New York, February 1921. The Lower East Side simmered with the smoke of illegal alcohol and the tension that the Prohibition business brought with it. Bottles flowed like blood through the city's rotten veins. And with every crate of whiskey that crossed the docks, Giovanni Moretti sealed his power… and signed his own death sentence.
The attacks started like pinpricks: a couple of trucks blown up, two warehouses burned down, and a bar riddled with bullets at dusk. But when Vittorio "the Greyhound," one of the oldest caporegimes of the family, showed up with his head split in two in front of his church, Giovanni knew that wasn't a warning.
It was war.
He gathered his men at the house on Broome Street. He locked the doors and ordered all the lights to be turned off. On the table, a map stained with whiskey and blood marked the truck routes, bars, clandestine distilleries, joints, and safe houses. Giovanni plunged a knife right into the center of the Lower East Side.
—From tonight on, nobody touches a bottle without a man armed beside them. Double security at the bars. Triple on the trucks. If anyone comes close without permission, they'll be buried with their shoes on.
Donato, his consigliere, nodded silently. He knew when Giovanni spoke like that, the world was about to burn.
Two new groups were formed. Thirty men swore loyalty under the rain in the backyard. Thirty more enlisted at dawn the next day.
The first was placed under the command of Peter Clemenza, a broad-shouldered Sicilian with a generous smile and a deadly soul. The Black Guard, as they were known, wore black and carried Thompson submachine guns. They were Giovanni's war dogs.
The second, responsible for protecting the Moretti house and its most important members, was handed to a young man named Salvatore Tessio. He had the look of a banker but thought like a general. His unit was called the Custodians of Honor. They took positions on corners, rooftops, even basements, ready to empty magazines if necessary.
Vittorio's funeral was held at the Church of San Rocco. Giovanni didn't cry. He knelt before the coffin, looked at the still body, and whispered something only Donato heard.
—If anyone puts flowers on my grave before this neighborhood smells of gunpowder… then we failed.
Rumors pointed to the Russos, an old rival family from Hester Street. They had survived the gang wars of 1916 and now seemed to want their slice of the pie. Niccolò "Colo" Russo, their boss, was a cunning animal, a born son of a bitch. They controlled laundries, hidden bars, and an old factory on Delancey now used as a warehouse for stolen liquor.
—They're waiting for reinforcements from the Bronx — Donato reported, pointing with a coin to the possible routes on the map.
Giovanni chuckled softly.
—They won't get here in time.
The bars were reinforced. Secret hallways in the distilleries were sealed with thick wood and escape routes added. Only known customers were allowed inside. In front of each place, armed men stood watch, their trench coats open and sawed-off shotguns in plain sight.
At "Il Cavallo Nero," his flagship bar, Giovanni made an unexpected appearance. He entered to applause and music, ordered a glass of illegal bourbon, and raised his voice over the murmur.
—Here we drink with freedom, under my protection. Whoever tries to silence this music… will dance to the rhythm of bullets.
And then came the retaliation.
A moonless night. Three trucks surrounded the Russo warehouse on Eldridge Street. Giovanni, Clemenza, and five more men placed dynamite on the back. The fuse was lit by Giovanni himself.
The blast shook four blocks. Flames painted the sky red.
Fifteen enemies died. Another six were found shot in the back trying to flee.
Before leaving, Giovanni ordered a message painted in red on the charred wall of the shed:
"Prohibition doesn't forgive. And neither do the Morettis."
From that day on, the Lower East Side was divided in two:Those who knelt before Giovanni……and those who would, once dead.
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