New York, 1936

It was the hottest summer in recent memory. It was an era of change throughout the world. Radical movements across central Europe saw a rise in nationalism and race divide. There was a sense of territorial friction. The world, still hungover from the effects of “The Great War, to end all wars” and the wall street crash of 1929, was a dark place which filled our nostrils with the smell of industry, money and human decay. The stench of opportunism and morality, clashing with greed and power, lingered like a smoking bullet puncture in society’s beat-less heart.

It’s the year Danielli “Danny-Boy” Rimhea stopped being the misunderstood poor misfortune who never knew his father and had to carry the burden of a penniless Irish catholic boy in 1930s Bronx.

It’s the year Danny-Boy became the abyssal embodiment of Hades. Similarly, to the ruler of the underworld, Danielli became the master of not just his own path, but the paths of other misfortunes. The winding path that branched out like a rootless hollow ash, echoing whispers of its soul to the centuries.

It’s the year that same misunderstood boy became an empowered scythe wielder with the price of human life resting on its blade. The first one of endless streams heading down the river Styx.

Danielli was angry. He was torn and broken. He had lost all sense of hope. Hope for a bright future. A future which could be paved by honest and hardworking means. That was all impossible now. He was now the harbinger of sorrow. There was nothing left for him on the Eastern seaboard. No man or woman alive could’ve dealt with the pain Danny-Boy redirected into his many victims as he clawed his way to the top of the depraved. There was no mercy behind those royal blue Irish eyes.

To peer into that darkness, you’d have to comprehend the cause.

In 1921, new-born Danielli Rimhea and his mother emigrated from Ireland to America. His story was chronicled in “The Strip Times” newspaper years later.

The move was meant to be a new life. Danielli’s father was executed for fighting in a rebellion against occupation of Ireland by the British Empire. Danielli’s mother, Dorothea, was a Sicilian Italian native who had family in New York at the time. Dorothea relied on the charity of her family as she struggled to cope as a single mother.

The neighbourhoods and the streets were hard. The radical changes which saw Europe turn to nationalism, the same ideologies which had taken Dorothea’s husband to the Styx, was now present again in 1920’s America.

The Irish were shunned. They were viewed as a plague on American soil, much like the Africans and people of colour. They were the downtrodden and the desperate.

A civil war raged on in the Emerald Isle. The British were forced out, and a Free State declared. Brothers who once fought side by side, were now picking sides and slaughtering each other.

Dorothea could only get seldom work as a maid and char woman to New York’s wealthy. Men who prospered from the 18^th Amendment, prohibiting sale and consumption of alcohol. Dorothea worked for Sal Braccio; a businessman in the public eye, and a well-respected made man in the seedy under belly of American high life.

Dorothea, despite her situation, enjoyed the work. She thought the world of Mr.Braccio. She would have a spring in her step after catching a brief glimpse of him while in his study or rarely exchanging interesting conversation with Salvatore. He was a very busy man. Respected by all classes of men. Salvatore Braccio was a man of the people. He was closed off, and void of any real emotion. He was not cold, he was in-fact quite gentle and warm with his peers and employees alike, but he was not particularly close to anyone, whether in the “family” or in society. He had no room for relationships.

He understood the suffering of the people. The Italians, Irish, Africans, eastern Europeans and so on, he knew pain and poverty. He himself emigrated from a small village in south Sicily called Bracchione.

In 1897, a 5-year-old Salvatore and his scared, desperate parents arrived at the shores of Ellis Island. They, along with eight thousand other sorrowful families on that day, like every day in 1897, lined up for hours to be processed like cattle. They were checked briskly and firmly by the seemingly heartless officers.

Salvatore’s family were checked fast; his eyes looked in, his ears examined, and his ribs feeling the ice-cold tap of a doctor’s stethoscope. Sal’s report proclaimed “malnourished” and “ACCEPTED” in bold red lettering. Sal’s parents’ report read “fragile” and “DECLINED” in a harsh smudged stamp.

The cries of Salvatore as he was pulled away from his mama and papa. His father’s face burned with red and creased with pain as the heart wrenching taste of salt slid down his skeletal shaped face. Sal’s mother uncontrollable, screaming, “il mio piccolo bambino!”, over and over. Salvatore was her baby boy, everyone who understood her knew it too. The air was filled with sadness. The large processing hall echoed the cries and pleas of many a broken family that day. The hurt was felt by all the lines of hopefuls, but nothing could be done as she and her husband were sent back to the coffin ship they used every last cent and prayer to be on; in search of a new beginning.

