Babylon Nightclub, VIP Room.
The heavy soundproof door shut out the deafening bass from the dance floor, leaving only a faint vibration in the floorboards.
The air inside the room was like a powder keg waiting to be lit.
Click-Clack—
Fat Tony DiNozzo expertly racked the slide of his Remington shotgun, chambering a red 12-gauge buckshot shell.
His face was flushed red, veins bulging on his neck like earthworms. The fake smile usually plastered on his face was gone, replaced by a beast-like ferocity.
"Those damn Irish potatoes!"
Tony slammed the gun onto the marble table, making the ice in the glasses clatter.
"They dared to smash my place! Two hours ago, that bastard Sean O'Neil sent his men to raid my warehouse in Elizabeth Port. They injured three of my guys and took fifty boxes of product!"
He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and took a swig straight from the bottle, the burning liquid spilling down his chin and staining his expensive silk shirt.
"Victor, don't stop me. Tonight I'm taking my men to wipe out their nest! I'm going to cut off O'Neil's head and hang it on a lamppost at the docks!"
In the shadows of the room, Victor Corleone sat quietly.
He held a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon, his expression as calm as if he were listening to a boring opera.
"And then?"
Victor's voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the silence of the room with crystal clarity.
"What?" Tony paused, seemingly not understanding.
"I said, after you kill O'Neil, then what?"
Victor put down his water glass, took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, and methodically wiped his glasses.
"The police will lock down the entire port district. The DEA will swarm in like sharks smelling blood. Your clubs will be raided, your men arrested, and our factory..."
He put his glasses back on, his gaze behind the lenses piercing coldly into Tony.
"...will be completely exposed."
"So what?!" Tony roared. "Am I supposed to swallow this insult? If I don't hit back, tomorrow the entire New Jersey underworld will think Fat Tony is soft! Who will respect our turf then?"
"Striking back is necessary. But not with guns."
Victor stood up and walked over to Tony.
He reached out and pressed down on the cold barrel of the shotgun.
"Tony, it's 1980, not 1920s Chicago. You aren't Al Capone, and I'm not some desperado who only knows how to wave a Thompson submachine gun."
He looked down at the mob boss, who was twice his size, his tone carrying an unquestionable authority.
"We use our brains to kill."
...
Tony looked at Victor, the fire in his eyes slowly subsiding, replaced by suspicion.
"Brains? Can brains stop bullets?"
"Brains can make your enemies put a bullet in their own heads."
Victor sat back on the sofa, crossing his legs.
"Why did the Irish steal our goods?"
"Because they're greedy! Because heroin isn't selling, and all their junkie customers are running to buy Purple Drank!" Tony said hatefully.
"These Irishmen... they are like ghosts from the 1920s."
Victor looked at the swirling ice in his glass, his tone tinged with contempt.
"They built their power on controlling the longshoremen's union, doing the most primitive robberies and low-end distribution. They look down on the Italian 'business sense', thinking violence is the only language."
"Exactly! Those savages!" Tony gritted his teeth. "They think we are softies who only know how to count money."
"And that is exactly why they will lose."
Victor pushed up his glasses, the lenses reflecting a cold light.
"What if we use that greed to send them a 'poisoned gift'?"
"Gift?" Tony paused.
Victor took a small brown glass bottle from his briefcase and placed it gently on the table.
"This batch is a 'gift' I prepared especially for you tonight."
"What is this?" Tony leaned in to look.
"Acetaminophen. Also known as Paracetamol," Victor explained calmly. "And a little bit of industrial Toluene."
"This stuff can kill people?" Tony looked skeptical. "Paracetamol is for headaches. I can buy it at any pharmacy."
"In normal doses, it cures headaches."
Victor's voice dropped lower.
"But when the dose exceeds 10 grams, and it is mixed with alcohol..."
He made an explosion gesture with his hand.
"It instantly depletes the liver's glutathione. Then, a metabolic toxin called NAPQI will corrode liver cells like strong acid."
"That is acute liver failure, Tony. The process is extremely painful and irreversible."
"As for the Toluene..." Victor smiled. "That will give their brains hallucinations. They will see devils, see enemies that don't exist. They will go mad and attack their own."
Tony listened, dumbfounded. Looking at the unassuming little bottle on the table, he suddenly felt a chill down his spine.
"But Victor," Tony frowned. "O'Neil is a miser. If he steals the goods, his first thought will be to turn it into cash. How can you guarantee they will drink it themselves instead of selling it?"
"Good question."
