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The Fall of Vito Vincenzo Started by: SonnyFranzese on Oct 24, '23 15:15

The deafening crash of artillery fire, the stench of acrid smoke and pings of heavy arms fire filled his heart with dread. The hands which clutched an M1 Garand would not stop shaking. 


"Thirty seconds," shouted the driver of the Higgins boat that rushed towards the shore, surrounded on all sides by further boats spread into a wide deployment line. 


A Japanese kamikaze pilot released its payload on the boat next to him. He ducked below the armor plating as fiery shrapnel burst apart from the vessel. The man stood next to him was praying, beseeching God for his protection. The boat to their front took a direct hit from the beach artillery, spilling its human cargo into the shallows. The boat, unable to maneuver around the wreckage came to a sudden full stop.


The driver dropped the front ramp shouting, "Get out, may God forgive me." 


The Japanese entrenched on the beach opened fire. He watched as the men surrounding him fell to the sudden hail of Type 96 rounds.


Echoing into his mind were the Sergeants words from that day, "Out over the sides, get the hell out."


The Sergeant grabbed him by the neck, man handling him over the side before taking a direct shot into his helmet. His vision blurred. The next he knew he was storming up the hill, leading a squadron of men he had found hunkered down on the beach.


"Keep moving, to the tree line," his hoarse voice shouted.


Keeping his head low and his body covered he ran towards the Japanese positions. Reaching for a grenade he threw it. As the explosion erupted he dived into the trench, raking it with fire from his M1 Garand. As the clip pinged empty he reversed the weapon and used it to club at the enemy around him clearing space. More of men followed him, taking the trench and attacking the bunkers which laid down a net of fire into the shallows.




Vito Vincenzo awoke with a strangled scream. He wrestled himself free of his sodden sheets and fell to the floor. The images from that dark day burned into his mind invading his dreams. Reaching for the bottle of whisky he kept at his bed side table he pulled off the top and guzzled down a mouthful. Vito's whole body was shaking as he relived those dark days. All the men he'd lost, all the horrors he had seen. Pulling himself to his feet he reached for a cigarette, lighting it and taking a seat on the bed. 


As his heart rate settled, his surroundings came back into focus. He was in his studio apartment. Its spartan furniture and lack of decorations reminding him of the home his meager wage allowed. Practicing the breathing techniques the doctor had given him follow him leaving the marines he finally felt a semblance of calm. His wife, more than used to his night terrors, walked over and handed him a cup of water and an aspirin. Thanking her he climbed to his feet, concerned that he had woken their two children who slept in the room next door. 

Opening the door a crack he saw that his children were sound asleep. The eldest girl had been born while he was at war in the Pacific Theatre, the youngest a toddler born celebrating his arrival home. Satisfied he had not disturbed them he climbed back into bed and the warm of embracing of a loving wife left incapable of consoling a man broken by his experience. 

Sleep would not come, so Vito snuck out of bed careful not to disturb his wife. Walking into the small bathroom he splashed cold water on his face. The face looking back at him in the mirror was lined with age not caused by the passing years. Along his left cheek a scar ran from ear to nose, where a scrap of shrapnel had split open his face. Vito's face was tanned from his time spent in the Pacific theatre. His nose was most definitely Roman with a high prominent bridge, making it appear like a beak. His brown eyes once trusting were scarred by all he had seen. 


Vito grabbed a nearby shirt, using it to cover his scarred torso. He had been shot numerous times during the war. His body pox marked by a network of scars. Vito found that exercise stilled the darkest parts of his memories, and kept to a rigorous cycle. This honed his body and kept him lean. Walking out into his living room he began his daily push ups, sit ups and pull ups. By the time he was finished his mind began to settle. Pulling on a pair of dark trousers he tied his worn shoes. Tying a tie about his neck he grabbed his jacket from a coat hanger and retrieved his detective badge. 


Kissing his wife on the head goodbye Vito climbed down the stairs of his apartment block and left via the front exit. The cold crisp air of Queens New York awoke him from his dark thoughts. The streets, never truly empty, echoed to the sounds of parties raging through the night into the next morning. Vito had been shocked by the city he had returned to after the war. The mob ruled the streets of New York, his whole department was rife with corruption. The bastards had even had the audacity to try and bribe him too. 


Climbing into his black unmarked Chevrolet he fired up the powerful V8 engine. With screeching tires he sped away from his apartment block and headed into the city, to his precinct. As he drove through the cities his thoughts turned to the state of his beloved city. The New York he once love had fallen into corruption. He was a man whose moral compass refused to budge, his sense of right and wrong an unmovable force. Pulling into the precincts underground car park he killed the engine and climbed the stairs. 


Sitting down at his desk, he began to work at the mountain of paperwork. There was a reason he'd climbed the ranks of the New York City Police Department so quickly, he was a competent and efficient officer. His arrest rate far outstretching those of his peers. This fact left him an outcast, none of the other officers or his superiors felt they could trust a man who could not be bought. 


His work was interrupted by the ring of his desk phone. On the other line was his his boss, Chief Simmonds, demanding he come to his office. With a sigh Vito reached for his coat and marched up the stairs to the chiefs lavishly decorated office. Knocking once he entered and took the offered seat. The lavishly decorated office left Vito stomachs churning. Adorned about the walls were medals and service stars won by status rather than merit. At the chiefs desk a picture of himself and the local mayor. Vito knew the corruption which ate away at the heart of this police station took root at the chiefs connection with the infamously corrupt mayor. 


"Vito, how many times do I have to tell you to leave the Gambino crime family alone?" asked Chief Simmonds with mock sincerity written over his fat ageing features.


Vito's latest arrest had been a number of connected mobster's running a prostitution ring out of a nearby apartment block. Vito had personally arrested the ring leader, who upon resisting had tasted the worst of Vito's anger. Vito's eyes burned with zealous anger, biting back his tongue he resisted attacking the corrupt chief.


"Did no one tell you the war is over, we're at peace. It's about time you found yours," continued Chief Simmonds, while officially unable to reprimand the Vito's zealous nature, he could make his life more difficult. 


At the mention of the war Vito felt his anger rise. How dare this corrupt, fat, ageing career politician talk to him of service. Vito jumped to his feet and jabbed a finger at Chief Simmonds. 


"You know damn well what those fuckers were doing," he accused in his deep heavy New York accent. 


Chief Simmonds fat face turned red with anger at the insolence, "Sit your ass down while I'm talking to you, I'll have you broken back down to a beat cop if you ever raise your finger at me again," he shouted.


Vito stormed out of the office, unable to trust himself not to knock the fat bastards teeth out. He charged out the front door and drove to the local docks. One of his paid informants had given him a lead on a shipment arriving later today. Parking his car he walked to a local diner and ordered himself a sandwich and a black coffee. Once back in the car he took a bite of his sandwich and a swig of his coffee. Sitting back he lit up a smoke and waited. 


Vito's attention was drawn to the arrival of a dark Cadillac. A trio of well dressed mobsters got out the car and began to bust each other balls while they waited. Vito recognized the oldest of the trio, a local caporegime of the Gambino family, who was said to have connections all the way up to the Mayors office. Vito watched and waited. Fuck the Chief of Police. Fuck the corrupt Mayor of New York. He lived to serve, and couldn't rest while the gangsters rotted away the core of the Big Apple. 




The mobsters attention was drawn to the arrival of their prize. Vito watched as their human cargo was checked by the mobsters with glee. He felt sick as the mob checked each of the girls if they were cattle at a market. One of the girls saw an opportunity and tried to run. The nearest gangster calmly reached into his shoulder holster, retrieved a gun and put a single bullet in her back. Before Vito could fully digest what he was doing he was charging out of the cover his car with his weapon drawn. 


With the voice of a marine drill instructor he shouted, "Put the gun down and step away from the vehicle."


The caporegime, and leader of the gang smiled in response, "Do you know who the fuck we are? Do you know who we work for? Get lost you stupid fuck."


Undeterred Vito continued, "I will not say it again, put the gun downs and step away from the vehicle."


The dark dressed caporegime shouted at his men to kill him. Vito reacted instantly, putting a bullet in either henchman's chest. The S&W .44 in his hands smoked as he held his aim at the dumbstruck caporegime. He approached slowly careful for any other mobsters rushing to their aid. Pointing the gun at the caporegime's chest he told him once again to drop his weapon. Instead, the man either too stupid or too brave to give in, turned bringing his weapon to bear, Vito's finger pulled the trigger, and the mobster fell to floor. 


Vito walked up to his police vehicle and called in the incident. After a few moments the radio blared into life in response.


"I told you to stay away from the Gambino's you stupid bastard," the Chief roared at him over the radio. 


"You're fucked now. You just killed Don Gambino's son," the radio went dead.

Report Post Tips: 68 / Total: $1,360,000 Tip

They were all dead. Vito removed his finger from the trigger. He'd been kidding himself if he thought this would bring some closure, some satisfaction. The empty pit where his heart had once lay could never be fixed, never be repaired. Dropping the smoking gun from his unsteady hands he sunk to his knees. His dead eyes stared at the corpse of the man who had taken everything from him. Vengeance, the only thing which had kept his fragile sanity in check slowly dissipating. 


He didn't know how long he knelt in front of that final body, watching the blood pool about his knees. When the police arrived, responding to reports of gunfire, they easily apprehended Vito. Dragging him to his feet they man handled him into the back of a waiting car which sped back towards New York City from Long Island. Back at the precinct the police beat Vito brutally, gloves hands smashing into his face and body, as they waved a piece of paper in front of his face. Vito's only response was to spit a mouthful of blood onto the confession. 

Vito was thrown into a dark cell. He didn't mind. He found the darkness and solitude suited him well. He was a monster. He deserved to be locked up in this cell. The things he'd done, the people he'd killed, the satisfaction he'd found in those despicable acts, these were the thoughts and actions of a maniac. There was only one logical end for a man who'd trod his path. He would ride the lightning, his body jerking in the executioners chair as high voltage electricity was fed into his brain. 




Vito sped through the New York City streets racing back to the precinct in Queens. With the siren attached to his roof he narrowly avoided building traffic, mounting the curb where his shouts did not move the vehicles quickly enough. His eyes were pinned to his rear view mirror as he frequently checked for any pursuing vehicles. The tail of his car flicked out as he pulled the handbrake and screeched into the precincts underground parking. All was bedlam inside the precinct as police officers rushed to the front door. An angry mob gathered outside, driven by the death of one of their own. 

Reaching his desk Vito overheard a commotion coming from upstairs. Reloading his S&W .44 he grabbed more bullets and stuffed them into his pocket. With his weapon drawn he crept up the stairs. Loud voices and a pleading voice could be heard from behind Chief Simmonds door. Inching closer Vito listened and waited.


"I should strangle where you sit you fat pathetic sack of shit," a heavily accented voice shouted out.


"Tell us where he is," another voice demanded.


Vito recognized the responding voice, "If I knew I'd tell you," the pathetic mewling voice of Chief Simmonds pleaded. 


"You're a real piece of shit you know that? Well the guys fucked anyways," laughed another voice.


Vito backed away from the door as the mobsters laid into Chief Simmonds, as far as he was concerned the corrupt bastard had it coming. As he crept back downstairs he rushed to the underground car park and sped away from the precinct. He knew his presence would only inflame the crowds. Keeping to the speed limit he drove back towards his apartment complex, once again careful not to have picked up a tail. He needed to get of town and quick, killing a Made Man was one thing, but killing a Don's son, especially a blood crazed Don like Gambino was suicide. 


Parking his car in an alleyway behind the apartment block, he checked his revolver was locked and loaded and jogged back towards his apartment. Taking the stairs two at a time he reached the 4th floor. As he rounded the corner he noticed his door was left ajar. His heart raced as he pushed the door open. Vito cried out in anguish at the scene which lay before him. His beautiful wife's body lay bloodied and riddled with bullets in their small kitchenette. Vito was unable to take his eyes off her body as he walked further into the apartment. He felt his mind fracturing as he drew closer and saw two pairs of small feet sticking out from underneath his wife's body. Between sobbed breaths he began to scream as he gently turned his wife's dead body over and saw his two children laying bloodied and dead before her body. She had died trying to shield them from the bullets which had filled the room.


