Lower East Side, 10:45 p.m.
The cigar smoke hung heavy in the main room of Salvatore Moretti's house, the family's godfather. The velvet curtains blocked any glimpse of the outside world. Around him, silence was law. Only the faint crackling of the fire in the fireplace could be heard.
"Are you sure about what you're asking for?" Salvatore asked, without looking at his son.
Giovanni Moretti stood with his hands behind his back and replied without hesitation:
"Yes, father. It's time we ended Rosso. His presence in Little Italy is a stain on our territory. I need three hundred men."
The old godfather remained silent for a few seconds. Finally, he exhaled a cloud of smoke and slowly turned his head to look at his son.
"I give you permission, Giovanni. But remember: this is not just an operation. It's a declaration. If you fail, there will be no second chance."
"We won't fail."
"Then let Little Italy burn," the Godfather decreed with a voice of stone.
1:00 a.m. — The March BeginsThe three hundred chosen were the best of the family's 480 soldiers, hardened in the alleys of the Lower East Side. This was not a quick raid. It was a campaign of conquest.
And at the front, like generals of a new criminal empire, marched:
Giovanni Moretti, the godfather's son, the new face of the family.
Clemenza, the silent strategist.
Tessio, the methodical executor.
Geronimo Giuseppe, the explosive saboteur.
Salvatore Greco, the redeemed deserter, who had asked Giovanni for forgiveness weeks before and now sought to clear his name.
All dressed in black. Each with his platoon, his target, his mission.
2:30 a.m. — Fury in Little ItalyLittle Italy slept with one eye open. But it was not prepared for what was coming.
Clemenza advanced down Mulberry Avenue like a battering ram. At every corner, he blew up makeshift barricades with small charges. The Russo family's establishments burned before their owners could even touch a weapon.
Tessio, with surgical precision, neutralized the lookout posts on the rooftops. His men used silencers and knives. No one screamed. No one lived.
Geronimo blew up an entire garage where weapons and getaway cars were hidden. The explosion lit up the sky as if dawn had come early.
Greco, in a parallel operation, closed off the southern exit with swift ambushes. They silently executed the few Russos who tried to flee toward Chinatown.
Meanwhile, Giovanni advanced to the enemy's center of power: the tavern "Rosso Nero," headquarters of the rival family's control. There would be no negotiations this time. The doors were blown open with dynamite. Half of those inside died before drawing a weapon.
And Rosso… was not there.
"Coward…" Giovanni spat as he walked over the remains of the place.
3:45 a.m. — Declaration of WarOutside, Clemenza brought in one of Rosso's lieutenants captured alive.
"He says the boss fled two days ago," Tessio announced.
"To where?"
"They say the Bronx. He's seeking refuge with the Albanians or the men of the Gallardo family."
Giovanni pondered in silence. Then he did something unexpected: he handed a pistol to Salvatore Greco.
"Want to be one of us again?"
Greco nodded, trembling.
"Then do it yourself," Giovanni said, pointing at the prisoner.
Greco hesitated only a second. Then he fired. The body fell onto the cobblestones, and the circle of soldiers closed again.
Giovanni looked up to the sky:
"This city is no longer the Russos'. This city belongs to no one… except the Morettis."
5:10 a.m. — Under ControlAt dawn, Little Italy was taken. All key points were in Moretti hands: the bars, garages, warehouses, brothels, alleys. The few loyal to Rosso who remained were executed or captured.
A new order had been born. Giovanni had built it with fire and lead.
From his balcony in the Lower East Side, Salvatore Moretti watched the column of smoke on the horizon. He smiled faintly, with the pride of one who knows his son had just begun his legen