whiskey And Gunpowder

Brooklyn, 1923.

The streets smelled of rain and cigarette smoke, the gutters running black with filth from a city that never stopped moving. By night, the world shifted—different rules, different men, and different opportunities.

Tonight, Vincenzo Marchesi wasn't just another dockworker. Tonight, he was stepping into something bigger.

He adjusted the collar of his threadbare coat as he walked toward The Red Lantern, a rundown tavern with a reputation for trouble. The front doors were locked—like most bars since Prohibition—but a sharp knock at the side entrance got him in.

Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke, the laughter of men with too much whiskey in their veins, and the scent of sweat and spilled liquor.

At the bar, Salvatore Romano was already waiting, a smirk on his face as he nursed a drink. "Didn't think you'd come," he said.

Vincenzo pulled out a chair and sat. "Didn't think I had a choice."

Sal chuckled. "That's the spirit." He nodded toward the back of the bar. "Enzo Ricci's expecting us. You ready?"

Vincenzo glanced around. A dozen men filled the room—dockworkers, street thugs, and men in sharp suits who carried themselves like kings. They were the real power in the city. The ones who made the rules.

And if Vincenzo played his cards right, he'd be one of them.

Sal led the way through the back door, past a narrow hallway lined with stacked crates. The air was cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey. At the end of the corridor, two men stood guard, Tommy guns resting casually at their sides.

One of them, a man with a thick scar across his cheek, gave Vincenzo a long look before opening the door.

Inside, a heavy wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, a half-empty bottle of Scotch resting beside an ashtray filled with cigar butts. Behind the desk sat Enzo Ricci—short, broad-shouldered, with sharp, calculating eyes.

He didn't look up right away, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling.

"So," Ricci finally said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. "This the dock rat you were telling me about, Sal?"

Vincenzo met his gaze without flinching. "I can handle myself."

Ricci smirked. "That right?" He leaned back in his chair, studying Vincenzo like a man appraising a horse before a race. "You ever moved whiskey before?"

"No," Vincenzo admitted.

Ricci exhaled through his nose. "Honest. I like that. But honesty don't mean shit if you can't pull your weight." He gestured to one of his men. "Take him on tonight's run. If he makes it back, we'll talk."

The man he gestured to, a bald brute named Carlo, grunted and motioned for Vincenzo to follow.

Outside, a black truck was parked in the alley, its canvas top concealing the crates inside. Carlo climbed into the driver's seat, Sal sliding in beside him. Vincenzo took the back, resting his hand on the crate beside him.

"You know what's in here?" Sal asked, knocking on the wood.

"Whiskey."

"Not just any whiskey," Carlo muttered. "Canadian. Good shit. Worth more than gold these days."

As the truck rumbled to life, Vincenzo felt the weight of what he was doing settle in. This wasn't just unloading crates at the docks. This was smuggling. This was crime.

And yet, it didn't feel wrong.

It felt like the first real choice he'd ever made.

They drove through the darkened streets, heading toward an abandoned warehouse near the river. The city blurred past in streaks of gaslight and shadow, the truck's tires humming against the wet pavement.

Vincenzo kept his eyes on the road ahead, but his mind raced. What if the cops were watching? What if the Feds were already onto them?

"Relax," Sal said, reading his expression. "First time's always like this."

The truck slowed as they approached the warehouse. A group of men stood waiting outside, their faces hidden beneath the brims of their hats.

Carlo killed the engine.

Sal leaned toward Vincenzo. "Alright, listen close. We unload the crates, they count, we get paid, we leave. Easy."

Vincenzo nodded, but he could feel something in the air—a tension, like a storm waiting to break.

They hopped out, moving toward the back of the truck. One of the waiting men, a tall guy with a thick Boston accent, stepped forward.

"You Ricci's boys?"

Carlo grunted. "You got the payment?"

"Yeah," the Boston man said. "You got the whiskey?"

Carlo knocked on the side of the truck. "Why don't you see for yourself?"

The moment the first crate was opened, gunfire erupted.

The world exploded in flashes of light and the deafening crack of pistols. Vincenzo dove behind the truck as bullets ripped through the air, splintering wood and shattering glass.

"Set up!" Carlo shouted, returning fire with a snub-nose revolver.

Sal cursed, dragging Vincenzo down behind the truck's wheel. "It's a goddamn setup!"

Vincenzo's pulse pounded in his ears. First job, first night in the business, and he was already in a gunfight.

More shots rang out. One of Ricci's men hit the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

"Stay low!" Sal growled, shoving a revolver into Vincenzo's hand.

Vincenzo hesitated. He had never fired a gun outside of his time hunting back in Sicily. But this wasn't hunting. This was survival.

He took a breath. Lined up the sights. Pulled the trigger.

A man in a long coat staggered back, clutching his side.

Another shot rang out, this one close—too close. The air burned hot near his ear.

"Move!" Carlo roared. "Get to the truck!"

Sal and Vincenzo scrambled inside, Carlo already throwing it into gear. The tires screeched against the pavement as they sped away, gunfire chasing them into the night.

The warehouse vanished behind them, but the weight in Vincenzo's chest didn't.

They had just stolen whiskey, spilled blood, and nearly died—all in the span of ten minutes.

Sal let out a breathless laugh. "Not bad for a first run, huh?"

Vincenzo didn't answer right away. He stared at the revolver in his hand, his knuckles white.

"Is this who I am now?"

He wasn't sure.

But as he sat in that truck, the scent of gunpowder still thick in the air, he knew one thing for certain—

There was no turning back.