Vito wasn't sure how long he lay there, rocking back and fourth cradling his lost babies. Something broke inside him that day, a small measure of his psyche which had held him on the straight and narrow. Vito cried out in anguish until he could call out no more. 


A strong arm grabbed him by the shoulder. It shook him trying to illicit a response. Vito, lost in a deep and dark misery hadn't realized he had drawn his gun. The gun was loaded and cocked, and pointed at his own temple. The gun was wrestled from his hands, Vito having no strength left to resist. 


"Vito please come with me, you can't stay here," the familiar voice finally breached his broken psyche. 


"I will not leave my family," he sobbed in response.


"I will have someone come and collect them, they deserve a proper burial, but you must leave Vito it is not safe," the voice continued.


Vito just stared straight ahead and allowed himself to be led from the room. With a final sob he turned from the corpses of his family and for the first time noticed his friend. Slightly smaller and stouter than Vito they had grown up together on the streets of New York. The man a priest by the name of Thomas Fabrini, had married Vito to his wife. He had christened both his children. Vito trusted the man with his life. Getting into the Vito's car they drove away from the apartment block and hid out at the church. 




The next days passed in a blur. Thomas tried to warn Vito that he was a wanted man. He had been framed for the murder of his wife and children. The corrupt police force blaming a psychotic episode. Vito barely registered the news. His mind lay broken leaving him unable to truly react. Vito had said his final goodbyes to his family the night before their funerals. Ignoring Thomas's warnings he attended the funeral. Dressed in black he had stood deathly still as Thomas read out their last rites while their bodies were lowered into the ground. 


A strong arm grabbed Vito by the shoulder turning him violently to face him. Two beat cops with menacing grins met Vito's dead eyed stare.


"You're a real piece of work, you sick bastard offing your whole family like that," laughed one of the men.


"The Chief is going to want to see you, you're coming with us," responded the other officer. 


Thomas tried to stop the officers from taking Vito but was beaten into the ground. At the sight of his friend being kicked and battered something inside Vito switched. Vito grabbed the nearest officer by the scruff of his neck and turned him into a thrown haymaker. The officer fell to his knee dazed by the force of the blow. Vito followed up by smashing his knee into the downed officers face. The officers friend turned from the beating he was giving the prone Thomas, but was too slow to raise his fists. Vito used his weight to throw the officer onto his back and drove a series of fists into his face until he lay still on the ground. Thomas noticing the change in his friend, grabbed him by the elbow and fled from the scene. 




Back at Thomas's church he tried to argue with Vito telling him to leave the city. Vito was a wanted man, there was no other choice argued Thomas. Vito lost in the darkness that ate away at his soul refused to listen. Without a further word he stood up and asked Thomas for the keys to his car. Thomas tried to block Vito from leaving until he saw the hatred burning in his eyes. Giving him a final blessing he allowed him to leave. As Vito was about to leave the church Thomas called him back, handing him his S&W .44 and a handful of spare bullets. 


Vito climbed into his black Chevrolet and fired up the engine. The familiar feeling of smoke hitting his lungs focused his fractured mind as he took a drag of his lit cigarette. His path was clear. He would drive to the precinct and confront his boss. Keeping to the speed limit he drove from the church into Queens and towards the police station. Pulling into the underground car park he was confronted by the sight of his partner, a grizzled old Irishmen by the name of Stan O'Connor. Stan was a career cop, like Vito he had worked his way up into the detective position. Where Vito had kept in a state of physical fitness, his partner Stan had succumbed to his heavy donut and alcohol diet. 


Vito was about to climb out the car as his partner pointed at him to stay put. Stan's simple face checked that there were no witness before climbing into the passenger seat of Vito's car. His partner was out of breath by the time he'd settled into the seat. His overweight body seemed to engulf the car. 


"Vito this is the last place for you, what the hell are you doing here? You're a wanted man. The Chief and his goons are out for your balls," warned Stan with concern written over his pudgy features. 


"I've a score to settle with that fat prick. My wife and kid are buried six feet under, and he's gonna answer for that," Vito responded with fire in his eyes. 


"This isn't the time or the place, the Chief's spooked, he's got armed guards all over the station," responded Stan as he reached into his coat pocket.


Stan pulled out a pad and pen, he scribbled an address onto the pad and handed it to Vito, "Meet me here, make sure you aren't followed. Fuck its good to see you Vito, and I'm sorry your family got caught up in this mess", Stan patted Vito on the arm and struggled back out the car. 


Vito fired up the engine and fled the precinct. Driving to the address scribbled on the paper. 

Report Post Tips: 13 / Total: $260,000 Tip

Vito didn't know how long he spent in that cramped dark cell. Minutes past to hours, hours past to days. He was afforded one cup of tepid water and a bowl of gruel at what he presumed was each morning. The latch at the bottom of the cell door would open, and the items slid into his damp cell. Each time the food arrived he would kneel over it like a dog, lapping up the cold contents with his fingers. His only other visits were from the regular beatings he received from the officers left to guard his cell. As they charged into his room with menace in their eyes he would lash out with all of his remaining strength. Fighting like a cornered rat until a truncheon or a glove fist would knock him to the floor and the heavy boots would stomp on his head until sweet nothingness took him.


Awaking groggily on the damp floor Vito was surprised as the door to his cell was thrown open. Half a dozen armed guards awaited him outside. He was marched out of his cell into a waiting police van and driven to the nearest court. The judge, all fire and brimstone, sentenced him to execution. The state appointed attorney not even offering up an argument. Vito smiled to himself as he was marched out of the court house and driven to the nearby Rikers Island. 


With his arms and legs chained he was marched into the reception area at Rikers and left to wait. They sat him down on a cold bench and removed the shackles from his feet. Vito flexed his toes, willing blood back into his aching bones. With the gate locked and shut he heard the guards laughing voices echoing down the long corridors. Vito swore to himself as the door to the prison was unlocked and opened. Three heavyset mobsters walked into the room with glee on their eyes.


"What have we got here then?" the first mobster asked rhetorically. 


"Looks like our payday boys, there's a big hit on this fuckers head," remarked the second of the mobsters, cracking his knuckles as he walked towards Vito who remained sat on a nearby bench.


The trio charged at Vito, who at the last moment dived out of their path and wrapped the heavy chains which bound his hands around the nearest gangsters neck. Using what remained of his fading strength he twisted the chain until he felt the man's neck pop like a rotten apple. Unwinding the chain he let the body drop to the floor. The remaining mobsters reached into the pockets of their checkered prison suits and pulled out improvised stabbing devices. Made of long sharpened steel and wrapped with leather or lace. They approached Vito from either side, their deadly blades held firmly in front of them. Vito naturally returned to the lessons he'd learned fighting in the Pacific theater, he rushed the nearest gangster and pushed the stabbing blade away from his body, pushing his foot behind the mobster he shoved him in the chest using a traditional judo move. The other mobster, now behind Vito charged from his rear. Vito barely able to dodge, took the blade across his arm. The metal dug deep hitting the bone beneath. Vito gritted his teeth against the pain and grabbed the shiv by the hilt, reversing the blade he drove it into the attackers chest, the blade bit deep, bubbling blood frothing from the man's mouth as the shiv punctured a lung. 

Vito's aching body was running with sweat. His blood ran freely down his arm and chest from half a dozen wounds. He sucked in gasps of air as the remaining guard swapped the bloodied shiv from hand to hand menacingly. Vito watched and waited for the moment his opponent made his move. Using skills trained long ago in the marines he reversed the aim of the blade and snapped the mobsters arm. Kicking his legs out from underneath him he grabbed him by the head and smashed it into a nearby wall. The guards rushed in as the sound of commotion ended. They were clearly shocked to see Vito standing. Brandishing their truncheons they laid into his broken body. 




Vito pulled up his car a block away from the address Stan had hastily scribbled onto a piece of a paper. He checked his revolver, making sure six shots were loaded into the chamber and rattled his coat pocket to ensure the spare rounds were still there. Climbing out the car he donned a beaten flat peak and walked towards the address. Standing opposite the address he lit a cigarette and waited. Satisfied that this wasn't an ambush he left the cover of the alleyway and walked up to the buildings front door knocking twice. The two story house was in a run down neighborhood. Sketchy looking figures loitered nearby, Vito's anxiety rising the longer he was forced to wait. 


Stan opened the door, pulling Vito into the dark hall and checking he hadn't been following. Vito smelt the alcohol on his breath, and noticed his drunken swagger. Stan pointed at a door towards the back of the house and marched Vito towards it. Vito's hackles were up, his suspicions raised. He reached into his pocket, but felt a gun sticking into his back.


"Keep your hands up, in there now," Stan spoke in a hushed whisper. 


Vito raised his hands and walked into the well lit room. Sat about the room were the hierarchy of Gambino's crime family. At the head of the table sat Don Gambino, who smiled watching Vito enter. Vito dropped his arms, wrapping the gun at his back into his arm he threw his head back, satisfied when he felt the crunch of his old partners nose. Two guards standing either side of the door reacted instantly, smashing the butts of their shotguns into the back of Vito's head knocking him to the ground. Vito's vision swam as he was man handled back to his feet and held in front of this mock court. Don Gambino's eyes burned with hatred.


"I hope your family rot in pieces you stupid sack of shit," Don Gambino spat.


Before Vito could respond he was knocked from his feet as the room erupted into violence. The ageing mobsters took it in turn stomping his head and driving their feet into his stomach and chest. It didn't take long before they were dripping with sweat, taking wheezing breaths as Vito was pulled to his feet. 


"Get him the fuck out of my sight," Don Gambino coughed as he struggled to get his breath.


Vito's body was dragged out of the house and thrown into the trunk of a waiting car. Stan was joined by the two mobsters as they drove towards the docks. In the back of the car Vito stirred. He struggled and fought against his bonds as he was thrown about the trunk by the speeding vehicle. 

Report Post Tips: 5 / Total: $100,000 Tip

Vito's tortured mind, concussed, bruised and beaten could make no sense of his surroundings. He was upside down, his feet tied to a rough rope, his body being used as a punchbag. His fleeting memories echoed past experiences from long ago. In his mind he relived the nightmare of the Japanese POW camps. Where he and his men were starved and forced marched to exhaustion. Each time they left that terrible camp, fewer and fewer would return. One night he and the few left with enough strength decided they had to try and escape. The decision was made for them as the guards turned on them, with fire and bayonet they gleefully slaughtered. Ducking out of their improvised prison they sprinted through the thick jungle, diving into the sea and making a swim for the nearest island. Gunfire erupted from the forests edge. Vito watched in horror as the man to his left took a bullet to the chest. Still they swam, the shore never seeming to get closer. 


Vito did not know how long they swam that night. He didn't know how they avoided the boats which patrolled those seas, shooting anything and everything they saw in the water. He would never understand where they found the strength and the mental fortitude to keep going on. Washing up on the shore they were found by the local Filipino guerilla fighters. The Americans treated with reverence were fed and nursed back to health. 


Vito's mind was dragged back from its memories as a bucket of cold water was thrown over his face. He was dropped heavily to the ground. Barely able to get his hands up in time to protect his face. He lay on the sodden floor, naked, alone and shivering. Pulling himself to his feet he found a pair of checkered prison clothes and pulled them over his bruised and broken body. He steeled himself as the door was thrown open, but to his surprise a medical orderly waited outside. Clearly disgusted at his treatment he shouted at the guards to get this man to the infirmary. Vito was dragged on unsteady legs and dumped onto a bed. The doctor busied himself treating the worst of Vito's wounds, treating them for infection before wrapping them in bandages. Vito dined upon his first warm meal, and his first cup of coffee in the longest time. 


