Lower East Side, New York – May 1919
Mornings in the Lower East Side began with the scent of warm bread, sweat from laborers, and the murmur of unwritten deals. But that Monday, a different shadow loomed over the corner of Essex and Rivington.
A name had come to light.
A traitor.
Lucca Moretti, senior caporegime, had sent Giovanni along with two trusted men: Turi the Beret and Gaspare Mastroianni. They had a list of three soldiers who, in recent weeks, had missed regular meetings or showed inconsistencies in their financial deliveries.
One of them was Alfredo Scucciari, a veteran smuggler who ran the South Street Seaport warehouse. According to the books, Scucciari was supposed to deliver $200 a week from the illicit alcohol boats coming from Jersey. He had only been delivering $120.
—"He's either keeping the rest or selling it to the Czár," said Gaspare.
—"And why hasn't anyone interrogated him yet?" asked Giovanni.
—"Because his uncle is Don Serafino, a retired consigliere. And because no one wants to spark a fire without being sure there's a blaze."
Giovanni then understood that loyalty had levels, nuances… and consequences. Truth alone wasn't enough. It had to be moved like a chess piece.
That same afternoon, Giovanni visited South Street Seaport, pretending to be on a routine inspection under his father's orders. Scucciari greeted him with his usual crooked smile and a glass of grappa.
—"They say you're helping your father now. The pups grow up fast."
—"I'm just learning to protect what's ours," said Giovanni curtly.
The dock was buzzing with activity: workers unloading crates, Italian and Romanian voices mixing, and a group of three men watching from afar. Giovanni recognized them: they weren't Italian. They wore embroidered shirts, silver chains, and knives on their belts. Romanis. Czár.
—"Who are they?" Giovanni asked.
Scucciari drank, looked away.
—"Visitors. People who pay to watch."
—"And who gave them permission?"
Silence.
—"You?"
Scucciari laughed.
—"What's wrong, kid? Trying to play capo? You going to kill me here, with the whole port watching?"
Giovanni didn't respond. He simply noted something in his notebook and left. But his decision was already made.
Council of WarThat night, Salvatore gathered his men in a warehouse south of Broome Street. All the executives, caporegimes, and half a dozen high-ranking soldiers were present.
Giovanni spoke in front of everyone for the first time.
—"Scucciari sold our dock to the Czár for $500 a week. There are witnesses. And if we don't stop him now, they'll take the entire East River."
Lucca looked at him, then at Salvatore. The latter nodded.
—"Make it clean," said the patriarch. "But make it public."
—"Are you sure?" Lucca asked.
—"Betrayal isn't cleansed in silence."
Public ExecutionOn May 10th, at six in the evening, on the corner of Clinton and Grand, Alfredo Scucciari was thrown from a black truck with his hands tied and a gag in his mouth. Amid the traffic, pedestrians watched in horror.
Giovanni stepped out of the vehicle with black gloves. Across the street, at least eight soldiers blocked the way.
—"The family doesn't forget. The family doesn't forgive," Giovanni said loudly.
Then, he pulled the revolver and shot him in the head in front of everyone.
The message was clear.
The gypsies had bought a man. The family bought silence with blood.
The Echo of RespectThat night, in the social club on Mulberry Street, the soldiers began to look at him differently. Some lowered their heads when he passed. Others offered him cigarettes without being asked.
But not all of it was respect.
Enzo, his old friend, pulled him aside and whispered:
—"You did the right thing. But don't think everyone sees it that way. Some say you like blood a little too much."
Giovanni smiled, humorlessly.
—"Let them think that. As long as they fear me, I don't need their love."
The Other Side of the BridgeThat same night, in a Williamsburg basement, the Czár gathered around the body of a young murdered messenger. In his pockets, a note: "Manhattan is not for sale."
A man with dark eyes and a scar on his cheek —Iosif Czár, leader of the Serbescu clan— clenched his teeth.
—"Let the war begin."