[Forum Game] - The Family

Advertising posters on a wall on some corner alley in Italian Harlem.
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More advertising posters of the Pieroginni appear in Harlem.
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Statement by Chief John Myborough, Manhattan Police Department​

Vittorio Assadini grimaced as he stepped into the puddle. He felt cold trickles of water flood into his shoe, damping his freshly washed woollen sock. A grim day all around, he thought, glancing at the sky. It was made of steel coloured heavy clouds, and was pouring rain as cold as ice. He huddled his coat closer, making sure to hide the revolver within the layers of warm cloth. He did not want the powder getting wet or the weapon getting coated with rust. Most sought refuge from the weather inside, and the streets were empty save for a few scattering rats and stray cats.

The Raging Cock’s array of flashing pink bulbs was the most visible thing in the whole neighbourhood. The posters on the side of the building were the focal point of most of the neighbourhood’s male teens, and the large painting of an “Exotic” dancer drew the eye of many married men too. The front door was made of oak, and studded with iron. There were bars in the high-placed narrow windows, and the fence around the whole thing had barbs up top. The only way for a customer to get in was to present himself to two huge Italian bodyguards; one at a time, clients would be escorted down the narrow twisting path towards the buildings entrance. The workers, and more respected clientele, would enter via a side door. This one was even heavier than the last, and augmented with four locks. It was also permanently guarded by a shady looking fellow under whose coat you could clearly make the outline of a rifle.

Vittorio had no trouble at the gate, and entered through the side, using his own set of keys. He manoeuvred around the tight, poorly lit hallways, occasionally glancing at a passing dancer. As an unmarried bachelor closely connected with the Pieroginni family he was looked up to by all the girls in the establishment. They saw him as a way out of their jobs, and seeing as how he carried his own revolver and had ample money to spend, they also assumed he would grant them protection in the harsh realities of Harlem. He entered the sitting room before the boss’s office and was greeted by Paulo Wafflatto.

“How’s a reckless ruffian like you still alive?” The old Capo asked, cracking a toothless smile. He didn’t wait for a response, but instead pointed at the office with his chin. “He’s busy for now, but should be alright in a minute or so.”

“Trouble with the Police again?” Vittorio asked, sitting in one of the padded chairs. He took the lit cigarette that Paolo offered him.

“There’s been none of that since the business at the railway station. Do you know that Timmy Soretta boy? He’s talking to his mother.” Paolo took the seat next to him, unfolding a slightly yellowish newspaper. “The young scamp bashed some kids head in with a bat in a row over a girl and now the Police want to get involved. His mother doesn’t know what to do.”

“Over a fight between teenagers?” Vittorio asked, puzzled.

“Yeah, well, they see an Italian surname and they get all thirsty. They’re more crooks than we are, Vittorio, and besides, that lad bashed the other guy’s head in pretty well. I’ve heard he’s still in hospital.” Paolo gave a dry chuckle, turning the page on the newspaper. Vittorio couldn’t help to notice that the corners of the paper were stained with something that strongly resembled blood.

“Is the other boy Italian?” Vittorio asked, putting the cigarette out.

“No. Some Irish kid.” Paolo replied. He accented the word “Irish” as if he was talking about a particularly unpleasant odour.

“Nothing but trouble with that lot. I’m half tempted to just go to that butcher shop of their and shoot the windows out. It’d teach them what kind of neighbourhood this is.”

“Don’t say any of that to the boss. In fact, don’t say it all, because it’s fairly stupid. We might have our quarrels, but it’s best to keep quiet about them to the outside.”

“You’re not the outside, are you Paolo?”

“No, but you never know who’s listening.” The old man said, and Vittorio sighed. He liked the Capo but sometimes he could be a bit paranoid. It’s likely how he survived to be an old captain – all the others were too rash and withered away, in jail or in the grave, before they could even get gray hair.

The oak door at the end opened. A frail woman came out, supported by her tall teenage son. From her cheeks you could see she was just crying. She was thanking the old Pieroginni without respite, and he was doing his best, with smiles and general arm gesticulation, to calm her down.

“You can thank me by baking some of that raspberry jam, Miss Soretta.” He said. The son thanked him, and led his mother out with the help of Paolo. Vittorio got up from his chair, and walked over to the boss, brushing both of his cheeks with his dry lips. They proceeded into his office – a small dusty room, filled with cabinets, globes and an impressive map of the world. Empty bottles of gin lined the parapet of the decorative glass window, and the floor and desk were lined with papers. The boss sat down in a simple wooden chair behind his desk, whilst Vittorio took the comfortable padded chair in front of it.

“How are things?” The boss asked, leaning over and pointing at Vittorio’s coat with his chin. He wanted to see the gun, the young Italian ruffian thought to him, and then leaned over to pass it.

“Good. We’ve established more contacts at the dock, and soon enough we’ll see to employing more Italians in the higher paid jo-“He was abruptly cut off by Pieroginni’s stern gaze.

“Things at home.” He said, opening the chamber of the revolver. He counted the bullets, and rotated the round magazine. It gave off a quiet clicking melody.

“Good. Mother’s healthy, father’s as grumpy as usual and my brother’s claims to be getting good grades. We’ll see how valid those claims are soon enough, but at least he’s smart enough to at least lie that everything is alright.”

“That’s nice to hear.” The boss said. He pressed on him to talk about his personal life but didn’t really listen when he did. Sometimes Vittorio was tempted to sprout nonsense on him to see if he catches on. Pieroginni leaned over, and took something out of a drawer in his desk. It was a crumpled letter, which he handed over to Vittorio. The young man read the letter slowly, and as he did so his face became redder.

“What a scumbag.” Vittorio exclaimed, curling his fingers into a fist.

“Not the noblest of men, I agree.” The boss said, taking out a single bullet out of the revolver and rolling it on his cluttered desk. “But he’s of very high position. He has nothing to shut this place down for, but he will make a mess. We’ll have to move things, perhaps even restrict who comes in here.”

“Do you want me to deal with his?” Vittorio asked. His eyes traced the bullet as it rolled across the desk, over the edge and fell onto the hard wood floor.

“This is a harder one than what we dealt with previously. That man is in a very good position, and sending him to early retirement would serve only to put the spotlight on us. He might also be connected to the Irish. On the other hand, if we pay, we lose money and face. It will show people that we cower in front of our enemies.”

“Are those the only options?” Vittorio asked. His boss didn’t answer, but instead bent over and picked up the bullet. He straightened in his chair, gave a weary sigh. He put the bullet into the magazine of the revolver, and slammed it shut. It gave a click.

"I do not know as of yet. One thing, though, will cetainly flow - gold, or blood"​