As Vito slipped into an uneasy sleep he noticed a movement at the corner of his eye. He reacted instantly, throwing his body off the bed as a pair of goons stabbed improvised shivs into the space his body had just occupied. Throwing himself at the nearest assailant he wrestled the stabbing weapon from his hands, elbowing the fallen goon in the nose and stunning him on the floor. Climbing unsteadily to his feet he watched the fight fade from the other man's eyes. Dropping his weapon he ran back the way he came. Vito turned his attention to the dazed bloodied man on the floor. It was time to get some answers. 




Rough hands man handled Vito out of the car. Behind the heavy sack which covered his face he heard Stan complaining about his broken bone, his voice nasally as he tried to stem the blood which ran freely. The two mobsters accompanying told him to stop complaining or they'd break his legs and give him something to complain about. Vito's feet were placed in buckets and he felt a a cold heavy substance pooling around his ankles. His body was held in place firmly by the gangsters at his side. Vito remained a dead weight as he plotted an exit to his current predicament. Vito heard a call pull up outside, and rough voices shouting out asking them what they were doing. Vito felt one of the two mobsters let go of his arms, taking his opportunity he pushed off with his legs and fell heavily on top of the remaining mobster. He blindly wrestled the man on the floor, smashing his elbows down into his face until he felt his resistance drop. 


Vito sucked in a breath of fresh air as he pulled the heavy sack off his head. He was in a dark, run down warehouse. The only source of light coming from the cars headlights briefly blinded him. As his eyes adjusted he saw a dusty scene of discarded crates and barrels. Patting down the fallen mobster he founded a loaded pistol at his shoulder. Cocking the weapon he turned and put a bullet in Stan's fat stomach. The other mobster turning to the ruckus, having dealt with the disturbance outside was met with a bullet to his head. Vito stalked towards Stan, his rage burning hot. He kicked the fat bastards hands from underneath him as he tried to climb to his feet. Pistol whipping him knocking out some rotten teeth he grabbed him by the collar of his bloodied shirt and aimed the pistol menacingly at his face.  


Washing his hands of blood Vito felt sick to his stomach. Stan's dying screams still echoed through his head. His end had been long and drawn out as Vito probed him for answers. Vito had the names of the men who had done the act. The names of the people who would suffer longest. Dousing the dockside warehouse in petrol he found in the back of the car he threw his burning cigarette into a pile of broken crates. He stalked out into the cold night, the wind flowing down from the Hudson river was biting. Walking to a nearby subway station he climbed onto the next train and sat down heavily. 

Report Post Tips: 2 / Total: $40,000 Tip

Vito chased the scum bag through the run down apartment block. The denizens too doped out to notice their passing as they charged through the corridors. Climbing onto the roof his prey had no where else to go. Vito ducked behind an air con unit as bullets sparked against the metal. The man either too doped up or scared to square his shots. Vito returned fire as he leapt onto the soaking roof. The New York rain pelting down around them. He heard the man swear as he dropped his spare magazine during a hasty reload. Sensing his moment Vito ran from his cover and tackled the pathetic scum bag to the floor. Pulling him to his feet he demanded to know where his families killers were hiding out. Vito had spent days tracking their movements, talking to the street people who they peddled their dirty drugs to. A buck here and a beating there got you a long way in the underbelly of New York City. 


The poor excuse for a man looked to be 70 pounds soaking wet. Vito took no pleasure in extracting information from him. It didn't take long, the threat of a long fall from one of New York cities sky rises was enough to kill any bravado he had left. Vito happy to leaving him pissing pants once he had given the address of their drug den. 


Back on the mean street of New York Vito was glad to climb into his stolen car to get out of the rain. Driving the short distance he stashed his vehicle a couple of blocks away. The walk through the cold biting rain did helped cool Vito's rage. He swore to himself as he rounded the next corner and saw the street being closed off. Sneaking past the cordon he watched as the two mobsters were marched out of the building under heavy police guard. Inching closer he overheard some of his old colleagues as they walked the men towards the waiting cars. 


"You two fucking idiots were told to leave town," one of the up and coming detectives shouted, Vito recognized him to be Tom, a dirty cop turned dirty detective from his old precinct. 


"You're lucky we aren't taking you upstate to a shallow grave," responded Tom's partner, a seasoned detective Vito knew to be Carl, one of the men the Mayor kept on his payroll. 


One of the two mobsters who'd been paid to kill his family tried to resist. Reminding the pair who they worked for. The detectives losing their patience knocked the man to the ground and gave him a few kicks for good measure.


"You think Don Gambino gives a fuck about either of you, get in the car and shut your fucking mouths," Carl shouted shoving them into the back of a nearby police car.


Carl entered his car and reported in to the radio operator that their raid had been successful. They'd found kilos of heroin in the property and they were bringing the suspects in. It took all of Vito's remaining sense not to charge at the car and kill them all, but he couldn't afford to be sloppy now. Vito jogged back to his stolen car and sped towards a dilapidated apartment building on the wrong side of town where he was hiding out.


He sat down heavily on the apartments only threadbare seat. Pouring a shot of whisky straight into his mouth he sat back and lit a cigarette. The list of names Stan had blabbed before his untimely demise had shocked him. The level of corruption in New York city knew no bounds. He knew in his heart that he would kill every name on that list, or die trying. For they had all shared in killing of his family. There was no other option for him. He would rid this city of their corruption. He began to make a plan. He would start to hit these people where it hurt them the most, their wallets. If he could dismantle their empires, they would be left vulnerable. Grabbing the bottle of whisky from the floor next to him he necked back another mouthful. 



The jail's resident doctor, a grizzled ex-corpsman by the name of Jimmy Smith, entered the infirmary. Noticing the bloodied goon on the floor while Vito lay on his bed he raised his brow in question. Spotting the shivs left on the floor he quickly got a picture of what had happened. Calling for an orderly he demanded that he take the mobster back to his cell.


Sitting at the end of Vito's bed he remarked, "You certainly know how to make friends," drawing a smile from Vito's split and bloodied lips.


"Look, I'll cut straight the chase. I checked your file. Hell I've been following your story in the papers. Are you really the same Vito Vincenzo who won the medal of honor?" Jimmy asked once the orderlies had left the room.


Vitto nodded in response, "In the flesh and blood, don't worry doc you don't need to tell me how far I've fallen."


Jimmy stood and saluted, "You're a war hero, no way was I gonna let the corrupt fucks who run this place beat to you to death in solitary confinement," checking that no one was around he got up and walked into his office.


Jimmy came back with a bottle of whisky and poured them both a glass. Vito sat up knocking back the drink in one shot.


Jimmy's face turned to sorrow, "Listen kid, they're sending you back to gen pop, the prison is owned by the mob." 


"I need a favor, marine to marine, I need the location of two men,Vito responded coolly. 


Jimmy digested the request slowly asking, "These men, would they have anything to do with the murder of your family?"


"They're the fuckers who pulled the trigger, the rest are dead," Vito remarked with hatred burning in his eyes.


"I'll see what I can do, I can delay the prison warden for a couple more days, you just rest up, conserve your strength," Jimmy stated getting up from the bed.


Vito fell into an unsteady sleep. Not sure if further attacks would come. 

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Vito slept fitfully in the run down apartment. It had been days since he'd last rested. His quest leaving little time for relaxation. He dreamed of times long past, a family long dead.


His father had come to New York city from Sicily. Fleeing the touch of the Black Hand who had run him out of his home town. Arriving in the late 1800s Vito's father worked and saved, eventually purchasing a deli shop that his family lived above. Vito's father was a simple man and honest to a fault. The Black Hand once established in America had sought his business out, extorting him for every dime. When Vito's father was unable to pay they resorted to violence, beating him to a pulp. His business left in ruins, he was forced to sell and never quite recovered. Like so many of his generation, he was the victim of the crime wave which spread through the city.


Vito's early years were tough. Surviving through the wall street crash and the Great Depression, his family never having enough to get by. The meager funds his father earned were spent drinking himself to death. Vito grew up detesting his father, and as America entered the war he had left his family, falsifying his documents and joining the Marines when 16. He never saw his parents again. Vito's experience had shaped him into the man he was today. He hated the corruption which ate away at New York, he hated the mafia who had destroyed his family. He was a man of conviction, determined not to be a victim like his father. 




Awaking many hours later Vito's head swam. His vision was blurred and his mouth dried. Reaching for a glass of water he gulped down its contents as his stomach cried out for food. Reaching for his coat and flat peak cap he left the run down apartment and walked out into the cold streets of New York city. He was a wanted man whose face was plastered across television screens. Walking past a nearby bodega he ordered some food and a coffee. 


Vito approached the address he had beaten out of the drug user the day before. The whole police force new this address, where Don Gambino's crew peddled their filthy drugs. In the wrong end of town, police did not enter here. He watched as street people, the down and out prostitutes and scumbags of the city came for their morning fix. Vito was filled with disgust as members of Don Gambino's crew went about their daily business. Steeling himself he reached into his pocket and drew his revolver checking the chamber was loaded. Pulling a dark scarf over his face he ambled towards the run down tire shop, mirroring the movements of the drug users around him.


One of the local enforcers approached Vito asking, "How many you need?"


Vito reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, the low level mobsters eye's lighting up in response. 


"Go inside and ask for Carl," the skinny mobster pointed towards the door of the run down tire shop.


Walking towards the opening door Vito held his arms tightly about his chest and scratched at his neck. He kept his movements jerky, keeping up the facade of a junkie looking for a fix. Armed mobsters walked the corridors protecting their patch. Vito followed the dark corridor, passing locked doors where those unfortunate enough enough not to be able to pay in cash paid in flesh. He'd come here for information, but he felt his blood boil.


At the end of the dark corridor lay a reinforced metal door. An overweight mobster brandishing a shotgun waited outside. Vito was stopped at the door and roughly patted down, his revolver found and taken off him. The mobster knocked twice and Vito heard dead bolts being released. Vito squeezed past the overweight mobster and entered the well lit room. At either side of the door stood two towering mobsters. Well dressed with Fedoras and expensive shirts. Vito recognized the man sat in a leather chair behind the oak table, he was a made man for the Gambino family, one of the Don's trusted men.


Mounds of cash and heroin separated them. Reaching into his pocket Vito pulled out a stack of cash and handed it to one of the guards who had taken position at Vito's shoulder. The guard walked over to the made man and whispered into his ear. Vito kept his eyes on mobster who stood at the door. The three men exchanged looks, Vito's suspicion rising in response. Vito started coughing, keeling over trying to catch his breath. He reached for the revolver strapped to his leg, pulling it out and returning to his sitting position. Bringing it up he put a bullet in the made man's stomach, jumping from the chair he turned and shot the guard by the door. The made man was crying out in pain from the stomach wound as the final mobster reached for the piece he kept in his shoulder holster. Vito switched aim and put a bullet in his neck. He fell heavily onto the table knocking the contents on the floor. Vito climbed back to his feet and checked the dead bolts were locked.


Vito took his time with the mobster who's stomach wound was bleeding heavily. He had an address and the names of the people the mobster answered to. He knew where the drugs came in, and he knew where the cash was being sent. Arming himself with a shotgun he'd found propped next to the door Vito took a drag from his cigarette, pulled back the dead bolts and shoulder barged the door. The door smashed into the overweight mobster knocking him to the floor. Vito smashed the butt of his shotgun into the downed mobsters faced stilling his struggles. 


Taking the lit cigarette from his mouth he threw it onto the gasoline he had pooled outside the front door. Bloody corpses littered the building from the brief firefight that had erupted following his exit. Walking away from the run down tire shop Vito made a hasty exit. 