Salvatore was dragged in front of the clerical officer to give his name, “What. Is. Your. Name!?”, frustratingly the officer tapped at a large chalk board which might as well had been in ancient Egyptian because young Sal couldn’t speak a word of the native tongue. A tall broad man picked Sal up and placed him unforgivably on top of the counter, “Nome!”, he shouted in Sal’s face. The boy now crying and choking, struggling for air as the tears ran down the cheeks of his red blushed face.

The officer grabbed the small chalk board which hung around Sal’s neck as an identifying tag for the place passengers came from. “Bracchione, Italy. No. 4883”, was read by the officer. “His name is Braccio. Put him in the far line. Move it”. Sal now had his new name, not that he even recalls his father’s centuries passed down family name. He was an American now.

The decades passed, as Sal grew up rough on the streets of New York. The five boroughs became a stomping ground to him and his friends. They were all from similar backgrounds. Poor, Italian and impressionable.

At age 10 Salvatore beat a black kid who wandered into the neighbourhood, senseless. The reason being his skin was different, and that’s how the older men treated them, so to him it was okay. You can sure bet the cops didn’t care. Salvatore was good at heart, he felt regret hurting the young boy, not much younger than himself. He felt a sickness in his stomach, he knew it was wrong, so why were his friends praising him and cheering his name? Why didn’t the older men stop him? Why did the kid not fight back?

It was around this time in 1902 that Sal made a choice. He wasn’t going to be a sheep. He was going to be his own man. Sal wasn’t stupid. He could see the daily jeering of African American kids as they walked home through the Italian neighbourhood, as it was the only way without adding an extra hour to the journey.

He could see the divide, the abuse and the look of sadness on their faces; the same look he once saw in his papas. It was wrong. Salvatore soon decided to think for himself. One night when a group of Sal’s no-good friends asked him to join them as they were going to target coloured kids over by their neighbourhood.

They planned to send them a message by cutting one of their ears off and nailing it to a pole as a warning sign. Sal knew it was wrong, but he also felt the pressure of standing up for his beliefs, he was only a young boy not even 11 yet, so in the heat of the moment he agreed to go. The night of the planned attack the gang of kids and Sal headed to the African neighbourhood.

It was more crammed than the Italian side. It smelled weird to Sal, the languages were different, but the same look of despair was evident in their eyes. As the kids walked through the street, they received lingered glances and worried stares. They weren’t welcome. They shouldn’t have been there.

The head kid, Luciano, decided to make the first move. He spotted a group of girls to which he calmly walked up to and proceeded to grab one of them by the hair. The girls screamed. Luciano violently held onto the helpless girl. The other Italian kids then joined in by holding the girl, the other girls ran away as fast as they could. There was a loud commotion and struggle. Sal could feel his heartbeat faster and faster. He was nervous. The girl was crying and trying to scream for help. No one on the street tried to intervene. Too frightened. A cop on the beat kept walk on the other side as if nothing was happening. It was surreal.

The boys held her down as Luciano shouted toward Salvatore to put the knife up to her face. Sal hesitated as one of the older kids handed him the switch blade, “Do it Sally. They deserve it! Cut her fucking ears off!”, cursed Luciano. As the sobbing girl struggled and tried to scream through the scruffy blackened hand of Luciano, covering her mouth. Salvatore leaned in closer and put the knife to the girl’s ear, holding her ear lobe in one hand and the blade in the other Sal started to hatefully pierce the girl’s flesh. The sound of the blade slicing through the girl’s ear. The moist swish of the blood squirting from the victim’s ear as the boy stared into the newly opened gash in shock, this was not what they had imagined, this was gruesome. One of the boys let go of the girl and hurried to his knees projectile vomiting in disgust. The smell of musky sweat, and thick vomit poured into the air sticking to the insides of their nasal cavities, as the boys went in way over their heads.

Their threshold for violence not as high as they thought. The muffled cries got louder and more painful sounding. The boys shouted and cursed as the girl’s bright red blood dripped down Sal’s hand. The footpath darkened as the stain of the young girl’s urine spread toward the curb. The stench of the scene was too much for some of the boys as they gagged harshly.

