Al owned a little social club in Manhattan called the Adonis Social and Athletic Club. It wasn't much of a place, and it didn't exactly live up to an element of its name, the specific nature of which shall be left unspoken, but it was an old haunt for the fellas in the neighbourhood when in need of a stiff one. There weren’t many days where a man would find the small, square table outside the front door absent of a careful associate guarding his post. It was menial work, bouncing at its most tepid, but it needed to be done. The club was exclusive to a very specific clientele and those who weren’t privy to that arrangement were best turned away at the door, for their sake, and for the associate's. Such was the life of a guy who had yet to make his bones for the family, but just as well, it was thankless tasks like these that earned him standing in the eyes of those behind that decision. When the day came where the kid needed someone to vouch for him, it was jobs like these that won him that favour. 

It was inside the club where Alphonse Capone sat drinking a coffee and reading the newspaper but the truth was, even though his eyes had settled on the black and grey text, his mind was elsewhere. Death always hung heavy on Al's soul. It wasn't that he was particularly sensitive - he was a businessman, and as shrewd and wily as they came - but simply that it was something worth thinking about. Al wasn't exactly a philosopher, or even a high school graduate, but what use was a mind if you didn't use it every once in a while? He had taught himself as much as anyone ever could. You've gotta make your own way, that's what Al always told himself. Even if you've got everything served up to you, you've got to make your own way. 

The Factory Ludus had recently been granted permission to move to Manhattan. Everyone knew that settling into new rackets came at a cost; that was as obvious to a mafioso as any scene in nature - what animal steals a fresh carcass from a hungry lion? What Al didn't expect was that the trouble would come from 800 miles away, in Chicago. The city had been bursting at its seams. The death of Godfather Ajani ended up breaking the camel's back. As they say, so dawn goes down to day. The war wasn't without shrapnel. Two crew members had been killed overnight. Family consigliere, Magnolia 'Kaboom' Davis, as well as a wise guy everybody called 'Left Shark', had been hit. It was a big blow. Miss Davis had been one of the biggest names in the city, the woman you came to when you needed anything done at the Ludus. But this is our life. Soldati. Al picked up the mug by its stem and held it to his mouth, pursing his lips when he finished drinking. He took his oath for Batiatus and it was one only terminable by death. 

Pushing into Manhattan seemed an easier task in the face of the war that had enveloped Chicago. The police were the first guys whose pockets you wanted to grease. There were always the odd ones out. Money is money, as many of their colleagues would attest, but there was always some baboo who wouldn’t take ours; instead, his body floated down the Gowanus Canal, south Brooklyn. You never really wanted to give a cop cement shoes but sometimes a point had to be made. You couldn't forget your judges though. What's a crew if you've got some wig-brained piseddu throwing your low-level guys in the slammer every chance they get? Not gonna happen, my friend. You've gotta grease the councilmen for your property developments, you've gotta grease your man in the Department of Buildings, you've gotta grease the safety inspector, you've gotta grease everybody from your mother to the Mayor, with a little bit leftover for stragglers. Money don't come for free, right? 

But of all this, it was still death that hung over Al as he sipped his morning coffee. He turned to the back of the paper, where the sports news always was. It took his eyes barely a second. The Yanks won yesterday. He looked at the picture of the young paisano DiMaggio taking a swing. The kid had turned the team around since his rookie year. He was a ballplayer, that kid. Al's eyes darted down a section. The Giants did too. He couldn't remember a player as dominant as Mel Hein, since he started following the league a couple years back. The guy was a powerhouse, a winner. These were the guys, Al thought to himself, the winners. The mafioso leaned forward, clasped his hands together and rested his elbows on the table. The obituaries would be a few pages back and there were no winners there, only honoured guests of our St. Peter, may they rest, buon' anima. 

He's got chops, Al thought to himself, as he stared back down at the picture of Joltin' Joe DiMaggio.