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The ageing Don sat back in his red leather chair and inhaled the Cuban cigar which was lit at the corner of his mouth. Taking a sip from a glass of expensive wine he tried to settle his worrying mind. As a young man, fresh off the boat from Italy, he had fought tooth and nail to climb the ranks of the Mafia. With a natural intelligence that lent itself to the dangerous world, he had schemed and warred his way to the top. Taking out any rivals until he sat at the top of his own family, as one of the most feared and respected mobsters in New York City. Now he was old, his grey hair had long thinned, his body long softened with age. His muscles from a life spent fighting in the streets long turning to fat. His wealth afforded him a life style few could imagine. His pudgy face seemed to be permanently in a scowl like a pit bull chewing on a wasp, with a nose long bent from a life spent fighting on the streets. 


Don Gambino was sat in the study of his Long Island mansion, the room lavishly decorated with expensive carpets of a deep crimson. The walls covered in expensive art he had no appreciation for, other than its value. It was getting late his family slept soundly in the other wing of his mansion. He had received an urgent call from one of his underbosses. Don Gambino had declared that the man come to his house and explain himself.


He slammed his fat fists into the heavy oak table at his front as one of his underbosses explained the weeks events. There had been attacks across the city. Some unknown group scheming against him, hitting him where it hurt most. The heroin he had smuggled into the docks had gone missing, the men he had guarding the warehouse where it was stored before transport into the city had washed up dead on the banks of the Hudson river. His operations across the city were being disrupted. The businesses he used as a front being torched. The paranoia which had long taken hold over his ageing frame kicked in. Which of the crews were moving against him? Which of those bastards would have the gall to try such a thing?


Turning to the underboss sat apologizing to his fore he told him to get out of his sight. To not come back until he had answers, otherwise he'd find himself sleeping with the fishes. 


Don Gambino nodded at his Consigliere standing beside him. An ageing Mafioso by the name of Luca Vincetti, where Don Gambino's body had softened with age his Consigliere had never let the life of luxury get to him. The man was tall and rakish. His hair still full was touched with grey, swept back from his leathery face. Luca had keen intelligent eyes and a long beak of a nose. They had grown together on the streets of New York, he trusted the age weathered man with his life. He was his right hand. One of the few men to never have let him down, and never tasted the bitterness of his vindictive heart.


Luca stepped forwards and listened to Don Gambino's hushed command, "This is the Falcone's I know it is. That fucker is making a move against me. Put together a hit squad. Let the men know we're at war."


"Would it not be wiser to call a sit down with the other families, we'll need allies if you want all out war," warned Luca, one of the few men able to question a direct command from the Don. 


"Fuck the other families, there's no saying they aren't all in this together. I will not sit by and let those fuckers make a fool of me," shouted Don Gambino his fury building.


Luca Vincetti nodded in response. Grabbing his coat he left the Don and prepared himself to enact his orders. Driving to their HQ back in Brooklyn New York he would plan and prepare for war. The streets of New York would run with blood by the time they were done. 




Vito's mission was a success. He stalked away from the burning building having hit another of Don Gambino's crew fronts. He threw the duffel bag into the back of his car, having ransacked the armory and stolen anything of worth. Careful to obey the speed limit he drove back to the run down apartment that he was using as his base of operations. Storing the guns with the rest of his stockpiled arms he sat back in the chair and poured himself a glass of whisky. He'd spent the last couple of weeks performing nightly raids on his enemy's business. He knew if he wanted a chance of killing the ageing fat old bastard he would need to cripple his operations first.

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Vito watched his next target from the seat of his stolen car. He lit another smoke and waited for the right opportunity to strike. The legitimate business was being used as a front to launder Don Gambino's drug money. The waste management business was controlled by a capo of the Gambino crime family. The usual steady stream of mobsters driving expensive cars were absent tonight. The gates protecting the yard were shut and locked. Vito watched and waited.


His attention was drawn by the sudden arrival of half a dozen black Cadillacs. The first vehicle crashed into the heavy gates of the compound allowing the others to rush in. The still night erupted into violence as the occupants of the black Cadillacs piled out and opened fire on the business within. The capo of the waste management business, clearly expecting an attack, returned fire from well established positions. The mobsters in the Cadillac were cut to pieces. Vito thanked God he hadn't blindly rushed in, he'd have been cut apart in seconds. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of the events. 


The back car slammed into reverse and sped off into the cold winters night. Vito smiled to himself turning over the engine and taking chase. He followed the Cadillac through empty streets, the city sheltering away from the worst of the New York night. Rain lashed down from the Hudson river, as he followed from a safe distance. The car pulled up to a busy intersection and Vito jumped out of his car. Approaching the drivers window he put a bullet in the mobsters head. Stalking towards the back seat he cuffed the stun mobster on the head with the butt of his revolver. Pulling the mobster out he bundled him into the back of his waiting car and sped into the night.


Vito smiled to himself, he couldn't have planned this any better. The mobster while close lipped had revealed enough. The city was at war, Don Gambino suspecting his rival Don Falcone of the recent attacks had acted rashly. Attacking the leaders head quarters he had failed to kill his mark only wounding a couple of Falcone's capos. Vito knew the patch Don Flacone controlled. He drove his stolen car to the Bronx and dumped the dead body off outside one of their businesses, a pizza shop the Don used as a front to launder his dirty cash. He would use this turmoil to his advantage.


Grabbing a molotov cocktail from the back of the car he lit the soaked rag and threw it through the front window. As the building awoke to the carnage he opened fire with his stolen Thompson submachine gun, watching with morbid satisfaction as bodies hit the floor. Dropping the spent magazine and gun he jumped back into his car and sped into the night. That would send a clear message to Don Falcone. Hitting him on his own turf in retaliation to their failed attack. Vito drove back to the abandoned apartment, a plan already formulating in his head. 




Don Falcone sat back calmly as his capo's reported on the nights events. Their business ventures across the city had been hit by multiple attacks. He absorbed the knowledge, having long prepared for such a hit from his rival. While Don Gambino was an ageing overweight mobster, Don Falcone was lean and thin, and only in his early forties. He'd grown up on the streets of New York, one of the new breed of mobsters not born in the old country. He'd climbed the ranks quickly. Trusting to his guile to get close to his ageing Don, manipulating the man until an opportunity presented itself for him to take over. 


Having prepared for such a day, Don Falcone welcomed the news and the opportunity. His crew had stockpiled arms, his hired muscle knowing that one day this would come. Some might argue that the Don had been waiting for an excuse. Waiting for a chance to attack his rival without drawing the attention of the other crime families of New York. He'd argued this day was coming, and was confident the others would see this attack as provocation enough to still their hands or force them to his side. The peace which had held over New York for so long was fragile at best. Now that peace was broken, Don Falcone would see his enemy in ruins. Applying his intellect he handed out his orders, they would attack Don Gambino on multiple fronts. He trusted his capos to see his orders fulfilled, for all the knew the taste of his lash. 




Vito sat back in his cell and lit up a smoke. He'd been tried and tested ever since entering general population. His last cell mate rested in the prison's infirmary with a pair of broken legs for his troubles. Standing up from his bed he stretched his aching muscles. He had the names and locations of the two men who had killed his family. They were under heavy protection from the mob who controlled this wing of the prison. Vito would find a way to reach them, even if it meant dying in the process. He swore to himself and spat out his cigarette as the light from outside his cell was blocked by the arrival of some well built mobsters. 


Standing from his bed he waited for the click that would indicate his cells door lock being opened. The three men held blades menacingly in their fists with violence written on their eyes. Vito having been trained in hand to hand combat knew his only chance lay in attack. As the first mobster pushed the cell door open Vito charged, knocking the door back into his face and grabbing the improvised shiv from his hands. Keeping his back to the wall he stilled his beating heart. The two mobsters entered the cell carefully, stepping over the body of their fallen friend who clutched at his broken nose. Vito rushed the nearest mobster, pushing his body back into the door as he stabbed him repeatedly in the stomach. The man cried out in pain but Vito did not stop. With a final sickening crunch he drove the shiv deep into the mobsters throat, his sobbing cries turning to sickening gargles.


The last mobster, clearly thinking that the hit on Vito's head was not great enough to lose his life, ran back down the corridor. Vito walked to the downed mobster at the door and broke his arm, kicking the man in the head for good measure. Pulling the dead mobster out of his cell he sat back down on the bed and lit another smoke. It was going to be a long day. 


Vito looked up at the sound of heavy feet approaching his cell. The prison guards looked disappointed when they saw him still alive.

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War was bad for business. Drugs were stopped at the ports. Users and tricks were too scared to leave their houses to keep the money coming in. Even the corrupt New York police department could no longer turn a blind eye. The Mayor appeared on prime time television announcing a state of emergency. The streets were not safe. 


War was bad for business. Those on the mobs payroll were held to suspicion. As the rest of the countries eyes were drawn to the streets of New York they could no longer turn a blind eye. Vito sat back in his apartment and smiled for the first time in a long time. War was bad for business, but good for his business. He used the chaos to his advantage. Each night he left his run down apartment and attacked another of Don Gambino's crew fronts. The noose was closing around the ageing Don's neck.


Vito prepared himself for the nights events. Arming himself with a sawn off shotgun tied to his his shoulder and stashed in the folds of his coat, he checked his police issue revolver and clasped it in his shoulder holster. He climbed into his stolen vehicle, a black Cadillac he had taken from one of the many crew fronts he had hit over the previous week. Turning over the engine he lit himself a smoke, the fire burning into his lungs. Driving into the cold wet night he avoided any police checkpoints and made his way into Brooklyn.


Pulling his car up a few blocks from his target he took a brisk walk down the street. His target tonight was one of Don Gambino's underbosses. The man owned a strip club in a shady part of Brooklyn. The two story building was brightly lit with neon lights, the windows were shuttered and its heavy doors shut. Armed guards patrolled outside, their eyes turned to the empty streets. The men knew their business, carrying shotguns and thompson sub machine guns to deter any attacks. 


Creeping into the dark alleyway which surrounded the strip club, Vito climbed over the fence and hopped into the yard at the back of the strip club. Drawing a wickedly sharp blade he dispatched a pair of guards who stood outside. Stashing their corpses behind a dumpster he broke the lock of the back door and rushed inside. The buildings occupants attention was pinned to threats from outside. The strip club was empty. Climbing the stairs two at a time Vito pushed on upstairs. He was here for the underboss, he couldn't afford to be drawn into a firefight with the dozen or so guards who patrolled the perimeter. He didn't have long before the dead guards outside absence was noticed. 


Checking the second floor, Vito found the underboss sat in an office. Kicking in the door he charged at the man with his shotgun drawn. The man was tucking into his nights meal as he was met with the barrel of Vito's gun. The mobster was caught in a comical state. With a napkin tucked into his shirts collar spooning food into his flabby cheeks. 


"Make a sound and I'll blow your head off," Vito warned.


In response the mobster removed the napkin from his shirt and wiped at the corners of his mouth. Pushing his plate back he smiled at Vito. 


"Don Falcone must be desperate using a sack of shit like yourself to perform a hit," the underboss laughed. 


Vito was relieved that the underboss didn't recognize him. He'd changed a lot in the last few months. No longer caring about his appearance, barely wasting the time to shave or comb his hair. As a detective he had prided himself on his appearance, as a broken man he couldn't care less. 


Their conversation was interrupted as a guard entered via a side door. Vito reacted instantly turning his gun from the underboss he shot the guard square in the chest. The underboss reached for a gun he kept on the desk, Vito cocked the shotgun turning the smoking barrel he ended the underboss's attempt at resistance. Swearing to himself he turned on his heels and ran back out of the building. Jumping down the stairs he rushed through the main club area trying to reach the back of the building. As he ducked through the door automatic gunfire followed him. Jumping behind the stage Vito popped up and fired his gun in response. Using the stage as cover he ran for the curtains which blocked off the changing rooms behind. He felt hot fire burning through his arm from where one of the bullets had made their mark. 