The thugs noticing this jumped up, “What the fuck! You sick bitch! Let’s get out of here before I get fucking sick!”, proclaimed Luciano. The boys got up and ran before any trouble could come their way. “C’mon Sally, we gotta go”, shouted one of the miscreants, before finally fleeing.

Sal just froze still. Now kneeling in the terrified girl’s body fluids. The girl, no more than 12, now curled up in a ball holding her gashed ear as it poured blood through her fingers. Seeing the thick red blood on the girl’s dark skin made Salvatore realize they were the same. A chill crept up through his spine as his skin broke out in Goosebumps. He felt that familiar sickness in his stomach as it knotted tighter.

It was almost as if he wanted to believe her blood would be different to his. Before he could say a word to the girl on the footpath, a loud call from the street shook Sal as he could now see a group of African men running toward him angrily. Salvatore rushed to his feet, dropping the knife to the ground as he sprinted out of there. The knot in his stomach subsiding into a breathless wheeze rattling his chest. He never felt fear like it. As he ran, he felt as if he deserved to be caught and made pay for what he had done. He felt like slowing down to accept his fate, but Luciano trailed back to him, grabbing his suspender brace and pulling him along; “We’re dead if we don’t run Sally! Those blackies’ ain’t like us, they’ll rip us apart like animals!”, Salvatore stopped running, “What the fuck are you doing, c’mon!”, yelled Luciano. “You keep going. I’m the one that cut her. It’s me they want, it’s me that deserves it”, just as Sal finished talking the African men reached them.

Seeing his life flash before his eyes, Sal accepting the punishment he was about to get. Suddenly, a tyre screech shrieked loudly in the street. Loud banging filled the air. The hot burning smell of fire and smoke filled the street. Salvatore instantly dropped to the floor, as shots fired upon the men. “Aww!”, screamed Luciano as his lifeless body flopped to the ground beside Sal. “Fuck! Fuck! Run!!”, Shouted the neighbourhood men. Within an instant, Sal was being grabbed by an Italian man dressed in an expensive looking suit. “Get in the fucking car, you dumb motherfucker!”, Sal was bundled into the car and off it went speeding onto Mulberry street and toward Manhattan.

What had just happened eluded Salvatore’s feeble mind. He has just witnessed a kid he had known for as long as he could remember, brutally killed in front of him. The thoughts rushed through his head. What just happened? Where am I going? Who are these men? Of course, Sal knew who these men were. He didn’t want to believe. He had seen them in the neighbourhood. They are the highly respected men that the kids used to imitate on the street. The ones with the over emphasized hand gestures, shiny loafers and fancy cars. The ones Luciano used to go from tough guy to saint whenever they walked by. The only ones who pull of a stunt like that and not an eyelid batted in the neighbourhood.

The man in the front passenger seat turns around to Sal at the back and starts to talk, “What are you God damn kids doing in that neighbourhood? Your pal back there, you never knew him, got it?! It’s a damn shame, but I was aiming for that heroin dealer Marcus. He didn’t look happy to see you. What the fuck are you kids doing over there. What’s your name kid?”

Sal stuttered as he tried to conjure up the words that would explain what he had just witnessed and done in the last 15 minutes, “I-I- didn’t want to do it, I swear mister!, I didn’t mean for that to happen…Luciano…He-he…oh my God mister…what am I going to do!?” The juvenile sobbed as the realization of what just happened sank in, this was the beginning of Salvatore’s colourful life.

The men who shot Luciano and drove off with Sal were connected guys from Brooklyn. They were planning a hit on one of Manhattan’s biggest drug dealers. Marcus Johnson, a dangerous man from the black neighbourhood. A hit was ordered by Brooklyn, and Tommy Gardo, the guy in the front passenger seat, attempted to fulfill it. His experience with a piece wasn’t up to scratch and he missed, hitting young Luciano in the neck.

Tommy, feeling regret for what happened decided to bring Sal under his wing and try protecting him. Always feeling the shadow of Luciano’s death on his conscience, Tommy vowed to look after Salvatore Braccio.

