"Gimme a Tommy and a Packard and we'll be all set.

"I don't mug, that's for smhucks."

🔥 Rosalina Rosario – “Red Rosie”

CURRENTLY EMPLOYED: THE INFECTED. Renacer's

Age: 27
 

Occupation: Former Mob Getaway Driver & Hit Crew Tommy Gunner
 

Current Status: Presumed dead by former allies. Operating and associated with: "Crewleader: ElenaCataraga" Oblivion

"You ever hear the sound a Thompson makes when it sings? I used to call that music."

Rosalina Rosario isn’t the kind of dame you find sitting pretty in a jazz club. She’s the one slipping out the back door with blood on her collar and the keys to your car already in her coat pocket.

Born and bred in Hell’s Kitchen to Sicilian immigrants, Rosie grew up around grease, rust, and hard truths. By fifteen, she could hotwire a Packard in under a minute. By twenty, she was rolling with the Fonticielli Outfit, a small-time mafia family who made big noise before the war brought them down.

She wasn’t muscle. She was escape.

—The wheelwoman with ice in her veins.

—The girl with a tommy gun and no time for fancy perfume.

—The soul of a three-person crew feared from the Bronx to Little Italy.

🎴 The Crew: Then

-Origins

-Infamy/First Job For The Fonticiellis

-REBORN/MADE

"Vito." Vittorio Alonzo Scatino – The Brains
A war vet with a bad leg and a sharper mind. Vito planned every move three steps ahead. Calm, collected, deadly with a pistol. You never saw him sweat. Rosie never had to—she trusted him blind.

"Heavy." Joe Mario Muzzuco – The Muscle
Hot-headed, loud, and built like a freight train. Joe lived for the brawl and died by the code. Brute force, shoot first, ask never. Rosie had to drag him out of more fires than she could count.

Together? They were one of the strongest crews the Fonticiellis had ever fielded—until the night the streets turned red at the Red Fern Hotel.

☠️ The Fall

Three families—Marinelli, Bellantoni, Grasso—teamed up to erase the Fonticiellis off the map. Rosie, Vito, and Joe fought their way out of that last stand, a blood-slicked shootout in a hotel kitchen. Smoke, fire, gunfire in every direction.

They thought they died that night.

Truth is… they survived, each of them. Alone. Believing the other two were dead. Living in shadows, under new names, licking old wounds.

🎲 Current Hooks / RPG Threads

• Rosalina is alive, driving under the radar, working as a mechanic and part-time courier. She still sleeps with a loaded Tommy Gun under the bed.

• She doesn’t smile much. Doesn’t dress fancy. No lipstick, no lies.

• She still checks the newspapers for hints of Vito or Joe. Still hears them in her dreams.

• Some say she’s gearing up for something big—pulling together old gear, old maps, old debts.

• She’s waiting for a reason to come back into the light. Or a reason to burn it all down.

HISTORY AND OTHERWISE

Rosalina Rosario: The Ghost of Gallo’s Row

They used to call her Red Rosie in the alleyways of Gallo’s Row—not for lipstick or rouge, but for the blood she left on the bricks. Rosalina Rosario didn’t need much makeup. A streak of oil on her cheek, a gun slung low on her hip, and that hard stare of hers was all the paint she wore. Where other dames tried to dazzle, Rosie preferred to disappear into a crowd, behind the wheel, or under a hail of gunfire.

She was born in 1912 to Sicilian parents in the Hell’s Kitchen tenements. Her father worked with needles and thread, her mother scrubbed floors, and Rosalina watched as the city chewed up good men and spat out bones. By fifteen, she was boosting Model Ts in Queens. By twenty, she could tear down a Ford V8 blindfolded and slap it back together before most men lit their second cigarette. That was the year she caught the eye of the Fonticielli Outfit.

The Fonticiellis were a small-time mafia family with big-time enemies—Marinelli, Bellantoni, and Grasso—but they had one of the tightest crews in the city: Rosalina, Vito, and Joe.

Vito was the brain: a former Great War veteran with a trench knife scar under one eye and a mind like a chessboard. Cool under fire, quiet in bars, and deadly with a pistol. If a job needed planning, Vito drew the lines. If it needed heart, he didn’t blink twice to lay his life down for his people.

Joe was the fire: a bruiser from the Bronx with fists like bricks and a temper twice as heavy. He’d been a contender in the underground boxing rings, but he liked cracking skulls more than counting wins. Joe charged in when others hesitated. Shoot first, ask once—maybe.

And then there was Rosie: the wheel and the war drum. The girl with the Thompson submachine gun strapped across her chest, and boots stained from a hundred getaways. She was fast, smart, and fearless—never flashy, just efficient. When bullets flew, Rosie drove. When things went south, Rosie took the wheel and carved an exit out of thin air and gasoline.

Together, they were the Fonticielli Hat-Trick—a three-man wrecking crew that pulled bank jobs, hijacked whiskey shipments, and shut down rival operations like clockwork. No one moved product through Queens faster. No one got out cleaner. They were family—maybe not by blood, but by smoke, speed, and spent shells.

But power invites enemies.

In 1936, the Marinelli, Bellantoni, and Grasso families set their sights on the Fonticiellis. A war erupted, silent and fast—bombings, snitches, dead drops gone cold. One night in November, the Fonticiellis made their last stand at the Red Fern Hotel in Manhattan. A bloodbath. Trapped, cornered, outgunned.

Rosie, Vito, and Joe fought like hell.

Rosalina emptied her Thompson into the walls to carve a path through the fire. Joe held the rear, bruised and roaring, fists as red as his knuckles. Vito planned their escape from a burning kitchen while taking a slug to the leg. In the chaos, smoke swallowed the crew whole.

Each believed the other had died.

Each one walked away, wounded and alone, fading into different corners of the city.

Rosalina vanished that night. Rumors said she fled to Chicago. Others swore she lived in Jersey under a new name, fixing cars and helping orphans. Some said she worked as a courier for politicians who didn’t know they’d hired a killer.

Vito took a bullet and disappeared into the hospitals of the Bronx. Some say he walks with a cane and teaches chess to street kids in Harlem.
Joe was last seen busting heads in an underground ring, going by the name “Iron Jack.” They say his hands are wrapped in leather not to protect him, but to protect others.

The truth? They’re all alive. Just apart. Broken not by death, but distance.

Rosalina Rosario still drives at night, windows down, coat collar up, ghosting through the boroughs in a black coupe with no tags and the hum of a Tommy gun in the trunk.

She doesn’t wear lipstick anymore. She wears scars.

And somewhere, deep down, she’s still listening for Vito’s orders and Joe’s laugh because the streets may have taken their crew apart, but they never buried them.

And one day, the city might just hear their engines roar again.