The bar lights flickered, the low, sultry strains of a saxophone drifting from the corner. Jazz filled the room, wrapping the four men in its smoky embrace, their conversation gradually softening.
Shane leaned forward slightly, fingers tracing the grain of the worn wooden bar.
"The East Side is evenly split between the Brotherhood and the Hand of Zion," he said, voice calm but edged with calculation. "But neither side has forgotten how to kill."
"Even though Stern and Luciano sat down after the casino heist last week…" He lifted his glass, the ice clinking softly in the amber whiskey. "Some cracks, once they appear, can't be patched."
"Now all we need is a spark," Shane continued, a sly smile curling the corner of his mouth. "The rest… let them sort it out themselves."
Volker's eyes narrowed, shadows dancing across his face in the dim light. "And how exactly do you intend to do that?"
Shane's fingers paused at the junction of two wood grains, eyes flashing with cunning. "First, observe their recent movements," he said slowly, letting the words sink in. "Then… we decide the next step."
Tom's voice dropped, a hint of tension in his tone. "Shane, the foreman said the Brotherhood has a shipment next Thursday. They need a few reliable men."
Shane's eyes lit with playful anticipation. "Next Thursday?" He spun his glass gently on the bar, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Interesting… very interesting."
"Tom, find out more. If it really is the Brotherhood's shipment…" His gaze settled on the men across from him. "Then next Thursday is our opportunity."
Tom's throat worked nervously, fingers gripping his glass. "I'll get the details tomorrow."
Volker's tapping ceased abruptly. "Are you going to—" His voice was low, cautious, as his eyes shifted between Shane and the spinning glass.
Shane leaned back, chair creaking. Hands spread casually on the bar. "It's not what I'm going to do," he said softly, voice smooth and controlled. "It's what I'm going to make them do."
Volker studied him, knuckles pressing lightly to the edge of the bar, weighing the calm confidence in Shane's gaze.
"…And then?" Volker asked, the question trailing like a whisper.
Shane's smile didn't waver. "Depends on how we play it." His eyes swept over the three men, amusement glinting in his gray-blue pupils. He stretched casually, recalling an old stratagem from a life long ago: creating something out of nothing.
Volker weighed his trust, eyes flicking in the dim light. Finally, he exhaled slowly. "Alright, Mr. Cassidy. I understand. We'll follow your plan."
Shane tapped the table twice. "Good. The plan only works with your cooperation. Tomorrow night… meet me at the abandoned lighthouse on Pier 3. We'll finalize the details."
Volker's gaze lingered, searching for hidden motives, but he only nodded. Shane's lips curved in that calm, unnerving smile.
"Once the plan is set," Shane said softly, barely audible above the jazz, "we just sit back and watch the fire burn."
The men shared a brief, tense silence, broken only when Shane raised his glass. "Then it's settled."
Glasses clinked sharply, whiskey sliding smoothly down throats. Volker and Vik stood, nodding, then strode toward the back door. Shane watched them disappear into the shadows before slowly turning back to the bar.
Two nights later, New York Harbor exhaled its muggy, briny scent into the dim evening. The mix of diesel, salt, and decay hung thick in the air.
Volker pushed open the back door of the Bluebird Bar, the damp night wind swirling around him. Instinctively, his hand touched the Colt M1911 at his waist, the cold steel grounding his nerves. In the distance, a cargo ship's muffled whistle echoed across the water.
He turned into a narrow alley, crates stacked high and slick with mildew. Each step made the cobblestones stick beneath his boots.
A faint spark of light illuminated a shadowed face—Mikhail, the former Eastern European enforcer, smoking. Sharp features, gray-green eyes beneath a heavy brow, and coarse blond hair falling across his forehead. Half a ring finger missing, a tattooed wrist revealed as he held the cigarette.
"Everything arranged?" Volker asked softly, voice low against the muffled city sounds.
Mikhail pressed out the cigarette, leaving a scorch mark on the brick. "A few new faces will perform at the Old Mill Bar tomorrow. According to our sources, Levin of the Hand of Zion will definitely attend." He grinned, uneven teeth catching the dim light. "We've planted word that the stolen U.S. dollars will appear in the Brotherhood's shipment."
Volker knew the hand in Mikhail's coat pocket concealed the Nagant M1895 revolver—the weapon that had saved them last year.
A port searchlight swept across the alley. Mikhail retreated into the shadows, crumpled program in hand, sweat-softened edges betraying its use.
"Levin listens to that Jewish girl sing every Monday," Mikhail said, mocking. "Punctual as clockwork."
Volker folded the program into his inner pocket, the faint perfume lingering. "Tell your men to exit through the back after the performance. Federal agents have increased patrols at the docks. We can't afford mistakes."
A whistle sounded. Both men ducked behind crates. Only when the police steps faded did Mikhail speak through clenched teeth:
"Levin recently recruited a new enforcer. Former Red Army. From Odessa. Dangerous."
Volker's eyes narrowed. Another ship whistle cut across the night sky.
He checked his pocket watch, the anchor engraving faintly glinting in the moonlight. "Perfect. Let them fight like dogs."
He melted into the fog-shrouded alley, darkness swallowing his figure. Mikhail paused, took a swig from his hip flask, then followed deeper into the shadows.