Fast forward to 1921, Braccio is a made man in the Brooklyn crew. He runs and operates over 30 speakeasies and underground gin joints. He decided early on when he was a kid starting out that he would only harm those in the same business. No innocents. The flash back of the coloured girl lying in the street crying; and the soulless body of his young peer, Luciano, stuck with him as he made the decision to work for Tommy and his crew.

Sal vowed to always treat the downtrodden with respect, as he once came from nothing and knew what it was like when discrimination ruled over compassion. Dorothea Rimhea was one of the poor souls who came to him for help. She had no where to go, a new-born baby and no husband to support her.

Salvatore gave her a job as a maid in his Manhattan apartment. He saw a bit of his own mother in Dorothea, kind, strong and fighting for her baby boy. Sal enjoyed her company, whenever he was home long enough to see her. Over the years, Sal got richer as prohibition continued to line opportunists’ pockets with gold and their hands with blood. Being connected or in involved in the mafia in the 1920s was like flipping a coin. One side could lead to wealth, respect and comfort. The other side awaits misery, rot and decay. Salvatore was smart, he knew his way around most obstacles.

The law, the higher ups in the family and his conscience were constantly having to be satisfied, and he was a natural. He had all the judges in his pocket. He ruled Manhattan, barely leaving the scraps for the other crews in the alcohol business. Sal made it big. He was top dog in New York during the prohibition, but it came at a price. He became known as Sal “The Lone-wolf” because he refused to have any sort of a relationship with anyone. Business or otherwise. He saw it as potential weakness. He felt sadness and loss before, and he knew he couldn’t afford to have any weaknesses or allow his rivals to blackmail him by threatening his love ones.

Time and time again corrupt police officers would threaten to slap around his loved ones if they weren’t paid on time or getting their cut. Time and time again Sal didn’t flinch, he had nothing to worry about. He cared for no one as he knew it would destroy him. He ran his businesses with no fear for a rival’s retaliation and he only employed trustworthy bodyguards to make sure he could never be hit. He was Insanely well protected, with the best trained guys watching over him.

Through the years, Sal started to fall for Dorothea, the mother of Danielli Rimhea. Danielli was 15 in 1936, when his mother had falling for Salvatore Braccio. He was kind, gentle and could look after Dorothea and Danielli. Sal couldn’t help the love he felt for Dorothea; he couldn’t betray his heart.

One day Dorothea came to Sal to ask for his help in bringing Danielli up to be a man. One that wasn’t running around in street gangs and becoming a thug. Sal understood what it was like for a young man on the streets. It was tough. Kids were getting involved with the wrong people, and Sal was one of the few men in the city that could make a difference. People respected him. He was known as the Lone-wolf, but also as Don Braccio, a title which commanded respect.

Salvatore took in a misguided, fatherless Danielli in 1936. Danny Boy as Sal affectionately called him, treating him like he was his own son. He loved his mother, so why shouldn’t he love her son as if his own blood. Over the months Danielli warmed to Sal, allowing him into his life more. Being able to ask him life questions. Along with Danielli’s Uncle StJames from Vegas, Salvatore was a male influence in Danielli’s life.

It all came to a head in the summer of 1936. A rival family, headed by a lesser bootlegger mobster, Don Carlo Telliachi, decided to test Salvatore’s mettle. This led to an organised move against Sal, who was no longer evidently a lone-wolf.

Danny was attacked by some of Telliachi’s men. Presumably at the time it was for being Irish. The Irish kid with an Italian Christian name and Irish family name, was bound to raise eyebrows.

The gang of men attacked him, beating him to within an inch of his life. They beat him pretty bad, leaving him a nasty gashed cut over his left eye. They could have finished the job but left him alive.

Danny then returns home to his mother only to be met by her screams and questions. “My boy! What happened to you? Who did this?”, Dorothea asked. “It’s nothing Ma! Just leave it be!”, Danielli brushed her off and plonked down in front of the open fire, almost passing out by the blood loss.

“Danny, I lost your father to violence, I won’t lose you. I’ll make this better my sweet boy.”, Dorothea stroked Danny’s hair lovingly as she held the tears back. She sewed up his cut as best she could, but he needed a doctor. Dorothea had to tell Sal about this, he was the only one she had.

