Brooklyn, 1923 – A War Written in Blood
Power wasn't just taken with bullets-it was held with fear.
This was an old lesson. One carved into the streets of Sicily long before the Marchesis, the Morellos, or any of the New York families set foot in America. The Black Hand had been the first to teach it on this side of the Atlantic-silent threats, whispered warnings, envelopes filled with severed flesh instead of words.
And tonight, Vincenzo Marchesi was about to remind Morello of that lesson.
5:12 AM – Morello's Restaurant, Manhattan
The restaurant was still dark, the kitchen staff just beginning to arrive, when the delivery boy came knocking.
Pasquale, the old doorman, opened the package first. He wasn't a man who frightened easily, but the moment his gaze dropped inside the small white box, his face turned to ashen stone.
Inside the silk-wrapped package lay a single severed finger, pale and stiff, the nail still stained with blood.
But it wasn't just the gruesome trophy that turned his stomach.
It was the folded slip of handwritten paper beneath it.
Seven words. A death sentence in ink.
"For Paolo. A debt paid in blood."
Pasquale swallowed hard, then hurried inside.
Morello was going to lose his mind.
The letter sat on Morello's desk, unread but understood.
The message was clear: Vincenzo wasn't afraid. He had sent the Black Hand's calling card, a direct challenge-a declaration of war.
Morello stood silent, his hands pressed against the edge of his mahogany desk. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock and the faint hum of the city outside.
Then, without warning-
CRACK.
His glass of whiskey shattered against the wall.
"Bastardo figlio di puttana!" Morello roared, slamming his fist against the desk so hard that his cigarette case bounced into the air.
His men stood around him, tense, waiting.
Morello's dark eyes burned with rage and calculation.
He turned to Tommaso Greco, Paolo's brother-one of his best enforcers. "Go to Little Italy," he ordered, voice cold as steel. "Burn Marchesi's businesses. Tear his men apart. I want him begging for mercy before the week is out."
Greco nodded, his face blank with grief. "Consider it done."
Morello exhaled through his nose, forcing the rage down. "And find out who delivered the letter."
Pasquale, standing in the corner, swallowed hard. He'd seen many men die in this room. And someone was about to join them.
6:48 PM – Brooklyn
Vincenzo stood near the window, his sharp eyes scanning the streets below. From the safety of Ricci's fortified home, Brooklyn stretched out beneath him-a city of opportunity, of power, of death.
Behind him, Sal Romano leaned against the bar, swirling a glass of bourbon.
Sal raised an eyebrow. "Think Morello got the message?"
Vincenzo smirked but didn't turn. "Oh, he got it."
Sal chuckled darkly. "Then we better be ready for his answer."
The words had barely left his lips when a knock echoed from the front door.
One of Ricci's men entered, his face set in stone.
"We got eyes on Morello's crew. They're moving."
Vincenzo turned fully. "Where?"
"Little Italy. They're going for Gallo's Bakery."
The room went silent.
Then Sal cursed under his breath.
Vincenzo didn't hesitate. "We leave now."
11:27 PM – Little Italy
By the time Vincenzo's cars pulled up, the war had already started.
The streets outside Gallo's Bakery were chaos-Morello's men had the place surrounded, Tommy guns barking, shattering windows, cutting down any Marchesi soldiers who tried to push out.
A small fire flickered from the front door where a Molotov had hit the sidewalk.
From behind the overturned tables inside the bakery, Gallo's men were barely holding on-returning fire through the smoke, reloading as fast as their shaking hands allowed.
And then came Vincenzo.
He and his men emerged from the night like shadows with steel, slipping between parked cars, pistols drawn, silent death lurking in their wake.
Sal crouched behind a Model T, eyes scanning the battlefield. "You got a plan, or we just gonna die trying?"
Vincenzo's gaze flicked to the alley.
"Follow me."
The back door was exactly where he expected it.
Unlocked.
The fools had left themselves wide open.
Inside, the air was thick with gunpowder and the scent of flour, the distant sound of gunfire echoing beyond the walls.
Vincenzo moved first-silent, lethal.
Two of Morello's men stood near the door, weapons drawn, unaware that death had already entered the room.
One flicked a cigarette, muttering, "Boss said finish this quick-"
Vincenzo's knife cut his throat before he finished the sentence.
His partner barely had time to react before Sal's pistol cracked his skull open with the butt of his gun.
The bodies dropped.
Vincenzo wiped his blade clean. "Move."
They slipped into the main floor of the bakery like ghosts among the dead.
The first shots were surgical-precision kills.
The second wave was pure carnage.
By the time the last Morello gunman fell, the bakery was silent except for the crackle of burning wood.
Gallo, bloodied but alive, staggered to his feet. "Madonna... they nearly took us out."
Vincenzo holstered his pistol. "They won't try again."
Sal grinned, nudging a dead man with his boot. "Not these ones, anyway."
Then came Ricci's voice.
"We send a new message."
Vincenzo turned. "You got something in mind?"
Ricci smirked. "Oh, I do."
That night, another package was left on Morello's doorstep.
Inside?
A severed ear, still warm with blood.
A note tucked beneath it:
"Next time, we take your head."
Morello read it, face blank.
Then he crushed the note in his fist, his fingers white with rage.
"Kill them all."