Blood & omertà

f gunfire still ringing in Vincenzo Marchesi's ears. The scent of whiske

ad loaded crates, broken backs for penni

him from the driver's

t to say. Was he alright? Could a man be alright af

at. "He'll get used to it. Fi

ess you're me. I

s they drove through the darkened streets. Brooklyn w

emories of Sicily

ly,

his bare feet kicking up dust in the warm Mediterranean sun. The air was thick with the scent of

yard, speaking in hushed tones with two men in dark suits.

him. He knew better than to interrupt when his

from Paler

father owed them something. In Sicily, debts weren't just nu

Marchesi gathered his family at the table. His wife, Rosa, sat beside hi

, but there was something

America soon,"

s heart s

itated. "Becau

estion him further

that never faded. And his fathe

klyn

his thoughts. They were outside a warehouse owned

d, hopping out. "L

gold pocket watch open and closed. His e

"Setup," he grunted. "Some Irish b

ned back. "Irish, hu

"Why didn't you tell us w

yebrow. "Would yo

o didn'

well, Marchesi. Maybe there's a place

n, who tossed a small bund

without hesitation. "Pl

his hands. More money than he had ever made in a week of b

t was t

"There's more work,

re bright with excitement, but Vincenzo felt

work?" Vin

eah. The kind of work our peopl

of his father. He thought of the blood

made hi

n," he

o Marchesi stepped fully into the