A Deal With The Devil

The Price of Power

Vincenzo Marchesi had made enemies before.

He had outlived rivals, survived betrayals, and buried men whose names were now nothing more than whispers in the wind.

But this-this was different.

The war with Morello was no longer just a matter of bullets and bodies. It was a battle for survival itself.

And in this war, survival demanded sacrifices.

Tonight, he was about to make one.

Because sometimes, to win against the devil, you had to strike a deal with one.

The aftermath of the Gallo Bakery Massacre left Brooklyn in a state of fear.

Morello's men had been cut down, their corpses littering the streets, their blood seeping into the gutters. But no victory came without consequences.

The police were cracking down-not out of justice, but out of necessity.

The violence was drawing too much attention.

Judges. Politicians. Cops.

Even men who usually looked the other way were feeling the pressure.

And Morello?

He wasn't backing down.

His retaliation was already in motion.

Vincenzo knew that if he wanted to win this war, he needed something Morello didn't have.

Money. Power. Protection.

And there was only one man in New York who had all three.

Arnold Rothstein.

Rothstein wasn't just a gangster.

He wasn't just a gambler.

He was the man behind the curtain-the architect of crime, the silent king who fixed the World Series and bought politicians like street vendors bought bread.

He never pulled the trigger himself.

But every bullet that flew in this city?

Somehow, it led back to him.

And now, Vincenzo needed him.

Vincenzo arrived at The Plaza Hotel, where Rothstein conducted business like a banker handling stocks.

No back alleys.

No basements.

Just a private suite, expensive cigars, and men who spoke softly but ruled the underworld with iron fists.

Inside, Rothstein sat in a velvet chair, his calculating eyes scanning Vincenzo as if measuring his worth in dollars and risks.

"Mr. Marchesi," Rothstein said, his voice smooth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Vincenzo didn't waste time.

"I need protection," he said. "Morello has too many men, too many cops in his pocket. I need something to tip the scales."

Rothstein exhaled a thin trail of smoke.

"And why should I risk my empire for your war?"

Vincenzo leaned forward.

"Because Morello doesn't understand the way you do. He fights with rage. You fight with business."

He let that sit.

Then he added:

"I'm offering you a stake in everything I build. A real partnership."

For the first time, Rothstein's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.

Now, he was listening.

Rothstein took his time, swirling his whiskey, considering every angle.

Then he spoke.

"I don't invest in wars. I invest in outcomes."

Vincenzo understood the meaning.

He had to guarantee victory.

"Give me the muscle," Vincenzo said. "The guns, the judges, the cops who will look the other way. And when I take Morello's empire, I cut you in."

Rothstein tapped his fingers against his glass.

"Fifty percent," he said.

Vincenzo's jaw tightened.

"No one owns half of me."

Rothstein smiled thinly. "Then find another devil to deal with."

Silence stretched between them.

Vincenzo knew he was playing with fire.

But he also knew the truth:

Without Rothstein's power, this war would bleed him dry.

So he nodded.

"Twenty-five percent," he countered. "No more."

Rothstein studied him.

Then, with a slow nod, he extended his hand.

"Deal."

Vincenzo shook the devil's hand.

And with that, the war had changed.

Within two days, Morello's operations started crumbling.

Cops who once ignored his crimes? Now they were raiding his speakeasies.

Suppliers who once flooded his warehouses with whiskey? Now they were "mysteriously" out of stock.

Judges who once let his men walk free? Now they were throwing the book at them.

Morello wasn't fighting Vincenzo anymore.

He was fighting the weight of the city itself.

And he was losing.

A week later, Vincenzo sat at the same Plaza suite.

This time, Rothstein wasn't alone.

A man named Meyer Lansky stood beside him, young but sharp-eyed, watching Vincenzo with quiet intensity.

Rothstein poured himself a drink.

"I delivered on my end," he said smoothly. "Now, let's talk about your debt."

Vincenzo exhaled, already knowing what was coming.

"I don't need money," Rothstein continued. "I need control. Influence. You work for me now."

Vincenzo leaned back in his chair. "I don't work for anyone."

Rothstein chuckled.

"You do now."

Lansky finally spoke, his voice calm but firm.

"Mr. Marchesi, this isn't a request."

Silence.

Vincenzo had walked into this room believing he was making a deal.

Now, he realized he had walked into a trap.

A golden cage, but a cage nonetheless.

Because the thing about dealing with the devil?

He always collects.

As Vincenzo walked out of the Plaza, Sal was waiting outside, smoking.

"How'd it go?"

Vincenzo didn't answer.

Sal exhaled smoke, watching him carefully. "That bad, huh?"

Vincenzo finally spoke.

"We just won the war."

A pause.

Then, softer-

"But we might've lost something bigger."

Sal frowned. "Like what?"

Vincenzo glanced back at the towering Plaza Hotel.

"Our freedom."

And as they walked into the night, Vincenzo knew his war with Morello was over.

But the next war?

The one where he fought to keep his own soul?

That was just beginning.