Outside the changing rooms a couple of mobsters waited in the yard, opening fire as they saw his shadow pass over the door. Vito swore to himself and waited for the incoming bullets to lessen. His attention was drawn to the guards inside in full pursuit. As one ducked around the corner from the stage Vito put him down with a shot from his sawn off shotgun. Vito turned to the door and ran outside, his passing met by a hail of bullets as he unloaded his shotgun in response. A punch to his gut made him know he'd been hit. Working on pure adrenaline alone he ended the two guards with controlled bursts from his gun, pulling his bleeding frame over the fence he stole away into the night.


Back at his car he did his best to staunch the blood flowing from his arm and stomach. Black spots were forming at the corner of his eyes as the pain burned into him. Turning the engine over he frantically drove away from the scene, desperately holding onto his consciousness, he knew if he stopped now he would die. He was a wanted man, with the mafia on his heels, he couldn't risk the local hospital. Instead he aimed his car towards Thomas Fabrini's church, desperation throwing caution to the wind. He parked his car across the pavement, honking at the horn as his consciousness finally slipped. 

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Father Fabrini called desperately for aid. With the help of the nearby church-goers they pulled Vito's broken body into the church. Asking one of them to contact a telephone number he hastily scribbled onto a piece of paper Father Fabrini did the best he could to help staunch his friends bleeding wounds. He preyed silently as he worked only stopping to voice commands to the two Samaritans who remained at his side. 


An ageing doctor, an old friend of Father Fabrini, knocked at the churches heavy doors, Father Fabrini wiped the worst of the blood from his hands on his frock as he opened the door ushering the man inside. The doctor was a veteran, serving as a front line Army medic in WW2, he recognized the bullet wounds instantly and took over Vito's care. He examined the wound swearing to himself, the bullet was lodged in Vito's stomach he needed to get it out now. He asked Father Fabrini to get a table some sheets, warm water, a bright light and a bottle of strong alcohol. Father Fabrini rushed into action gathering the requested items. 


Setting Vito's unconscious body onto the table the men stepped back so the doctor could go about his work. The doctor reached into his leather gladstone bag and retrieved some wicked looking tools. The doctor turned to the men and told them to hold Vito's arms and legs.


Father Fabrini appeared handing the doctor a bottle of unopened Canadian whisky, "I was saving this for a special occasion," he smiled. 


The doctor opened the whisky and poured a portion on Vito's stomach wound. Vito awoke with a scream and the men struggled to keep him still. Cupping Vito's head the doctor poured a portion of the whisky into his mouth before placing a piece of leather between his teeth.


"Now would be the time to start praying father," Doctor Jonson joked.


Taking a scalpel he widened the entry would in Vito's stomach, before taking a pair of clamps and prizing the wound open. Vito's muffled screams echoed through the church as the men did their best to keep him still. Doctor Jonson rooted about inside Vito's stomach, careful to avoid any major organs. Taking a pair of pincers he removed the lodged bullet as the pain finally forced Vito into sweet unconsciousness


Turning to Father Fabrini, "I will stitch up his wounds, the rest is in Gods hands," Doctor Jonson began.


Once finished Doctor Jonson walked outside of earshot of the other men with Father Fabrini at his side, "I recognize this man, it is Vito Vincenzo," he stated in his broad Boston accent. 


"You are correct doctor, I know this man and I knew his family. He is innocent of those heinous crimes," responded Father Fabrini. 


"I'm glad father, but he is a wanted man and his passing will not have gone unnoticed. I've an old cabin out in New York State, I would suggest you take him there while his wounds heal," Doctor Jonson spoke in hushed whispers.


"Thank you friend, may God protect us," Father Fabrini stated as he shook his old friends blood stained hands. 




Vito awoke in a dark room heaped in furs. His limbs felt heavy and his mouth dry. As he tried to move his head a splitting jolt of pain split into his skull. Biting the pain down he began to cough violently.


A familiar face appeared at his side, "Vito you are awake, praise the Lord," Father Fabrini began.


Father Fabrini reached for a glass of water raising it to Vito's lips. The cold liquid made him cough, but still he gulped at its thirstily. 


"How long have I been out," Vito asked trying to pull himself up.


"Stay still Vito, you'll pull out your stitches. You've been out for a week, the doctors been checking on you. You're lucky to have made it this far," Father Fabrini spoke urgently, gently pushing Vito back into his bed. 


"Feels like I've been kicked in the gut by a tank," Vito groaned.


"I'm just glad you're safe. With any luck we'll smuggle you out the state once your wounds are healed," continued Father Fabrini. 


"Not a fucking chance, my work isn't finished," wheezed Vito in between pained breaths. 


Father Fabrini knew better than to argue. Instead he merely shook his head and stoked the cabins fire, "One of these days you'll be the end of me Vito Vincenzo."

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Don Falcone sat back and burped having just finished the pasta dish served at one of his restaurants. He took a sip from a glass of expensive wine and dined on the beautiful sight in front of him. In her late teens, if it weren't for her low upbringing she'd be a model or married to a rich man. Instead she was Don Falcone's comare. His bit of fun on the side while the wife raised his kids at home. He had no real interest in her outside of her looks, but it paid to wine and dine her every so often.


"How's about we retire to my apartment?" the hawkish Don asked with a smile as he took a pull from his Cuban cigar. 


His comare wiped at the corner of her mouth with a napkin and gave him that look. Before she could respond the Italian restaurants erupted into chaos as an explosion tore through the front door. Don Falcone threw the table onto its side and dived behind as bullets smashed through the building. His bodyguards unfortunate enough to be stood near the door were blown to pieces. Those positioned out the back charged into the restaurant and grabbed him pulling him out of the room as fully automatic gunfire tore the building into pieces. Don Falcone's eyes lingered on the corpse of his comare, her body shredded with shrapnel from the blast. Now he was pissed. His usual calm and collected manner seethed with fury. While he expected to lose men during the war, he did not appreciate losing his possessions. 

As the Don's motorcade sped into the night his temper did not cool. He would see Don Gambino's crew bleed for their actions tonight. Once back at his headquarters his usual calm demeanour was replaced by fire and fury. Calling for his closest capos he demanded they load up with guns and men and attack Don Gambino's fronts. Taking his best shooters to one side he stated they would attack Don Gambino's headquarters in Brooklyn. Piling into a group of nearby armored cars Don Falcone climbed into the back seat of the middle car. Checking his thompson sub machine gun for jams he loaded the magazine and lit a smoke. His blood was up, his unshakable honor demanded satisfaction.




Don Gambino sat in his crews headquarters and digested the nightly reports. His assassination attempt on Don Falcone had been a failure, but he knew it would give the young upstart pause before thinking he could fuck with Don Gambino's affairs. His ageing Consigliere continued updating the Don on which attacks had been a success and failure. All in all it had been a good night. They'd torched many of Don Falcone's crew fronts across the city. If they could keep up this pace the war would be over in weeks. Their attention was drawn to a sudden crash downstairs and the bark of gunfire. Don Gambino's bodyguards jumped into action, grabbing weapons and locking the reinforced door behind them.


The Don's Consigliere, a man named Luca grabbed a pair of shotguns and thompson sub machine guns they kept stashed in the office, as gunfire, shouts and screams continued to echo from the rooms below. Loading the shotguns up with shells and checking the magazines were loaded in the sub machine guns he nodded at his old friend. 


Silenced replaced the sound of gunfire as Luca turned to his friend, "Lock the door behind me. I'll go and check how our men are getting on." 


Luca ducked behind the reinforced door shutting it behind him. Don Gambino poured himself a glass of whisky and lit a cigar while he waited. Having a spent a life time in the mafia he had long learned not to panic. Further gunfire erupted from below followed by a crash then a bang as something explosive erupted. Time seemed to drag on as Don Gambino waited for news.


There was a heavy knock on the reinforced door, followed by a muffled voice telling him to open up. The Don armed himself with the shotgun and crept towards the door, inching it open waiting for armed men to charge into the door. Instead Luca and a couple of his bodyguards told him it was not safe and they needed to leave. Don Gambino followed them down the winding corridors of his headquarters. The halls and adjoining rooms littered with bloodied corpses from where the two crews had met. Don Gambino swallowed nervously as he noticed how close the fight had been. If it weren't for the timely intervention of Luca, using a secret passageway only he and Don Gambino knew about to flank the attacking mobsters, then the night might have told a different tale. Don Gambino climbed into the back of a waiting car which sped out into the night. Don Gambino swore that Don Falcone would pay for the nights attack. He had made the ageing man feel vulnerable in his own fortress, and he would make him pay for such a slight. 




Don Gambino's motorcade tore through the New York city streets. Sat in the middle car he swore as their vehicles were forced to stop. The next street they had turned into was blocked by dark Cadillacs pulled up along the street. The drivers threw the vehicles into reverse as gunfire erupted from behind the blockade. Don Gambino watched in horror as the vehicle in front was peppered with automatic gunfire. He cried out in anguish as he watched his best friend, his closest ally and trusted consigliere Luca get torn to shreds by the bullets. The vehicle set alight as the gas tank caught fire. The driver of the car Don Gambino was in managed to reverse back down the street, spinning the car around he sped out into the night.


Don Gambino shouted and raged at the driver to turn around and help Luca, but his bodyguards refused. Luca was dead and the only thing capable of appealing to Don Gambino's temper was gone with him. Don Gambino lost a part of himself that night, he swore he would murder everyone and anyone Don Falcone held close. 

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Don Gambino stood head down as the heavy rains poured. Before him, what remained of his oldest friend's burned and shriveled corpse was being laid to rest. The priest intoned the usual blessings and kind words of afterlife, but Don Gambino knew better. With all they'd seen and done there was little hope of seeing paradise, he would likely see his friend in hell again, once death knocked at his door. The usual collection of Don's, capos and made men were present in the cemetery.


Luca's family stood next to Don Gambino dressed in the black of mourning. As was tradition the Don's and Godfather's of the other families paid their respect. Passing on kind words to Luca's family and passing on their condolences to the ageing Don. Godfather Lucassi promised Don Gambino that he would square things, as the Boss of all Boss's and leader of New York it was his right to call a sit down between warring crews. Don Gambino nodded in return, even in his fury he knew better than to question Godfather Lucassi's orders. 


The peaceful funeral sermon was disturbed as the body was being lowered into the grave. A squad of dark Cadillac's sped into the cemetery car park, slowing down as they drove past the funeral procession. Don Gambino swore to himself as he saw the windows wind down and barrels of cold steel poked out the window. Shouting a warning he pushed the Godfather to the floor and cried at Luca's family to get down. Gunfire erupted from the cars peppering anyone unfortunate enough to react to the shouted warnings. Don Gambino watched capos and made men of the other three families get shot to pieces. His bodyguards took cover behind tomb stones and stone caskets before returning fire. The black Cadillacs sped off into the distance as silence settled over the funeral.


Godfather Lucassi rose to his feet and looked at the scene before him. Don Gambino saw the fury in the ageing godfather's face. While their life was violent and dangerous there were rules. Attacking a family during their funeral was stepping far past the line. The Godfather gathered the other Don's and plotted their vengeance. 




Don Falcone knew he was fucked. These wise guys had overstepped their mark. Tasked with following Don Gambino and finding a suitable time to wack him they had chosen wrong. He knew the peace he held with the other families of New York was fragile at best. Attacking a made man's family during a funeral was an unforgivable act. Reaching into his shoulder holster he pulled out his S&W revolver, the eyes of the men to his front lit up in surprise. One by one he put a bullet in each of their heads. Straightening his coat Don Falcone stepped over their corpses and left his crew front. Talking in urgent tones to his bodyguards he gave them their orders. He would call all his men back to his headquarters to make a final stand. Divided they didn't stand a chance against the full might of the New York families. 


As Don Falcone sat in the office of his headquarters he heard his men preparing for the inevitable attack. They shored up the defenses reinforcing doors, creating choke points and stockpiling arms and ammunition.


The phone at his table rang picking up the receiver he recognized the deep voice on the other line, "Who the fuck do you think you are attacking a made man's family at a funeral?" the voice on the other end of the phone asked. 


