Fredo's cafe opened its doors in Detroit, offering Detroiters a quiet spot to grab a cup of coffee and a bite. Maria, Fredo's niece, ran the counter with a warm smile, doling out cups of joe and fresh-baked donuts. The menu was straightforward: coffee, 10 cents; large assortment of donuts, 15 cents; and a "Lucky Break" sandwich for 50 cents. Behind the scenes, Sam kept the books - all of them. He sat in the backroom, hunched over a ledger, taking bets and tallying numbers. It was a small operation, but one that brought in a steady stream of regulars. They'd come for the coffee, but stay for the other perks. Fredo oversaw it all with a keen eye, making sure everything ran smoothly. He was a man of simple tastes, but with a sharp business sense. As the sun set over Detroit, Fredo's Brewed Awakening hummed along, a cozy front for the real action in the back.

Coffee: 10 Cents

Donuts: 15 Cents

Lucky Break: 50 Cents

Fredo was sitting in the back of his cafe, counting money and going over some policy slips, when Sam walked into the back room with some fresh coffee. He poured some into Fredo's cup on the table and took a seat next to him. Fredo glanced up at Sam a few times and eventually asked, "What's going on, Sammy?" Sammy set the pot down and rubbed his face with a somewhat distraught look. He told Fredo, "You know my mother, Jennifer. Some guys have been messing around with her. They run some extortion around the neighborhood. You know she sells her flowers on the corner, doesn't bother nobody. I could fight them, but they'd just come back, maybe hurt her when I'm not around." Fredo took everything in. "Alright, look, tomorrow morning, you, me, and a couple of guys will go talk to them, see what we can do." Sam smiled and appreciated this response, but he asked, "What are we gonna do, though? I don't want nobody hurt." Fredo leaned back in his chair, pulled a cigarette out of his jacket, tapped it a few times on his hand, and put the chair back down to the ground. Then he told Sam, "Don't worry, nobody's gonna get hurt. I'm gonna make them an offer they won't refuse, alright?" Sam smiled and got up from the table, grabbed the coffee pot, and returned to his work. Fredo put his cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag and continued to count the day's take.

The cafe is closed, and the lights are dimmed. In the back room, Fredo Trapani and two associates are downstairs in a hidden basement used for disposal. Fredo's smoking a cigarette, sleeves rolled up, covered in blood, as he leans against a sink, staring into the drain. The two men are tying up bags containing body parts of a recently deceased friend. One of them knots a bag tightly and looks up at Fredo. "So what are we gonna do with this?" he asks. Fredo takes a long drag, looks back at the man, and responds, "Our garbage truck will be coming by soon. You ride with them, make sure the packages make it to the incinerator. You fuck up, and your next ride will be you." The two men nod in agreement and take the bags upstairs. Fredo sits down on a sofa, turns on the TV to the local news, and pours a drink, waiting for the sun to rise further before he leaves.

Carlo_Gambino stepped into Fredo's with the cautious grace of a man who'd seen his share of surprises. The little brass bell above the door chimed gently as he entered, drawing a brief glance from Maria, who stood behind the polished counter. He offered a polite, guarded smile, removing his grey fedora with the green silk adornment and tucking it under his arm.

He cast a careful eye over the café, noting each patron and every quiet corner. Fredo, standing by a table near the back, acknowledged Carlo with a subtle nod—recognition between men who knew the score.

Carlo approached a seat along the wall, where he could keep watchful eyes on both the entrance and the back room. He adjusted the cuffs of his grey suit, the fine green pinstripes catching the soft afternoon light filtering through the café’s wide windows.

Settling in, he placed his hat carefully on the table, then caught Maria's attention with a gentle gesture.

"Just coffee for now, if you'd be so kind," Carlo spoke smoothly, his voice carrying the confident yet cautious tone of a man accustomed to handling delicate business. "Got myself a flight to catch soon."

Maria flashed a warm smile, "Sure thing, mister. Coffee coming right up."

As she moved to prepare his cup, Carlo leaned back slightly, his vivid green eyes calmly scanning the room again—always watching, always ready, quietly observing the rhythm of Fredo's.

Fredo, after nodding at Carlo Gambino, looked at his watch, seeming to tense up after seeing the time. He was waiting for an important phone call from a friend out west, Dynamite. When the phone rang, his niece Marie answered; after a few moments, she waved the phone at Fredo, understanding this was the call he was waiting for. Fredo walked over and took it. He spoke to the man on the other end for a few minutes and then hung up. He looked at his niece and said, "Go in the back and use the private line. Tell Babs to come over. Don't say anything else. Go on." Fredo motioned for her to hurry. Fredo then walked back over to his table, sat down, reached for the pack of cigarettes, took one out, and lit it up as he waited for Babs to arrive.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Domenico stepped back into Fredo’s Café, the familiar scent of strong coffee and fried dough wrapping around him like an old friend. The neon sign outside still flickered, fighting the relentless Detroit cold, but inside, the warmth was a welcome reprieve.

His eyes swept the room out of habit—always scanning, always cautious. Tonight, the café held more than just the usual ghosts and gamblers. In the far corner, partially veiled by a haze of cigarette smoke, sat Don Fredo_Trapani himself, his sharp suit and sharper gaze marking him as a man who commanded silence with a glance. Beside him, @Carlo_Gambino, the family’s iron-fisted, leaned in, speaking in low, measured tones. Their body language screamed business—the kind that usually ended with someone disappearing into the Detroit River.

Domenico didn’t flinch. He wasn’t here for drama.