That night Dorothea told Salvatore about what had happened. Straight away he became enraged, an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time. He flipped his desk, as he knew this a message sent by Don Carlo. This was war. Grabbing his 1911 semi-automatic pistol he stormed out of his home, foolishly without his men. He was going to go to the Telliachi family headquarters. He couldn’t let this slide, it was a direct rule break to the omerta which was so closely respected by connected guys and mafia. Was it an authorized hit? He had to find out. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he felt a knot start in his stomach, a feeling he hadn’t invoked in many years.

When he got to the speakeasy owned by the Telliachi family, he walked in calmly. He was met by an obvious front. “Oh, Mr. Braccio. What can I do for you today sir? Looking for tobacco?”, Asked the grocer. “Open up the back door and don’t treat me like an asshole. I want to speak to Carlo”, demanded Sal, with a tone in his voice that was nearing the edge of anger. “Okay, Okay Mr. Braccio. Go right through there. I don’t want trouble. We’re all just trying to earn a slice of the pie. No problems here”.

Salvatore walked through the mundane ordinary door, nothing particularly special or appealing. A door to no-where almost, at the back of a tobacco store. Inside he was met by a spiral staircase going up to another door, this one was particularly special. It was a thick metallic vault door. Too expensive to be guarding a tobacconist’s wages. This was the right place. A bootlegger’s hideout.

Sal went through the strangely unlocked vault door. He was immediately met by two large men. They respectfully insisted, “Don Braccio. Sir. You can’t come in here packing. We’ll have to frisk ya”.

A thick New York accent spoke up from the back of the hallway leading from the vault door; “There’s no need for that fellas, Sal’s an old friend of mine. Come on in Sally. How can I be of service to you Sal?”, the dapper man with an eloquent manner asked with intrigue. This was Don Carlo Telliachi, the head of the upper east side crew.

“Carlo, your guys crossed me. They attacked one of my guys. I want to know who sanctioned the hit? Cause I know I fucking didn’t give the order, and I’m the only one who can this side of town. I want their heads on a plate. Nothing less. I don’t fuck around Carlo, you know me. Give me my vengeance.”, Sal demanded in a stern, confident voice.

Don Carlo jested. He was cocky and overconfident in his reply, “Ya know Sal, I’ve looked up to you for many years. Back when you were with Tommy Gardo and the Brooklyn crew, you were my idol. You got shit done. People respected you. You earned a lot of money for me and my guys too over the years, I don’t forget that. I’m afraid though, this one’s out of my hands Sally.”

Sal now anxious, “What the fuck you talking about Carlo? What have you done?”.

Carlo continued, “You got too greedy Sal. You just wouldn’t share. There was enough for all of us, you just had to control all these joints. You became the lone-wolf and fucked the rest of us cause’ you wouldn’t share. You have all the judges, police chiefs and cops in your pocket. You have continued to make a nice living while the rest of us deal with raids, arrests and two-faced cops paid by your crew to shut us down. The call came in Sal. The commission sat down. The jigs up. You fucked up.”

Carlo gestures one of his guys to “Bring them in”, the brute doorman leaves and comes back with Danielli and Dorothea gagged and tied up.

“What the fuck! What have you done? You can’t do this. You cocksucker piece of shit Carlo!”

Don Carlo smirks, “You don’t get it Sal. It’s already done”. With that one-line Carlo puts a gun to Dorothea’s head.

Sal screams “Stop!”, the other doorman grabs Sal pointing a shotgun at him. Sal helpless. Struggles only to be hit with the butt of the shotgun. Now dazed, can only watch on.

Dorothea tearfully mumbles beneath the rag in her mouth.

Danielli tries to fight his way to Carlos. He gets punched in the stomach and winded. Falls to his knees, unable to free his hands.

It’s quiet.

Bang.

Dorothea’s lifeless body falls to the floor. A single gunshot wound to the back of the head.

Danielli screams as much as he can. Falling to ground unable to move arms and legs. One of the henchmen picks him up. His throat is grabbed. “You’re gonna learn something here today kid”.
Salvatore soulless. Eyes devoid of life. He thinks back to 1897, a 5-year-old boy taking away from his crying mother. The pain returns. He stares at his lover’s dead body as it lay on the floor covered in that all to familiar red blood, which has been ever present in his life. Speechless. He looks at Danielli. “I’m sorry kid. Truly”.

Carlos swiftly walks up behind Salvatore, gun muzzle to the temple, “It’s just business Sally”.