Don Falcone's blood ran cold. He recognized the voice. It belonged to the Boss of all Bosses, Godfather Lucassi.


"Godfather Lucassi some of my men were over zealous, they've been dealt with," responded Don Falcone trying to sound calm and collected. 


"Over zealous? That's a fucking under statement. I was at the funeral you stupid bastard, you think I'm going to sit by after an attempt on my life. Your days are numbered," the phone clicked dead.


Don Falcone, broke out into a fit of rage, he tore his office apart cursing the dead men who had caused this. Slowly his rage settled. Now was not the time to give in. Reaching for the phone he called his connections across the city. Unlike the other mafia families he maintained ties with the other ethnic gangs across the city. He knew with the right amount of money their muscle could be brought. 




Vito rested in the cabin as his wounds healed. He regularly exercised to regain his strength, the fury and desire for vengeance at his heart kept him going. Father Fabrini and the Doctor visiting regularly to check on his condition. Each day some of his strength returned. 


After a couple of weeks he asked for news of the city from Father Fabrini. The priest told him that the streets of New York were not safe. He'd heard rumors of a failed mafia hit squad at the funeral of a connected man, where Godfather Lucassi was nearly killed as Don Falcone's men tried to kill Don Gambino. Following the attempt a full scale war had broken out across the city, as the other families joined. Don Falcone was rumored to have paid large sums of money for protection from the other ethnic gangs across the city. Now the streets of New York City ran freely with blood and fire. The cold nights echoing to the sound of gunfire, each morning the corpses and burned out wrecks piled up. 


Vito pushed himself each day to recover. As soon as he was able he would return to New York city to see his revenge fulfilled.

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The loose collection of ethnic gangs gathered outside Don Falcone's heavily guarded head quarters. Puerto Rican and African American street gangs had answered Don Falcone's call to arms. The Don stood on the stone steps of his head quarters and announced the nights plans. He wanted chaos in the streets of his rivals. He'd given their leaders large sums of money to win their allegiance and his men stood prepared to hand out the arms from heavy wooden crates. As the gangs boarded their cars with thompson sub machine guns and pump action shotguns Don Falcone turned to the leaders and stated his orders. Each knew the crew front or home they would attack. 


Don Falcone sat down heavily back in the office of his headquarters. Calling ahead to his wife he warned that his bodyguards would be collecting his family soon and taking them to a private jet. This jet would take them out of state away from the worst of the danger. His wife tried to argue but Don Falcone would have none of it. He would not see his family caught up in this mess. Reaching for a glass and a bottle of whisky he poured himself a generous portion. He had been drinking a lot more than usual, every since the failed attempt on Don Gambino and his family. Self preservation told him he should flee, to get out before the other families caught him, but his pride would not allow him to leave. He would see this through to the end if necessary. 


His dark thoughts were interrupted by the head of his security detail a robust mobster by the name of Tony, "the cars ready when you are sir."


Don Falcone returned a hawkish smile, grabbing his expensive coat and shotgun he followed his bodyguard out of the headquarters. A mole inside Don Gambino's staff had revealed an opportunity, one too good to pass on. Climbing into the black armored Cadillac the motorcade sped out of the headquarters garage and shot out into the cold New York night. The heavy rains hammered against the cars roof as Don Falcone lit himself a smoke. He spoke to the collection of made men who accompanied him in the car outlining their plan once again.




Don Gambino sat back in the office of his Long Island mansion and listened to the underboss who reported on the nights event. The whole fucking city had erupted into violence. His business operations and crew fronts were being hit across the whole of New York city. Reports filtered in that other gangs were spear heading the attacks. Well armed street gangs who would usually struggle to get much more than a pistol were reported to being using heavy arms and explosives. Don Falcone was fighting back, like a cornered rat he still had claws and fangs.


With monumental effort Don Gambino climbed into the back of his black Cadillac. His ageing frame ached in equal measure to his heart at the loss of his closest friend. His body long softened with age and a life of excess. Joining a motorcade consisting of his bodyguards the cars sped out into the heavy rain of the New York night, headed towards a sit down with the heads of the other families. Pulling onto the dark Brooklyn street Don Gambino pulled himself out the car as his bodyguards gathered about him. Walking the short distance into the expensive apartment block he called the elevator as his men kept an eye on the outside. 


Once upstairs at the penthouse suite Don Gambino was welcomed by the heads of the other family, who sat around a dark oak table, sipping at expensive wines and whiskys while smoking expensive cigars. Godfather Lucassi sat at the head of the table, while four other ageing Don's sat at the other seats. Godfather Lucassi got straight to business, all their businesses and crew fronts had been hit as chaos spread across the city. Those sitting on the fence no longer felt they could still their hands. This was war, all out war. Such acts could not go unpunished. These men would see the city burn before they allowed their honor to be openly insulted. 


Together they began to plot how Don Falcone would be removed. Their meeting interrupted by a call from downstairs. The apartment block was being attacked. The group rushed towards the penthouse suites window and looked upon the street below. A group of black Cadillacs attacked from either side of the street. Their bodyguards caught in the crossfire were being cut down. The men fell back in good order prepared to guard the apartments front doors. 




Don Falcone and a group of his men entered the apartment blocks foyer via a backdoor. A worker on their payroll had left the fire exit propped open. Don Falcone stayed at the back as his men rushed into the foyer and opened fire into the back of the bodyguards who were under fire from the street. Don Falcone walked into the foyer and saw a blood bath. The guards not expecting an attack from the rear were cut down into pieces. Kicking the gun from a downed bodyguards hand he put a shell of 8 gauge into his chest.


His men out the front ran into the foyer shouting out warnings, their attack had not gone unnoticed. The police were here and had opened fire on his men. Swearing to himself he took stock of their losses. He had enough men to force their way up to the penthouse suite, but his chances of making it out alive were slim. Self-preservation took over and he shouted at his men to flee. Even his sadistic mind understood the difference between shooting street people and getting into a firefight with the NYPD. 




Godfather Lucassi smiled as he watched the boys in blue turn up to his aid. As the boss of all bosses the mayor ultimately answered to him, as did the police. It took one phone call to the mayor to get a squad of his best men down to protect his interests. He'd watched as Don Flacone's men were cut down, their guard lowered as they slaughtered the occupants of the foyer. He'd watched their victory turn into a route as the men ran from the fight. Turning to heads of the other crews he smiled and asked them to sit back down. They were safe, the attack had failed.

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Vito sat alone in his dark cell, his fractured mind dreaming back to simpler times. The first time meeting his wife, the first time his eyes had laid upon his children, his children's first steps. The depraved part of his mind told him the solitude did him good, it let him forget. Having spent so long with only one thing on his mind he started to welcome the reprieve. In his moments of clarity he fought against such weakness, he was here for a reason. He would see the men who had killed his family dead before he gave into the darkness. He hadn't survived the POW camps to fall prey to this. He told himself that compared to the daily beatings, abuse and forced marches of those days this was a breeze, but he'd been stronger in those days, his psyche hadn't been cracked, his mind hadn't been broken. 


He'd long lost track of time. The passing of each day only marked by meager rations being dropped onto the damp floor. His cell had no window and the door no gaps for light to enter. A thin mattress sat in one corner of the room, there was a hole in the middle of the cell for him to relieve himself. None of the other guards ever stopped to talk to him, not even deigning to throw the usual insults or threats of violence.


The sounds which echoed down the dark basement corridor would have once disturbed him. Those who's minds had succumbed to the worst effects of solitary confinement. Some cried out in anguish while others chatted idly to themselves. Vito held firm to the fragile mental barriers he had built around his mind. The longer he spent in this hell, the less likely he would be to survive unscathed. 


Vito's was rudely interrupted as it thought back on simpler times, he'd reverted to an old memory of being in Marine boot camp as a 16 year old. His cell door was thrown open, the dazzling light from the corridor outside blinded him. Rough hands pulled him to his feet and he was man handled out of the damp cell. On unsteady legs he was marched back upstairs, he tripped on the first stair his eyes still adjusting to the light and the guards either side of him wrenched him back to his feet and roughly pushed him up the stairs. 


As his vision returned having adjusted to the new found light he found himself being marched through the reception center and back into the area used to house the general population of Rikers prison. The tiered cell blocks erupted to shouts and threats of imminent violence. He was back in the lions den, exactly where he wanted to be. The guards marched him to a second floor cell and pushed him into the room. Sat on the bunk was an ageing man who's nose was deep inside the book in his hands. The man's intelligent eyes raised briefly to acknowledge Vito's passing with a subtle nod he indicated Vito had the top bunk. Vito took his few meager belongings from the prison guards before they left without a word. 


Sitting atop the bunk bed Vito introduced himself to the ageing man below. After a brief exchange Vito learned that the man was an ex-detective named Tommy Strapen serving hard time for corruption. The man didn't bother to plead his innocence, having long accepted his current predicament. The man while shorter than Vito was corded in heavy muscle. His once kind face was covered in scars from the beatings he had received over the years. The only thing lower than a rat in the prison hierarchy was an ex-cop, especially detectives, who were responsible for most of the prisoners lengthy sentences. The prisoners, mostly left to police themselves, would make sure to regularly beat and extort any police officer unfortunate to serve time with them. Vito knew the man below must be dangerous to have survived such a long stretch. 


Having exchanged pleasantries Tommy pointed out Vito looked weak, and he wouldn't last long in a place like this without regular exercises. The pair helped each other through a vigorous exercise routines. Vito's head swam as he struggled to keep up, but he knew deep down if he wished to fulfill his purpose he would need his strength. 




Vito removed the heavy furs which swaddled his healing body. He climbed out of the bed and stretched out his aching limbs. Dropping to the floor he started doing his daily push ups breathing heavily as sweat poured off his body. Careful not to disturb the stitching in his belly he did what he could to maintain his strength. He had sat idle for too long. The reports he got back from the city left him wanting to return. New York city was at war with itself. The whole city seemingly erupting into nightly violence as the gangs tore each other apart. 


Clothing himself for the cold winter weather he stepped outside the wooden cabin and walked the surrounding woods. The cold fresh air of New York state did him good. The heavily forested area provided good exercise for him to keep his strength. Since leaving the marines he'd dedicated his life to the New York Police Department, rarely taking a step outside the city limits. He hated himself for this fact, all those wasted years he could have spent with his wife and family enjoying life. His dark thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of a car. Vito walked at a brisk pace back to the cabin prepared to meet the visitor. 


Having worked up a sweat on the walk back Vito entered the cabin and found Father Fabrini and Doctor Johnson waiting for him. Father Fabrini busied himself worrying over Vito's future, advising him to leave the state at the earliest opportunity while Doctor Johnson checked his wounds. Vito lit a smoke, more than used to his friends worries. The doctor seemed satisfied with his progress, the wound showing no sign of infection. Reaching into his kit he removed the stitches, warning Vito that he would have a wicked scar to show for his troubles. Father Fabrini tried once more to get Vito to agree to leaving the city for good, claiming his quest for vengeance would leave nothing but ruin in its wake. Vito turned on the man asking him what he would do in his position. Would he sit back meekly and allow the men who had killed his family to walk free. Father Fabrini had no answers, even his precious book could not find words to soothe Vito's fury. Instead he sighed and said he would pray for Vito's soul, eliciting a bark of laughter from Vito. He knew he was consigned to many fates, but salvation and pearly gates were not one of them. 


Doctor Johnson advised Vito to rest for another couple of weeks, to which Vito protested asking the pair to drive him into the city. Tempers flared as the two men attempted to reason with Vito, but they realized it was a losing battle. If they did not offer Vito assistance he would gladly walk the many miles back into New York city, likely freezing to death or being caught by the law. Father Fabrini asked but one thing, that they spend that night in the cabin together, a last supper he dubbed it enthusiastically. None of the men could refuse. Instead they busied themselves preparing a meal for their last evening together. Father Fabrini knew it would likely be the last time he saw his friend alive. Raising a toast to each of their health they gulped down a portion of cheap whisky. 


