The city has its own rhythm. Some nights it's the clatter of the trolleys, other nights it's shattered glass in an alley, and on nights like the night I remember best, it was merely the persistent thud of the rain. Days at a time. Coming down like the heavens were looking to drown every sinner on these streets. The kind of rain that gets inside you and makes you think you're heavier than you are.

That was the context for my entrance into this life. Not some grand design, not a name or a golden ticket. Just me, son of a dockhand who drank himself dry, and a mother who tried to keep the seams from coming apart with needle and thread. We didn't have a lot, and hunger won't make a man wait for scraps. Hunger motivates you. At times it motivates you right on over.

I was eighteen, maybe nineteen, when it happened. Two of the guys from the local crew I hung with came over one night, faces lit up like they'd discovered buried treasure. The way they'd planned it, or at least said they'd planned it. A small crew, not more than the three of us, in and out of First Federal by the service entrance. A gun among us, a bag for the cash, and me on the door. We didn't think of alarms and guards and afterward. We just thought of the potential for empty pockets filled with full ones.

The room was thick with polish and paper. We went quick. My friend waving the piece, the other scooping bucks like he'd never laid eyes on money before. I stood by the door, trying to keep steady breathing. Then it went completely berserk. The guard — he'd be slow, perhaps shy. He wasn't. He pulled faster than anyone of us, and the report of the guns filled the room. My head throbbed, my chest felt like it'd explode, and by the time smoke cleared, my friends were on the ground. Gone. LIKE THAT.

I have no idea why I didn't get out of there. Maybe my legs were rooted to the spot, maybe I was frozen in shock. All I know is, I was alone there by myself, heart racing, rain still battering the windows, and that's when I saw him.

A man stood by a lamppost outside, like he'd been waiting for me. Pulled down fedora, dark enough coat to blend with night. He didn't act surprised by the shots, didn't bother with the blood on my shirt or sirens just starting to wail a block away. He walked toward me like it was the most normal thing in the world, put a hand on my shoulder, and said, calm like we were old friends:

"You've got ice in your veins, kid. We could use that."

That was it. No questions, no lecture, no ceremony. A look, a nod, and something in his voice that told my life was going to change.

I didn't know it at the time, but that's the evening I became no longer a dockman's son with nothing in his pockets. For John Manna, that was his initial step into the Rattlesnakes. Once you're inside, you'll never take a step back.

Riccardo read your story, and in his mind echoed memories not so different. Rain, blood, and split-second choices that shape a man’s life—those things feel all too familiar. Many young men fall the moment the first bullet sings, and most never rise again. But you? You didn’t run. That alone was enough for a seasoned man to rest a hand on your shoulder and see something in you—even if you weren’t yet sure it was there yourself.

I once heard someone say "this world isn’t about who’s got the finest plan, but about who can still breathe when everything collapses."

That night, you proved yourself before you ever swore an oath to anyone. Welcome to a circle that never offers a way back. On this road, once your feet take that step, your tracks will forever be soaked by the rain of that night.

I remember that night like it was yesterday. Johnny’s got the rain, the guns, the destiny. Me? I had indigestion. I was sitting across the street with a meatball sub the size of a newborn, rain pouring down like the sky was tryin to wash the fat off me.

Then Johnny stumbles out the bank lookin like he just wrestled a thunderstorm and lost. Blood on his shirt, eyes wide, chest heavin. And I’m thinkin, Jesus, Tony, you either found yourself a future capo or the world’s worst track star. Either way, you can’t let this kid walk past.

So I haul myself up off that milk crate, bread soggy, meatballs rollin into the gutter like casualties of war, and I waddle across the street. I put my paw on his shoulder, sauce still sticking to my cuff, and I tell him real calm, real smooth:

Kid, you got ice in your veins but gravy on your shirt. Lucky for you, we can use both. Maybe you need to visit Queens and drop by the big stich?

And just like that, Johnny boy joined the Rattlesnakes. And me? I went home hungry, dripping rain and marinara, swearing on my mother’s rosary that if this life didn’t kill me, cholesterol probably would.