Sicilian Blood

The truck rattled over the cobblestone streets of Brooklyn, the echoes of gunfire still ringing in Vincenzo Marchesi's ears. The scent of whiskey and gunpowder clung to his clothes, mixing with the sweat on his skin.

He stared down at his hands—hands that had loaded crates, broken backs for pennies, and now pulled the trigger on a man.

Salvatore Romano nudged him from the driver's seat. "You alright, Vin?"

Vincenzo didn't answer at first. He wasn't sure what to say. Was he alright? Could a man be alright after stepping into the world of crime and bloodshed?

Carlo grunted from the backseat. "He'll get used to it. First time's always the hardest."

Sal smirked. "Unless you're me. I was born for this."

Vincenzo exhaled sharply and looked out at the city as they drove through the darkened streets. Brooklyn was a new world, but his blood belonged to the old one.

And tonight, the memories of Sicily came rushing back.

Sicily, 1912

A young Vincenzo Marchesi, no older than ten, ran through the dry fields of his family's vineyard, his bare feet kicking up dust in the warm Mediterranean sun. The air was thick with the scent of grapes ripening on the vine, the distant sound of a horse-drawn cart clattering over the dirt road.

His father, Antonio Marchesi, stood at the edge of the vineyard, speaking in hushed tones with two men in dark suits. Their faces were unreadable, their voices low and measured.

Vincenzo slowed his steps, curiosity tugging at him. He knew better than to interrupt when his father had company, especially men like these.

They were from Palermo. Mafiosi.

Vincenzo didn't understand all the details, but he knew his father owed them something. In Sicily, debts weren't just numbers on paper—they were matters of honor, matters of blood.

Later that night, after the sun had set behind the rolling hills, Antonio Marchesi gathered his family at the table. His wife, Rosa, sat beside him, worry etched into her face. Giovanni, still a baby, clung to her breast.

Antonio's voice was steady, but there was something in his eyes—something heavy.

"We leave for America soon," he said simply.

Vincenzo's heart sank. "Why?"

His father hesitated. "Because it is time."

Vincenzo didn't question him further, but he understood.

Sicilian blood carried grudges that never faded. And his father had run afoul of the wrong men.

Brooklyn, 1923

The truck jerked to a stop, pulling Vincenzo from his thoughts. They were outside a warehouse owned by Enzo Ricci, the man who had given them this job.

"Come on," Sal said, hopping out. "Let's get our cut."

Inside, Ricci sat at his desk, flipping a gold pocket watch open and closed. His expression was unreadable as they entered.

Carlo threw his hat on the table. "Setup," he grunted. "Some Irish bastards tried to take the shipment."

Ricci sighed and leaned back. "Irish, huh? I should've known."

Vincenzo crossed his arms. "Why didn't you tell us we were walking into a war?"

Ricci raised an eyebrow. "Would you have still gone?"

Vincenzo didn't answer.

Ricci smirked. "You handled yourself well, Marchesi. Maybe there's a place for you in this business after all."

He nodded to one of his men, who tossed a small bundle of cash onto the table.

Sal snatched his share without hesitation. "Pleasure doing business."

Vincenzo took his cut, the crisp bills feeling foreign in his hands. More money than he had ever made in a week of backbreaking labor. More than his father had made in a month.

But what was the price?

Ricci leaned forward. "There's more work, if you're interested."

Vincenzo glanced at Sal. His friend's eyes were bright with excitement, but Vincenzo felt something else—a pull toward something deeper.

"Sicilian work?" Vincenzo asked.

Ricci's expression darkened. "Yeah. The kind of work our people have been doing for centuries."

Vincenzo clenched his jaw. He thought of his father. He thought of the blood that had chased them across the ocean.

And he made his choice.

"I'm in," he said.

And with those two words, Vincenzo Marchesi stepped fully into the life he had once tried to escape.