The trio drank late into the night. Vito and Doctor Johnson talked of their past experiences in the war. The men shared a mutual respect for one another, having both survived during those troubled days. Doctor Johnson had served on the beaches of Normandy, his descriptions of storming the beaches on D-Day fascinated Vito, who had been sent to the east never getting to serve in those engagements. Father Fabrini was glad to see his old friend content if only for a brief moment. The darkness which clouded him receding if only for a night. He would at least retain memories of his childhood friend with some semblance of happiness. 

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Vito followed Tommy as they shuffled along the long line of people waiting for food in the prisons cafeteria. He kept his eyes peeled in case of any attack. Pushing his tray through the shutter he picked it back up and followed Tommy as they made their way into the main seating area. The benches and tables were filled with a motley assortment of criminals and gangsters. Vito met their hungry gazes with fury in his eyes. Tommy walked around the outside of the cafeteria and plonked himself down on an empty table towards the back, Vito sat next to him with his back to the wall. Tommy having already warned him of the predicament they faced each day they left their cells, they were vulnerable out in the lions den.


Spooning mouthfuls of disgusting maggot ridden food into his mouth Vito nudged Tommy as a pair of Hispanic gangsters stalked towards their table. Vito noticed the leader exchanging glances with the men who sat on the surrounding tables. Steeling himself for a fight he waited for Tommy to make the first move. Vito was severely unprepared for the prison's social system but knew he needed to learn quickly. The taller Hispanic man's muscled arms were covered in crude tattoos, his tanned face which sported a handlebar mustache held Vito's steely gaze with a gap toothed smile. Vito felt his muscles tense as the man walked within striking distance, noticing the Hispanic man beside him discreetly passing the leader something. 


Time seemed to slow as Vito watched the pair reach for crudely constructed shivs from within their prison pockets. The sounds of hundreds of men eating at once turned to silence as the air in the room changed. Tommy must have noticed too for he moved with a speed which bellied his ageing frame. In unison they rushed the pair of men, both knowing their only advantage lay in attack. Vito reversed the metal tray which held the remnants of his meal, throwing the food directly at the pair as he grabbed it in two hands. He aimed the tray at the nearest gangsters face, catching him with the corner and opening a nasty cut above his eye. The gangster blanched as his head swam from the impact. Vito pushed his advantage pulling the dented tray back for another swing, before it could connect he was tackled from the side as the leaders goons jumped in to help.


Vito wrestled with the man on the floor pushing a weapon away from his throat, pulling his head back he pulled the man forward and brought his nose into the bridge of the man's nose breaking it brutally. Vito felt the pressure release from his chest as the man fell back, pushing himself to his feet he watched as Tommy stabbed an assailant multiple times in the chest with a shiv he had wrestled from the goons grip. Vito's attention was drawn to another goon rushing him from the side. Taking a step to the side he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and smashed his head into the wall of the cafeteria. The goon fell heavily to the floor his head sitting at an unnatural angle. 


Vito and Tommy were forced back towards the wall as more people joined the fray. A shiv stabbed at Vito's side but he caught the blow and snapped the man's arm at the elbow. Another blade stabbed out glancing his side, Vito swore to himself and stomped at the man's leg snapping his ankle. Tommy having survived numerous attacks over the years fought with feline grace, using his enemies momentum he braved the storm breaking wrists and heads in constant motion. 


Vito created some room about him, stabbing out with a shiv he had taken out of a goons hands. A loud bang silenced the room and the goon in front of him coughed up blood as his lungs filled with hot lead. One of the prison guards had fired off a warning shot straight into the crowd. He screamed at everyone to hit the fucking ground otherwise they'd be joining their friend. The whole room threw whatever weapons they had on hand to the floor and lay flat down with their heads on their hands and arms on their heads.


Tommy turned to Vito and smiled, "Welcome to Rikers Island," as the heavy handed guards rushed into the prison breaking the groups up and sending them back to their cells for lockdown. 




Vito awoke sprawled across the couch with a drink still in his hand and a long extinguished cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth. Swearing to the room he pulled himself onto unsteady feet and rushed outside spilling the contents of his guts all over the porch. His head felt like he'd been kicked by a horse, his guts churned as he threw up the rest of last nights meal. Doctor Johnson joined him outside and laughed heartily. Passing Vito a water and an aspirin. Vito gulped down the contents and thanked the ageing doctor. Drunken flashes ran through his mind as he climbed back onto his feet. Guilt sprung into his mind as he remembered laughing and enjoying himself, it had been so long since he'd felt anything other than the hatred which ate away at his soul. 


With the doctors arm to steady him Vito walked back into the cabin to the welcoming smells of cooking bacon and sausage. Sitting at the wooden table that acted as the dining table he was glad to have Father Fabrini bring him a cup of steaming coffee. Taking a sip he lit himself a cigarette and felt the worst of his hangover receding a little. The three men chatted idly as they picked at their heavy breakfast. An air of unease settled over the room as they avoided the inevitable topic of Vito returning to New York. Neither the Doctor nor the Priest wanted to see Vito killed, but they knew that it would be the inevitable conclusion, what could one man do against the organized crime families of New York?


Vito released a great burp and climbed to his feet. Taking a quick wash out of a bucket kept in the bathroom he clothed himself, grabbing his shabby coat he asked the men for a lift back to New York. Father Fabrini went to protest but Doctor Johnson merely shook his head. Climbing into Doctor Johnson's car the three men drove steadily back to New York City as the first snows of winter began to fall. Doctor Johnson took a turn Vito was not expecting as he took the man to meet an old friend from the army. If they were going to send him back into that hell hole they'd at least send him well armed. 

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Vito settled into his new existence with relative ease, his previous life spent at war rarely allowed him to let down his guard. He and Tommy fell into a routine of watching one another's back. Be it watching each others backs while the other showered or in the cafeteria they rarely left each others side. Following the fight the other prisoners viewed the pair warily. Vito felt their hungry stares whenever he walked by, but if any felt inclined to violence they knew would have a fight on their hands. While the prison held hardened killers these men still viewed their life of enough worth not to risk a broken neck or a shiv stuck in their throats.


Vito was disturbed from his musings as a guard called his name, he had a visitor. Climbing out of his bunk he tucked one of the shivs he had swapped for a couple packs of smokes into the waist band of his prison issue pants. The usual shouts and jibes followed him as he shuffled down the tiers towards the prisons exit. Following the winding corridors he was led to the visitors room and tried to hide his surprise as Doctor Johnson sat opposite him. 


Putting the receiver of the nearby phone to his hear the person sat behind the armored glass stated, "Long time no see old friend."


"Glad to see your still kicking," Vito responded and he meant it. Doctor Johnson was never a thin man, but he was now carrying a lot more bulk from, sporting a bald spot and a white beard. 


"I thought I'd come and see you, can you believe its been two years since Father Fabrini's passing?" the doctor questioned. 


Vito's smile turned to sorrow as the doctor mentioned his dead friend. Guilt welled up in his heart, if only he had listened, if only only he had kept his distance he might still be with us. Damn him and his God. 


"He made me promise to look out for you, fucking good job I did of that," continued the doctor. 


"We all knew where my path would end," responded Vito, "feel no sorry for me old friend," he continued with sorrow in his eyes. 


"I won't keep you any longer Vito, you look after yourself in there, I'll tell Mary you asked after her," the doctor finished standing from his chair and leaving the room. 


Vito hands were shackled and he was man handled back to his feet by a nearby guard and escorted back towards the prison. He was surprised as the rough hands guided him up a set of nearby stairs. Outside a door the guards stopped him, rapping twice on the frosted glass panel stenciled with the words "Warden". Vito swore to himself as he was man handled into the wardens office and sat down heavily on a waiting chair. 




Vito walked into the dusty barn and pulled back the heavy sheet which covered the stacked crates. He whistled in delight as he prized open the wooden crate and saw what lay inside. Rows of military surplus weapons filled the crate. From M1 Thompson sub machine guns to M1 Garands, Springfield rifles to M19B Browning automatic rifles. The unsuspecting barn in the arse end of New York state was a bonified armory. Vito turned to the owner and asked how much. The price was more than reasonable and Vito paid a little extra for the man's silence. Wrapping the weapons in a heavy sheet he bundled them into the back of the doctors car. 


The doctor drove back into New York city careful to maintain the speed limit, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention. They saw evidence of the war which was tearing New York apart on every street corner. Burned out buildings and cars littered the streets. The police barely able to maintain order left the most violent districts to themselves. 


Pulling up outside the ran down block of apartments where Vito had taken up residence he helped him carry the bundle of weapons upstairs. Vito thanked both the men for their assistance and watched as their car sped off further into the city. Vito busied himself cleaning the weapons and checking them for any rust or signs of decay. The weapons were in good nick and would prove invaluable in his coming fight. 


Sitting himself down on the rundowns room only chair he began to plan out his next moves. He would need to move quick to take advantage of the war which raged across the city. 

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Vito's hands were still cuffed and he had a guard at his either side of his rough wooden chair. The rooms furniture was spartan with a polished desk separating him from the warden and filing cabinets running down the room's side. Behind the warden was a window overlooking the prisons recreational yard. The yard below covered in a light snow as winter's grip spread over the island.


Vito stared ahead at the warden who held his gaze. If the silence was meant to intimidate him it wasn't working. The warden was tall and as thin as a rake. His face held in a permanent scowl was framed by a thick mustache that twitched as the warden tried to contain his rage. 


"You've been nothing but trouble since entering my jail Vito Vincenzo," the Warden began in a thick New York accent. 


"Word on the yard is you have a price on your head and between me and you I'm hoping someone catches you soon," smiled the warden.


"What the hell are you scowling at boy? You think you're the first sick family murdering fuck to sit in that chair?" the Warden questioned trying to provoke an attack.


Vito took a deep breath to still his fraying nerves. At a nod from the warden the two guards pulled Vito to his feet and threw him onto the table, Vito barely able to stop his head from smashing on the desk.


"Give him a taste of the prisons hospitality men," the warden demanded standing from his desk.


The guards began to punch Vito from behind. The wind was taken from Vito's lung as a heavy blow smashed into his kidneys dropping him to his knees. The guards continued to beat him until he collapsed onto the floor. Heavy hands pulled him onto unsteady feet and dragged him out of the warden's office. Vito was dumped heavily onto the cold floor of prison reception area, one guard kept a boot on his neck as the other unclasped the cuffs from his wrists. As Vito climbed to his feet he spat blood onto the ground, the receptions centers other door was thrown open and a trio of rough looking African American prisoners entered with murder in their eyes. The gates were closed again and Vito prepared himself for another fight.


Much to Vito's surprise the leader of the group held his hands up indicating he wanted to talk, "Look man we've no fight with you and we aren't here to fight those Italian fucks battles." 


Vito was caught off guard as adrenaline pumped through his veins, "I'm listening," he stated coolly keeping his guard. 


"We want the keys to the yard, we've got the numbers but we need someone to disrupt their power base without causing an open war. If they suspect its us they'll send the guards in," continued the leader passing Vito a smoke as he approached close enough for Vito to hear his hushed whispers. 


Vito gladly took the smoke and responded, "What's in it for me?"


The leader laughed in response, "You've got some serious balls you know, is your life not enough of a bargaining chip?"


Vito gave the trio a menacing smile, "I'll need access to two men when the shit goes down, I've a score to settle."


"It's settled then," the leader spoke reaching to shake Vito's hand, "I apologize for this next part, but we need to keep up appearances." 


Vito noticed the leaders posture changed as he swung a haymaker at his head, dodging backwards Vito held onto his hand and pulled him into his raising knee. The leaders nose cracked and he was out cold. The other two who had stood out so far rushed Vito from either side. Vito got the better of the first man using a combination of punches and elbows to knock him to the ground but the third man swept passed his guard driving him to the floor. The two men wrestled on the floor exchanging punches and elbows. The reception centers gate was thrown open as prison guards rushed in pulling the two men apart. 


