Marty Black barges his way through the crowd of Italian's gathered on the boat, as they pull into New York. Quickly making his way to a railing, glancing upon the Statue of liberty. Pale face, small eyes, height of 5'7 or rather no height at all... Rubbing his mustache a trillion ideas come flooding into his mind. Marty digs around his worn-out jacket, reaching for his cigarettes and placing one between his lips.

Marty Black muffles under his breath: "The land of opportunity, here I come..."

The boat docks, Marty kicks his feet in to motion, exiting the boat and eventually making his way into a near-by neighbourhood which appears to be the Bronx, with no more than $150 and a pack of cigarettes he stops at a Coffee shop hoping to make the acquaintances of the local population. Marty turns to his side, right leg over the top of his left he sparks a cigarette and waits. 

At last, it didn't take long for Marty to settle in, meet a few somebody's. Couple jobs here, couple jobs there and things were starting to look up. Money started rolling in like nothing. Marty went straight down to a local gamble den... Let's just say on the way home he spotted a boxing event flyer hosted by another group of somebody's. 

Marty Black mutters away upon reading the event flyer: "Fuck me, one hundred thousand to buy in? Good lord.... I cracked a few heads here and there, fuck it I've had a good day in the office let's make this happen!"

Marty rips the flyer down and hails a nearby taxi, catching a ride to the airport. Hour or so on the plane Marty arrives in Dean Winchesters city seeking him out. Eventually making contact with him and paying the fee to enter the mega boxing event coming up and scouting a few of the fighters along the way. Now was Marty's time to train insane or remain the same.

Marty smashes over the poker table, furious and drunk. They toss him out of a local speakeasy. Lying face down in a dirty puddle he rolls over on his side and digs around for his cigarettes, bouncing back on to his feet. Marty lost over a million that night... The risk taker had just been given his first major loss. Down and out with just over 50K, he reaches out to some shady suppliers Marty met on his travels organizing a sit down with the drug runners. 

"Marty, Marty Marty... What's the occasion? How can we help you today." One of the shady males say with a grin on his face whilst the drug runners partner turns cackling with a cheeky remark. "Oh, you didn't hear about Marty boy's loss last night at the poker den? Heard he struck out over a million." The two drug runners bust Marty's balls before they get into the business at hand.

"Yeah, yeah... Whatever you fuckers say. Cleary annoyed and reeking of piss and alcohol, Marty slams his fist down on the table eyeing the duo. "Look how fast can you get me a couple kilos of H, I have a buyer down in Chicago. I gotta be on a plane by tomorrow to meet with him...

 The trio spend just over an hour going back and forth before they make an exchange, Marty stands up from the table downing a nod to the duo and exits the apartment complex in Harlem. 

As Marty leaves one of the shady duo could be heard shouting out to Marty. "Take a shower next time aye? You fuckin' smell like a public urinal!". 

Eventually Marty makes it back to his rundown apartment in the Bronx, securing the two kilos of Herion and diving on to his bed, falling asleep with his 45. in hand.

I lit another cigar, mostly to drown out the stench coming off Marty’s jacket. Kid walks in like he owns the joint, talking big. But I know his type...swagger first, brains later. Still, the whispers were true. MartyBlack wasn’t just some schmuck fresh off the boat. His bloodline? Heavy hitters. The kind of guys who made corpses disappear faster than a cannoli at Sunday dinner.

TonyTheTailor arched a brow, leaning on his sewing machine like it was his throne.

“Marty… Black? You mean that Black? Your grandfather was cracking heads in Chicago before Capone even knew how to lace his shoes?”

Marty smirked, wiping his nose on his filthy sleeve.

“That’s right. My people broke more skulls than a Louisville Slugger factory. I’m not just another immigrant, Ton. I’m legacy.”

I almost choked on my cigar.

“Legacy? Kid, the only legacy you got right now is smelling like the streets of New York and losing a million bucks in one night. But I’ll give it to you...your name carries weight.”

Tony stepped forward, measuring tape swinging like a priest’s rosary.

“We’ll overlook the poker fiasco. We’ll overlook the smell. You’re family in a way, and family deserves a chance."

I clapped him on the shoulder so hard his teeth rattled.

“Here’s the deal. You’re working collections with me tonight. Just a deli owner in Queens who’s late on his payments. If you can squeeze fifty bucks outta him without blowing it on dice before sunrise"

Marty grinned with that wild spark in his eyes.

Tony poured himself a glass of Chianti, raising it like a toast.

“To MartyBlack. May he prove he’s more than a drunk with a famous last name.”

I lifted my cigar. “And may he take a shower before another customers faint.”