Bronx, New York—March 12, 1930
“Dinner was good, dear,” Patsy Manzelli said, dabbing his lips with a napkin.
“Thank you,” his wife said. The dinner had passed in near silence. Even his two daughters could sense that something was wrong.
“Girls, have you finished your schoolwork?”
“Yes, Papà,” one said.
“I’ll finish it in the morning, Papà,” his eldest, Rosita, said, keeping her eyes away from him.
“Ah-ah, I don’t think so. Go on. Finish it tonight.”
Both of the girls stood from the table.
“Don’t you have something to say, girls?” he asked. They returned to the table and kissed their mother.
“Thank you, Mamma,” they said in unison, and walked off, anxious to get away from the discomfort of the dinner table.
“Can I help with the dishes?” he asked. His wife looked at him, perplexed. The offer was uncharacteristic of him.
“Who are you? And what have you done with my husband?” She was serious, but he laughed anyway.
“Just an offer.”
“No, I can take care of it.”
He rose and kissed her head. He lingered. “Mio tesoro,” she said, placing both of her hands around his face, asking him to stay.
He kissed her again and walked away, to his study, where he felt most of his life was spent.
He sat at his desk and poured himself a small glass of scotch. The bottle had been gifted to him by Joe Masseria himself, after his crew successfully moved $100,000 worth of liquor from Canada.
He reached across his desk and put a record on.
He sat back in his chair and breathed deeply, as peacefully as he could imagine, as Act Three of Puccini’s Turadot graced his ears. He had first heard Puccini’s music on a trip to Milan in 1926, and it had been a foundational element of his life ever sense. He told his wife it wasn’t just music—it was a way of life. Sometimes he cried while he listened, and he didn’t bother to hide it.
He wasn’t sad about the way things had turned out. He had made his choices. He had done the best he could. He would be leaving his family with one hundred times what they had arrived in America with, more than any of his compatriots would leave their families with.
But he had made some mistakes along the way. First and foremost was hiring that deadbeat to be his driver. He should have known that he would sing like a canary if he was caught. And that was exactly what had happened. The driver had talked, and spilled everything. He had ratted on himself, Ronaldo, and even Masseria.
Patsy took a sip of his favorite scotch, savoring the bitter smoothness.
He had brought the driver in, he had vouched for him. Now that he had talked, Patsy’s days were numbered. Masseria would probably order the hit himself, if he hadn’t already.
But Masseria’s hit men would be too late.
Gagliano’s men would be there first. They had already found Ronaldo and left him riddled with bullets.
Patsy turned back to his record and increased the volume, turning it up as loud as he could.
He was determined to make sure that both parties out for his blood would be disappointed. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
He reached into the drawer of his desk, pulled out a revolver, and ensured a bullet was chambered.
Finishing the scotch, Patsy smiled at the framed family picture on the wall above the mantlepiece.
He waited until Puccini reached the climax of his song.
“I will win, I will win,” he sang along.
Then he put the revolver inside his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
Sasa Parrino
Southwest Detroit, Michigan—May 31, 1930
It was approximately 2:49 when Sasa Parrino and Gaspar Milazzo left the Michigan Central Station. Sasa knew this because he looked at his pocket watch every few moments, only raising his eyes to check his surroundings.
Milazzo couldn’t have appeared any more careless. He had been dubbed the “peacemaker” for his ability to stop conflicts between the different families in Detroit, but for months, tension had been rising like a tide. Sasa, who had only left Brooklyn for Detroit six months before, had brought the anxious concern of a New Yorker with him.
“Let’s grab a bite to eat, I’m starvin’,” Milazzo said, pointing to a white brick building across the street, “Fish Market” painted on a sign in big blue letters.
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