Vito noticed the surprised looks of the guards he passed as he was marched back towards his cell, clearly expecting to be carrying a corpse out of the reception center. Threatening shouts followed him as he was climbed back into the tiers and was dumped into his cell. 


"Fuck Vito they really did a number on you, the whole prison said you were as good as dead," Tommy stated as Vito pulled himself back onto his bunk. 


"Don't worry about it, I've a proposition for you," Vito coughed as blood welled up in his mouth, turning to the nearby sink he spat out a loose tooth. 

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Vito watched from his stolen car as a mob of armed Hispanic and African American gangsters rushed another of Don Gambino's strip club crew fronts, he was surprised as they brandished heavy arms, military grade shotguns and Thompson sub machine guns. As they reached the front entrance the buildings occupants returned heavy fire from fixed positions. Vito shook his head as he watched the rabble of gangsters get caught in the overlapping fields of fire, bodies dropping in the dozens as they rushed for cover. Molotov cocktails were thrown into the strip club forcing Don Gambino's men back from the windows. 


As the gunfire from the windows slackened the rabble of mobsters charged the building once more. Smashing their way through the ground floor windows and doors the night erupted into chaos. Sensing his opportunity Vito climbed out of his stolen vehicle and walked around to the trunk. Pulling a M1903 Springfield out he slid back the bolt and checked the rounds were loaded. Jogging towards a nearby ran down building he climbed the stairs and took up position overlooking the back of the strip club and waited with the scope pointing towards the rear exit. 


The front of the strip club now fully aflame forced the firefight further to the rear of the building. Windows shattered and doors splintered as the bullets hammered into the yard out back. Vito pulled in a deep breath as he prepared to take his first shot. The first mobster to reach the back door fell as a bullet smashed into his chest. The rest of Gambino's men not noticing Vito's position stepped over the fallen body and scrambled into the yard ducking behind cover. Vito smiled to himself as he took aim and put down the next well dressed mobster. Like shooting fish from the barrel he laughed to himself as he calmly put a round in each of their chests. 


The gunfire inside the building lessened as the armed gangsters went room to room killing all inside. Vito grabbed his gun and ducked out of the abandoned building heading for his car. He kept his head down as he sped pased a group of police cars rushing to the scene of the crime. A firefight breaking out behind him as they caught the gangsters getting into their cars to escape. The war which gripped New York city was quickly getting out of control, the police barely able to respond in time. Pulling his car into the shady side of the street he grabbed the heavy bag from the trunk and climbed the steps to his temporary home. Pouring himself a drink and lighting a smoke he sat down heavily in his chair. 


His momentary peace was disturbed by a knock outside the door. Reaching for a shotgun he kept near his chair he crept towards the door. A rattling sound came from the other side as the intruder picked the simple lock. Vito brought the shotgun up and aimed it at the intruder as they crept into the dark room.


"Hands up," Vito warned as he pushed the barrel of the shotgun into the intruders back.


Reaching into the intruders pocket he took their gun with his own still pointed squarely into their back, "What the fuck are you doing?" he asked. 


"I tracked you back here. I saw you taking out those mobsters and want to help. Those sick fucks killed my family," the intruder stated flatly. 


Throwing caution to the wind Vito sat the man down and heard his story. It was a sorry state of affairs where Don Gambino's men had performed a drive by on a restaurant that was owned by his rival Don Falcone. The intruders family had been sat eating a meal when the restaurant had erupted into gunfire. He had washed aghast as his family were caught in the exchange, unable to help as his family were slaughtered. He'd been to the police and received no help, so instead he had taken things into his own hand. Spending his evenings stalking the Gambino crime family, but did not have the weaponry or know how to see his plans fulfilled. 


Vito felt sorry for the man, who introduced himself as Oscar Staines, he felt a kinship in the man's misery. A man who's experience with the corrupt underbelly of New York society had left him a shell of his former self. Reaching for a bottle of whisky he offered the man a drink. Lighting a cigarette he outlined his coming plans. He would help the man see his vengeance seen through, while further weakening the structure of Don Gambino's family. 

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Their operation had grown massively over the last few weeks. The skills which Oscar had gained serving in the logistic corps in WW2 had proved invaluable. Putting the word out on the street of a group forming to fight against the mafia corruption in New York other veterans had flocked to their cause. Forced to set up a new base of operations on the outskirts of New Jersey taking over an abandoned factory building, Vito sat back on the threadbare sofa in his new hideout and took a second to appreciate all they had achieved.


A motley collection of ex-army, marines and navy service men who had lost property and loved ones to the brutal regime of the New York families. Together they had gathered enough weapons to arm an army and a collection of vehicles to match. Vito could hear the grizzled ex-engineer combat battalion member by the name of Jake Carbrini working in the belly of the abandoned factory below. The rest of the men either served on guard duty posted about the factory or took some well earned R&R. 


Vito stood up and walked towards the office space where Oscar worked tirelessly planning their next moves. Oscar nodded at Vito as he entered and offered the man a drink. Together they discussed the map of New York city they had pinned to the wall. Using both Vito's knowledge of the local gangs crew fronts and intel gathered by their men they had built a picture of the gangs of New York. Many of the crew fronts had been crossed off by the chaotic gang warfare which gripped the city and the operations of their vigilante group. 


Looking at the map Vito pointed towards the Brooklyn Navy Yard, "Intel states the bastards bringing in more men by the boat load each night, I say we hit him where it hurts." 


"It'll be a difficult nut to crack, security is tight and there's a lot of open space between the gates and warehouses," returned Oscar fitting into the routine back and fourth the pair used to plan their operations.


"We send a couple of guys in at night start picking off their guards while another group comes in via boat up river," continued Vito pointing at various points across the map. 


Mulling the idea over for a second Oscar walked towards his desk and grabbing a piece of paper, "Looks like they bring in goods via motorboats, get the second group to hijack a couple of these boats and we'll be able to enter the docks without suspicion."


"I'll lead the first group with John and Robert," Vito continued trusting in the pairs skills gained while serving in the 1st Special Service Force during WW2.


"Sounds like a plan I'll take the second group, we know the direction the boats will be coming from, shouldn't take too much to take them by force. Get yourself some rest I'll tell the men the plan," Oscar finished handing Vito another whisky. 




Vito climbed down from his bunk wincing from the wounds he had received a couple of days before. Tommy, having agreed to help Vito, stood from his bed and the pair left the safety of their cell to walk out into the yard. Once outside the pair began to walk a circuit around the outside of the yard, while groups of men worked out in the exercise yard or sat around chatting on the metal chairs and benches. Vito and Tommy idly chatted keeping an eye on the other men in case of attack. Vito warmed his hands in his heavy coats pockets, trying to fight off the worst of the winter chill. 


Tommy nudged Vito's side as he spotted their mark surrounded by a small group of Italian gangsters smoking and passing a bottle of whisky between them. The pair changed their course and walked towards the group Vito peeling off and flanking the men, at the arranged point Tommy shouted out to the men asking for a light. The group told him to get fucked but Tommy insisted. Three of the gangsters split away from the group walking menacingly towards Tommy.


Vito taking his chance charged at the group from behind. Pulling the shiv stashed in his coats pocket out he stabbed it into the leaders throat repeatedly. The gangsters approaching Tommy turned to the screams and shouts coming from their friends, at which point Tommy grabbed the nearest gangster and stuck a shiv in his back, dropping him to the floor he attacked the next man puncturing his lungs with the bloodied shiv in his hand.


In a matter of seconds the last man lay bleeding out on the prison yard. Throwing their weapons to the floor Vito and Tommy walked swiftly back towards their cell. The yard emptied quickly as men rushed to their cells for weapons expecting an all out war. By the time the guards noticed something was up Vito and Tommy were back in the safety of their cell. The prison was swiftly locked down in response to the brutal attacks. Vito climbed back onto his bunk and lay down, whistling innocently as guards dashed around the prison.

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Vito waited as his two men made short work of the dockyards fence, they quickly cut through the metal and pulled it back allowing entrance. The trio had watched the guard rotation from a nearby rooftop and now rushed to deal with the immediate threats. Vito headed for the gatehouse at a pace. Slowly opening the door he crept up behind the heavyset mobster and drove his bowie knife into the man's lungs from behind. After a brief struggle he eased the man to the ground and continued into the night heading for the next guard. 


With the perimeter guards taken care of the men regrouped and waited for the rest of their team to arrive via the boats. Passing each of the men a Springfield M1903 rifle from a duffel bag Vito told them to find a suitable vantage point to cover the other team. If the men were detected before they could get ashore he at least wanted them to have support. The two experts disappeared into the night, climbing onto rooftops to set up firing positions. Vito climbed to the roof of a nearby office building and set his rifle on a ledge overlooking the warehouse.




Don Gambino sat down heavily on the leather chair in his Brooklyn Docks warehouse. He had a big shipment coming in this night and wanted to be here to see it delivered. He'd spent vast fortunes bringing in guns and the men to carry them, relying on his contacts in the other cities to aid in the bloody war against Don Falcone and his allies. Pouring himself a drink he lit a cigar and waited as the men below readied themselves to unload the coming boats.


Standing at the window Don Gambino watched as two motorboats pulled up to the pier and started to unload crates. He was caught off guard as the rough looking men climbed off the boats and emptied the magazine of their guns at the surrounding guards. Don Gambino stood aghast as  the men gathered to offload the goods were slaughtered. He started shouting at his men that they were under attack. His bodyguards jumping to action posted up around the warehouse, it was the best defensible position and their only hope at getting out alive. 


His men began to return fire from the warehouse forcing their attacks into cover. A hectic firefight disturbing the winter night. 



Oscar took cover behind a nearby truck, reloading the magazine of his Bar Automatic Rifle. His group knew their business. Setting up overlapping fields of fire to cover each other as they made their way towards the warehouse. Oscar raised his head above his cover and was satisfied to see one of the mobsters laying down fire from the warehouses bay door fall to the ground as a well placed sniper shot hit him square in the chest. Taking his opportunity he pulled the pin of a grenade and threw it into the warehouse. The resounding explosion was met by the screams of injured men. 


The men of his group moved into the warehouse clearing each room. They were alerted to shouts from outside as more mobsters rushed into the compound. Oscar knowing their position was precarious at best gave the order to head back for the boats. They'd set out to bloody the nose of Don Gambino's men aiming to disrupt his operations. They needn't lose their lives in the attempt. Stepping outside he shouted for Vito and the others to get back to the boats as the newly arrived mobsters piled out their cars and opened fire. Oscar swore as he saw one of his men hit the ground, rushing to his aid he grabbed him under the arms and rushed back towards the boat while his men provided covering fire.




Vito turned and saw police cars piling into the compound, while these men were more than likely under the payroll of Don Gambino he did not want to get into a firefight with the police. Climbing down the office block he met with the two other men from his group and jogged towards the waiting boats, stopping only to shoot any mobsters unfortunate to be in their immediate path. Jumping into the waiting boats he took stock of their losses and nodded at Oscar to get the hell out of there. One man was down being worked on by an ex-Marine corpsman who did his best to make the man comfortable. He looked at Vito and shook his head telling him all he needed to know.




Don Gambino erupted into a fury as he watched Vito climb onto the boat. That motherfucker was meant to be dead. He started to build a picture of all that had befell him over the past few months. The unknown killings, the burning of his crew fronts. It wasn't Don Falcone who had started this war but Vito fucking Vincenzo. The man who had killed his beloved son. His bodyguards knowing not to subject themselves to his fits left the man to cool down. Don Gambino marched waddled around the warehouse shouting at his men to chase them down and bring him their heads.


A group of them ran outside and climbed into the boats they tied along the pier. Don Gambino followed them berating their tardiness. The overweight Don was thrown off his feet as the pier exploded. 

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