"If they sell the stolen goods to street junkies like usual, this 'gift' will kill hundreds of customers. If that happens, the police will lock everything down, trace the source, and eventually find us."
Victor snapped his fingers.
"That requires a little psychology."
"Tonight, at the drop point at the docks, leave a deliberate opening. Leave them ten boxes. But these ten boxes must have special labels."
"Special labels?"
"Yes. Put gold labels on them. Write 'Family Reserve' or 'Pure - Not For Sale'."
"Have your insider leak a rumor. Say this batch was prepared specially for the big shots of the Gambino family in New York. Triple purity, premium taste."
"Sean O'Neil is an arrogant bastard. When he snatches a tribute meant for his rival's 'Big Boss', he will never sell it to street beggars."
"He will treat it as a trophy. A badge of humiliation for you."
"He won't be able to wait to open it and share the 'taste of victory' with his inner circle."
Tony stared for a moment, then took a deep breath, that familiar, chilling smile returning to his face.
"That move... is fucking sinister."
He put away the shotgun and patted Victor on the shoulder.
"Victor, remind me. Never let me stand on your opposite side."
"As long as we are making money, we will always be friends, Tony."
Victor replied with a smile, but the warmth never reached his eyes.
...
Late night. Elizabeth Port, New Jersey.
The sea breeze, carrying the salty scent of the ocean, blew across the empty container yard.
Several black sedans roared past, kicking up dust. A group of Irishmen in leather jackets, wielding baseball bats and chains, poured out.
"Haha! Those Italian softies ran away!"
The redhead leading them was Sean O'Neil. His face was fleshy and brutal, and he held a machete that was still dripping blood. He kicked a box left on the ground, hearing the liquid slosh inside.
"Boss! Look!"
A minion excitedly pried open the box, revealing the neatly arranged purple plastic bottles.
Unlike the standard packaging on the market, these bottles had dazzling gold labels with flowing Italian script.
"What is this bird language?" the minion asked.
"It says 'Family Reserve'."
Sean O'Neil narrowed his eyes, reading the words by the moonlight. He let out a harsh laugh.
"Hahaha! Fat Tony, that dead pig! He sells watered-down trash to those fools on the street, but hides the good stuff at home for himself!"
"I heard this was for the big shots in New York. Supposed to be super pure." A trusted lieutenant beside him licked his lips greedily. "Boss, should we sell it? This could fetch a good price."
"Sell it, my ass!"
Sean slapped the lieutenant on the back of the head.
"This is a trophy! Get it? This is Fat Tony paying us tribute!"
He unscrewed a bottle casually. A grape scent, richer and sweeter than the regular Purple Drank, instantly filled the air (it was the characteristic aromatic hydrocarbon smell of Toluene, but under the cover of alcohol, it seemed exceptionally alluring).
"Tonight is a total victory! This 'Special Tribute', of course, we drink it to celebrate!"
"Call the boys! Let's taste the good stuff that fat pig couldn't bear to drink!"
"To Ireland!" Sean raised the bottle and roared at the night sky.
"To Ireland!"
...
Newark, New Jersey. DEA Field Office.
3:00 AM. The office was still brightly lit.
Hank Schrader slammed the latest ER statistics report onto Steve Gomez's desk with such force that the coffee cup jumped.
"Remember that double cup we found on the streets of Trenton last week?"
"The one with the purple cough syrup?" Gomez rubbed his sleepy eyes. "What about it, boss? Didn't you say someone was... mass-producing it?"
"That was a guess. Now it's a fact."
Hank sneered, pointing at the skyrocketing red curve on the report.
"Look at this. In the past two weeks, ERs in Newark and Elizabeth have admitted over fifty teenagers. Symptoms: respiratory depression and confusion. Their vomit was full of that damn purple liquid."
"This stuff is spreading like a plague, Steve. But that's not the worst part."
Hank walked to the gang territory map on the wall and viciously stuck a red pin into Elizabeth Port.
"That eerie 'silence' I felt before? It's over."
"Informants just reported that the Irish gang hit the DiNozzo family's warehouse tonight. For what? Not heroin, not cocaine, but this Purple Drank."
"A war over cough syrup?" Gomez's eyes widened. "Are these guys crazy?"
"When the profit is high enough, cough syrup is gold."
"For two rival gangs to go to war over it means the supply chain behind it is already formed. That 'Pharmacist' selling medicine as drugs... his appetite is much bigger than we imagined."
"Let's go, Steve."
"Where?"
"To the docks. Tonight must have left some clues. I have a feeling the guy I'm looking for will be there."