The note arrived two days after the battle at the docks. Delivered by a street kid, hands trembling as he passed it to Luca. No envelope. No fancy signatures. Just a folded scrap of paper with a name at the bottom.
Ricci.
Vincenzo read it twice, his fingers tightening around the edges. Then, without a word, he flicked his lighter open and set the paper ablaze, watching the name curl and blacken before it disintegrated into nothing.
The message was clear. This wasn't just a letter. It was a threat.
Emilio Ricci had been watching. Waiting. And now, he was making his move.
Ricci wasn't just another two-bit gangster trying to carve out a name. He was a businessman—one who had climbed his way up from the gutters of Mulberry Street into the world of high society, with politicians in his pocket and blood on his hands. His operations stretched from Harlem to the Bronx, built on extortion, smuggling, and strategic alliances with corrupt cops who looked the other way when his men broke bones and burned businesses to the ground.
He had never cared about bootlegging before. But now?
Now, Vincenzo had something he wanted.
Power wasn't about who earned it. It was about who could keep it.
And Ricci was about to test whether Vincenzo was a king… or just another name on a tombstone.
The meeting was arranged within hours. A neutral location, one where no guns would be drawn—at least, not unless someone was ready to start a war.
The Grand Contessa was one of Manhattan's most exclusive speakeasies, hidden behind an unassuming tailor shop. The front was run by an old Italian who pretended not to notice the gangsters who passed through his shop every night, nodding as they stepped behind the velvet curtain and into a world of crystal chandeliers, jazz music, and whispered deals over glasses of smuggled Scotch.
Vincenzo arrived with Sal and Luca, both of them armed but keeping their hands free, jackets hanging loose enough to reach for their weapons if things turned ugly.
Ricci was already waiting.
Dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, a diamond pin glinting in his lapel, he looked more like a Wall Street banker than a man who had ordered at least twenty executions in the last two years. He smiled as Vincenzo sat across from him, but his eyes held none of the warmth.
"Vince, my friend. We have business to discuss."
Vincenzo leaned back in his chair, studying him. "Do we?"
Ricci chuckled, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "You made quite the statement at the docks. Morello's men scattered, the Irish licking their wounds. Very impressive." He took a sip, savoring it. "But power in this city is borrowed, not owned. You understand that, don't you?"
Vincenzo didn't blink. "I understand that power belongs to the man willing to fight for it."
Ricci sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed schoolteacher. "So young. So bold." He set the glass down and leaned forward. "I'm going to make this simple. You give me twenty percent of your liquor shipments. In exchange, I keep my men off your back. No wars, no bloodshed. You keep your empire, and I take a fair share for ensuring things… stay civil."
Vincenzo exhaled a slow breath, glancing at Sal, who was already tensing beside him. A cut that big? Ricci wasn't offering a deal—he was testing him. Seeing if he could be bought. Seeing if he could be owned.
Vincenzo lifted his own drink, taking a slow sip before setting it down. Then he met Ricci's gaze.
"No deal."
The words cut through the air like a blade.
Ricci's smile faded. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
The men at the surrounding tables pretended not to hear, but Vincenzo knew they were listening.
Ricci adjusted his cufflinks, the slow, practiced movements of a man keeping himself from showing his anger.
"That's unfortunate." He smoothed his tie. "I had hoped we could handle this as gentlemen."
Vincenzo didn't move. "If you wanted to handle things as gentlemen, you wouldn't have sent me a threat."
Ricci stood, pushing his chair back with an elegant scrape. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves one last time before slipping his hands into his pockets. His voice, when he spoke, was almost amused.
"You've made your choice."
Then he walked out.
Sal exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That son of a bitch isn't gonna let this go."
Vincenzo reached for his cigarette case, his fingers calm. He already knew how this would play out.
Ricci was a man who demanded respect. And when he didn't get it?
He took it by force.
Two hours later, the explosion lit up the Brooklyn waterfront.
Flames roared into the night sky, turning the streets into an inferno of burning whiskey, shattered wood, and twisted metal. The fire raged for hours, swallowing half a million dollars' worth of liquor before the fire brigade could even slow it down.
By the time Vincenzo arrived at the scene, the warehouse was reduced to smoldering rubble.
Men stood around in stunned silence, their faces lit by the dying embers. Some were coughing, wiping soot from their skin, others just staring at the destruction with hollow eyes.
Sal stood next to him, his fists clenched at his sides. "Ricci."
Vincenzo nodded, slipping a cigarette between his lips. He struck a match, the flare of light illuminating the sharp edge of his expression.
He took a long drag, exhaled, then flicked the match into the ashes.
Ricci had spoken.
Now, it was his turn.
Two nights later, Emilio Ricci's top enforcer, Angelo DeLuca, disappeared.
Some said he skipped town.
Others? Said he was found floating in the East River, his hands tied with piano wire, his body marked with two precise bullet wounds—one in each kneecap.
A message.
Clear. Undeniable.
Come for me again… and I won't just take your men.
I'll take your whole damn family.
By morning, the whispers had already spread.
The war had begun.