Smugglers In The Night

The city never slept.

By day, the streets of Brooklyn were filled with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, the clatter of horse-drawn carts, the distant hum of machinery from the docks. But by night, the world changed.

By night, the real business began.

And tonight, Vincenzo Marchesi was about to learn another lesson in the rules of the underworld.

It was nearly midnight when the knock came at Vincenzo's door.

Sharp. Urgent.

He sat up in bed, still half-dressed, the weight of exhaustion pulling at his body. His first job had been a success-barely-but now he understood what Salvatore had meant.

The waiting was the worst part.

He ran a hand through his hair, shook off the fatigue, and moved toward the door. Sal stood there, his face tight, eyes sharper than usual.

"Get dressed," Sal said. "We gotta go."

Vincenzo frowned. "What happened?"

Sal exhaled. "Carlo's dead."

The alley behind Ricci's speakeasy was painted in red.

Blood pooled near the trash-strewn cobblestones, still fresh, still glistening under the dim streetlamp. Carlo lay crumpled, his body half-propped against the brick wall, a bullet hole in his throat.

Ricci himself stood nearby, his face unreadable, the glow of his cigarette barely illuminating his sharp features.

Vincenzo's stomach tightened. He wasn't naive. He had seen men die before-back in Sicily, in the streets of Brooklyn, in the shadows of the docks.

But this was different.

This was one of their own.

Sal muttered a curse under his breath. "Who did this?"

Ricci took a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the alley. "That's what I'm about to find out."

Vincenzo crouched near Carlo's body, his fingers brushing against the blood-stained ground. The wound was clean-one shot, precise.

Whoever did this wasn't sloppy. They wanted it to be found.

"His gun's still here," Vincenzo murmured, glancing at the revolver still tucked into Carlo's waistband.

Sal narrowed his eyes. "So he didn't even get a chance to shoot back?"

Ricci nodded. "Means he trusted whoever pulled the trigger."

That meant one thing.

It was someone inside their circle.

Ricci led them back inside, his usual cool demeanor hiding whatever rage boiled beneath the surface. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and gestured for them to sit.

Vincenzo didn't. Neither did Sal.

Ricci smirked. "Good. You ain't stupid."

Sal crossed his arms. "So what now?"

Ricci swirled his drink. "Now, we find out who thinks they can fuck with me."

Vincenzo's voice was quiet, measured. "O'Rourke?"

Ricci chuckled. "No. O'Rourke ain't that dumb. If he wanted us dead, we'd know."

Vincenzo exchanged a glance with Sal. Then who?

Ricci leaned forward. "You ever hear of Giovanni Morello?"

Sal whistled. "Yeah. He runs numbers out of Manhattan. Got his hands in a dozen rackets."

Ricci nodded. "And he wants Brooklyn."

That was the answer.

Morello wasn't just some street thug. He was old-school Sicilian, the kind of man who didn't ask for permission-he took.

And tonight, he had sent a message.

Carlo's blood was the ink.

"We can't just sit here," Sal growled. "Carlo was one of us."

Vincenzo stayed quiet, thinking.

Ricci watched him. "You got somethin' to say, kid?"

Vincenzo met his gaze. "You start a war now, and we lose more than Carlo."

Sal glared. "So what, we do nothing?"

Vincenzo shook his head. "No. But we don't play their game."

Ricci smirked. "Go on."

Vincenzo took a slow breath. "Morello thinks we'll react. That we'll come at him blind, emotional. That's how he wins."

Ricci nodded, intrigued.

Sal sighed. "Alright, genius. What do you suggest?"

Vincenzo stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We find out who in our ranks is working for him. Someone had to set Carlo up."

Ricci's smirk widened. "Smart kid."

Sal exhaled sharply. "Fine. But when we find him?"

Vincenzo didn't hesitate. "We make an example out of him."

Ricci's smile faded. In its place, something darker. Approval.

"You sure you're ready for that?" Ricci asked.

Vincenzo's jaw tightened.

He thought of Sicily. Of his father. Of the lessons learned in the old country.

"I'm ready."

They started with the usual suspects-the guys who had been too quiet lately, the ones who suddenly had more money than they should.

Vincenzo spent the next two nights watching, listening. He wasn't loud like Sal, he didn't throw his weight around like Ricci's other men. He was quiet. Patient.

And that's why he saw it first.

Franco DeAngelo.

A mid-level enforcer. Reliable. Loyal. Or at least, he had been.

Until now.

Vincenzo followed him one night, watching as Franco slipped into a back alley meeting with a man in a sharp gray suit.

Vincenzo didn't recognize him, but the way they spoke, the way Franco's eyes darted around nervously-it was clear.

He was feeding information to Morello.

Vincenzo waited. Watched. Let the scene burn into his mind.

And then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

The next night, Franco was summoned.

He sat across from Ricci, his hands folded in his lap, trying too hard to look calm.

Sal stood behind him, arms crossed.

Vincenzo sat to Ricci's right. A new seat. A permanent one.

Ricci tapped his fingers against the table. "Tell me, Franco," he said, voice casual. "What's Morello paying you?"

Franco tensed. "Boss, I don't-"

Ricci sighed. "Wrong answer."

Sal moved before Franco could react. A knife to the hand-pinning it to the wooden table.

Franco screamed.

Vincenzo didn't flinch.

Ricci leaned in. "I'll ask again. What's Morello paying you?"

Franco gasped, his face pale. "I... I didn't have a choice-"

Vincenzo spoke for the first time. "You always have a choice."

Franco's eyes locked onto his, desperation creeping in. "Vin, please-"

Vincenzo stood. Walked behind Franco.

He thought of his father. Of Sicily. Of debts paid in blood.

And then, without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

Franco slumped forward, blood spilling onto the table.

The room was silent.

Ricci exhaled. "Looks like you're ready after all."

Vincenzo simply nodded.

He wasn't the same man who had stepped into Ricci's office days ago.

He wasn't just some dockworker anymore.

He was something else now.

And Brooklyn?

Brooklyn belonged to him now.