The First Job

The night smelled of damp brick and gasoline, the heavy clouds overhead swallowing the moon. The streets were quieter now, the usual bustle of dockworkers and street vendors replaced by the occasional drunk stumbling home or the distant sound of a piano playing from a speakeasy.

For Vincenzo Marchesi, tonight was more than just another night in Brooklyn.

Tonight, he became a man of business.

Or, at least, that's how Enzo Ricci had put it.

"This ain't just some back-alley hustle," Ricci had said earlier in his office, the smoke from his cigar curling around his words. "This is business. And business don't favor the weak."

And so, here Vincenzo was-standing outside an unmarked building in Red Hook, waiting for his first real job.

Beside him, Salvatore Romano leaned against the side of a Model T, lighting a cigarette with a practiced flick of his match. He took a slow drag before exhaling.

"You nervous, Vin?"

Vincenzo adjusted his coat. "Should I be?"

Sal smirked. "Only if you don't trust yourself."

The door to the warehouse creaked open, and Carlo, the heavyset enforcer from their last job, stepped out. His face was always locked in the same grimace, like he had been born with a permanent bad mood.

"Get in."

No pleasantries, no small talk. Just business.

Inside the Warehouse

The room smelled of sawdust, oil, and something metallic. It wasn't large, just a cramped storage space stacked high with crates marked "Sullivan & Co. – Fine Spirits."

A small table sat in the center of the room, and at it sat Alfonso "Fonzo" DeLuca, one of Ricci's top men. He was older, with slicked-back hair, a thin mustache, and a sharp, angular face that seemed built for business.

He eyed Vincenzo carefully.

"You Marchesi?"

Vincenzo nodded.

Fonzo leaned forward, fingers tapping against the wooden surface. "I hear you handled yourself at the drop."

Vincenzo didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to.

Fonzo smirked. "I like quiet men. Quiet men live longer." He gestured to a crate beside him. "You're gonna take this to a man named Jimmy O'Rourke. He's Irish, but he knows where the real power in this city is."

Sal let out a low whistle. "O'Rourke's a big name."

Fonzo nodded. "Yeah, and he don't like surprises. So don't give him any."

Vincenzo finally spoke. "And if he does?"

Fonzo's smirk widened. "Then Carlo here will handle it."

Carlo grunted in approval.

The Drive

The truck rumbled through the streets, the weight of the whiskey crates shifting in the back with every turn. Sal drove, hands steady on the wheel, while Vincenzo sat beside him, his fingers drumming against his knee.

Carlo sat in the back, shotgun across his lap, eyes always scanning the dark streets.

"You know what I hate about this business?" Sal muttered, breaking the silence.

Vincenzo glanced at him. "What?"

"The waiting. The part before shit goes south."

Vincenzo smirked. "You expecting trouble?"

Sal shrugged. "I always expect trouble."

They turned onto Water Street, heading toward O'Rourke's warehouse. The Irish ran their liquor business out of an old shipping yard, the kind of place no cop would bother patrolling.

As they approached, Vincenzo noticed two men standing outside, both dressed in dark coats, their hands buried deep in their pockets.

One of them spotted the truck and gave a slow nod.

Sal exhaled. "Alright. Show time."

The Meeting

Inside, the warehouse was a cavernous space, dimly lit by a few scattered oil lamps. Wooden crates lined the walls, some already cracked open, revealing rows of neatly stacked whiskey bottles.

At the center of it all, sitting in a worn leather chair, was Jimmy O'Rourke. He was older, with thinning red hair and a thick mustache, his eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. He sipped from a glass of his own product as the three men approached.

One of his men, a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward. "That the shipment?"

Carlo nodded. "All of it."

O'Rourke gestured lazily. "Open it."

One of his men pried the crate open with a crowbar, the wood splintering under the force. Inside, bottles of Canadian Club whiskey glistened in the dim light.

O'Rourke took another sip of his drink. "Looks good."

Vincenzo waited. Something felt off.

O'Rourke leaned forward, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Thing is, boys... I don't recall askin' for a delivery tonight."

Silence.

Sal tensed beside Vincenzo. Carlo's grip tightened on his shotgun.

O'Rourke's smile widened. "See, I do a lotta business with your boss, but he knows better than to send me whiskey without a call first. So, either Ricci's gettin' sloppy... or someone's settin' me up."

Vincenzo's blood ran cold.

They'd been set up.

O'Rourke leaned back. "Tell me, boys. Which is it?"

The Standoff

Carlo moved first. In a blink, his shotgun was leveled at the nearest Irishman.

The room tensed. Hands moved to holsters. The sound of guns being cocked filled the air.

Vincenzo swallowed. He had seen this moment before-back in Sicily, when his father had sat across from men just like these.

This was a test.

Vincenzo stepped forward. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to draw attention.

"We're not here to rob you, Mr. O'Rourke," he said, his voice steady. "Someone's playin' us both."

O'Rourke studied him. "And why should I believe you?"

Vincenzo took a breath. This was it. His first real moment in the business.

"Because if we were here to set you up," Vincenzo said, "we'd have already started shootin'."

Silence.

O'Rourke chuckled. Then laughed. A deep, belly laugh that broke the tension in the room.

"Jesus Christ, kid, you got balls." He gestured to his men. "Stand down."

Slowly, the guns lowered.

O'Rourke looked at Vincenzo again, his expression thoughtful. "Tell Ricci I'll take the shipment. But next time, he better send me a message first."

Vincenzo nodded. "I'll make sure of it."

As they turned to leave, O'Rourke called out.

"Marchesi."

Vincenzo stopped.

The Irishman raised his glass. "You ever get tired of working for Ricci, come see me."

Vincenzo smirked. "I'll keep that in mind."

The Aftermath

The truck rattled down the road, the city stretching before them.

Sal let out a slow breath. "That could've gone worse."

Carlo chuckled. "Could've gone better too."

Vincenzo just stared ahead, his mind racing.

Tonight, he had stepped into something bigger. He had proven himself. And now, men like O'Rourke knew his name.

He wasn't just some dockworker anymore.

He was in.