With a respectful nod in their direction—putting respect where it was due—he slid into his usual booth, the one with the loose floorboard and the Colt beneath it. The waitress, a weary-eyed woman named Rosa, shuffled over without a word, already knowing his order. A moment later, she returned with a steaming mug of black coffee and a cinnamon donut, its glaze still glistening under the dim café lights.

Domenico took a slow sip, letting the heat of the coffee sear away the lingering chill of the streets. The donut melted on his tongue, sweet and soft—perfection. Across the room, the Don’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, but Domenico tuned it out. Tonight wasn’t about alliances or debts. Tonight was about the simple things—the heat of the coffee, the sweetness of the donut, the quiet before the storm.

He exhaled, savoring the moment.

Fredo listened intently to Carlo Gambino's ambitions to start a few rackets in the neighborhood. After Carlo finished speaking, Fredo reached for his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and took a long drag, blowing the smoke away from the two of them. He moved his face, thinking for a moment, before giving his response. "I appreciate you coming to ask for permission. Most folks these days just do what they want without a care, but you... you understand respect, and I like that. You've got my permission to operate, Carlo Gambino. A lot of people are coming into town to stay at the hotel, spending big at the gambling dens and private parties that's an opportunity waiting to be seized." Fredo took another hit off his cigarette, waiting for Carlo to speak.

[Scene: Morning at Trapani's CafeThe bell above the door jingles. The scent of strong coffee, fried dough, and quiet scheming fills the air.]

Vinny stepped in slow, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. The bell jingled like a nervous laugh. He took a moment to adjust his coat, knock the city dust off his boots, and sweep the place with a quiet glance. Not paranoid, just observant. The way a builder sizes up a lot before digging.

He gave a small nod to Maria at the counter. He’d heard about her. Smile sweet as cannoli, but with eyes that said she clocked more than espresso shots.

Vinny: "Cup o' black. No frills."

He slid a couple coins onto the counter, more than enough, and took the chipped mug in both hands like it was a peace offering. He didn’t sit. Didn’t linger. Just leaned near the pastry case, sipping slow, eyes following the rhythm of the place.

Behind the curtain, he could feel the numbers being crunched. The kind of math Vinny used to bury, not solve.

He wasn’t here for that, though. Not today.

Vinny (quietly to Maria, under his breath): "Tell your uncle... this place has good bones. Good foundation. I don’t mean the brickwork."

He finished the coffee, left the mug where she could reach it.

No pitch. No pressure. Just presence. A workman’s hello.

Vinny: "Tell him Vinny stopped by. No shovel. Just thirsty."

And with that, he tipped his cap and headed back into the cold, boots thudding like a heartbeat on tile.

The morning had gotten off to a busy start, newly promoted as Boss bought in new things that needed doing that Ted wouldn’t normally be given charge of as Capo or lower. Ted did not complain though, he enjoyed the heightened responsibilities and took them as trust being shown to him that he would pay back by completing in a timely manner. He exited the vehicle he was driving, walking into the cafe in his usual dark grey suit and brown shoes, he waved a polite greeting to the worker in the cafe as he found a table in the corner, away from windows and close to the rear door.

Looking down the menu, Ted ordered the big fried breakfast with extra mushrooms and an orange juice, not much of a hot drink man, he opened the daily paper he retrieved from the seller up the street and began flicking through the pages. Murders, muggings and arrests made all over town, he liked to see if he recognised any of the names, quite often the ones caught were low level or wannabe’s.

His food arrived sharpish, Ted began eating - taking his time, napkin placed into the top of his clean shirt, his eyes glancing up with every ring of bell above the door. He noticed some trouble being caused to the worker behind the counter, trouble here in Detroit? No chance. Ted raised up, making his way over to the issue, “is there a problem here, buddy?” He asked, placing a hand on the shoulder of the kid causing problems, he could see instantly this youngster was a lone wolf, a drug user from the streets. The youngster claimed the cafe had short changed him, Ted shook his head, “I don’t think they did son, so why don’t you recount that change of yours and leave on your own accord” he suggested, hand still on shoulder as he turned the youngster to the door, the look in his eye seemed to change the kids attitude as he nodded, “m-maybe I miscounted” he agreed before leaving. Ted turned back to the worker, sliding some notes across the counter before leaving, he had work to do.

The bell over the door gave a soft ring as Arco stepped into Trapanis Café, greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and sugar still warm from the oven. It was the kind of quiet that felt intentional, welcoming without trying too hard. He approached the counter and offered Maria an easy smile, the kind that came naturally when the mood was right.

“Evening,” he said, voice calm. “Smells good in here. What is cooking?” Arco cracked a smirk.

He set a few coins on the counter. “Coffee, please. And one of those donuts.”

While she worked, Arco took a moment to look around, but his attention drifted back to her before long. Places like this worked because of people like her—friendly, steady, made you want to come back without quite knowing why.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he added casually, accepting the cup when she handed it over. “Feels like the kind of spot a man could get used to.”

He tipped his hat slightly in thanks and moved off to a small table, lighting a cigarette once he sat down. As he took his first sip, Arco glanced back toward the counter, the faintest hint of a smile still there.

Quiet café. Good coffee. Friendly face behind the counter.

Detroit could use more of that.

Tussy rushed in out of the rain Detroit always seemed to harbour. It was as if the weather waited for his arrival to cause undue downpour and misery. He had never visited Trapani's Cafe before, but given the horrid topical deluge he wouldn't have cared if he ended up in the slammer. Having said that, somewhere to get a cup of Joe is always welcome.

He makes his way forward, rain dripping off his coat, hat in hands, and grabs into his pocket. 'Coffee please. Black, strong, and preferably anonymous'.