New York in the 1930s was not a city; it was a machine made of meat and iron. The Brooklyn docks were the throat of that machine, swallowing raw goods from the world and spitting out wealth for the few.
Don Marcello's "test" for Luciano was simple in theory, but lethal in execution. A shipment of unlicensed morphine—stolen from a rival syndicate—was being held in Warehouse 14. The docks were currently patrolled by the "Irish Bulls," a gang of dockworkers turned enforcers who viewed the Italians as a virus to be eradicated.
"Go there," Marcello had said, biting the end off a cigar. "Retrieve the crates. Don't make a scene. If you fail, don't bother coming back. I have enough mouths to feed."
The Anatomy of the Docks
Luciano arrived at midnight. The air was thick with the smell of dead fish, creosote, and the metallic tang of the East River. He didn't bring a squad; he brought a shadow. He had spent the last forty-eight hours studying the patrol patterns, the rust on the hinges, and the rhythm of the tides.
He moved through the rafters. Up there, among the dust and the cobwebs, he was back in the library of La Fortezza. He watched three Irish enforcers below. They were massive men, fueled by whiskey and the arrogance of local kings.
"Hear something?" one asked, squinting into the darkness above.
"Just the rats, Murph. Place is crawling with 'em."
The Silent Massacre
Luciano dropped.
He didn't use a gun. A gun was a scream in a library. He used the "Lesson of the Steel." He took the first man before his boots even hit the concrete—a clean, surgical strike to the carotid. The second man turned, his mouth opening to yell, but Luciano's gloved hand clamped over his face while his blade found the space between the ribs.
The third man, Murphy, panicked. He backed away, tripping over a crate. He looked up and saw Luciano standing in the moonlight filtering through the broken skylight.
Luciano wasn't breathing hard. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and devoid of the heat of anger. He looked like a bird of prey—still, focused, and utterly alien.
"What are you?" Murphy whimpered, reaching for a pipe.
Luciano didn't answer. He moved with a grace that was terrifying because it was so efficient. He didn't just kill Murphy; he dismantled his will. When it was over, the warehouse was silent again. The only sound was the lapping of the river against the pilings.
The Raven is Named
Luciano stepped out onto the pier, his coat billowing in the wind like black wings. He signaled the transport trucks.
A week later, the story had grown in the telling. The "Irish Bulls" had been wiped out by a single man who moved like a shadow and killed without a word. In the dark bars of Little Italy and the damp basements of Hell's Kitchen, they began to whisper a name.
"They say he's not a man," a low-level soldier told Don Marcello. "They say he's a Corvo. A Raven. He just appears, picks the eyes out of the target, and vanishes."
Marcello looked at Luciano, who was sitting in the corner, calmly reading a newspaper. There was no blood on his hands now, but the air around him felt ten degrees colder. Marcello realized he hadn't hired a wolf. He had imported an executioner.
"Il Corvo," Marcello mused, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I like it. It has a certain... funereal quality."
Luciano didn't look up from his paper. But for the first time in New York, he felt a sense of belonging. He wasn't Luca Valli anymore. He was the Raven. And the city was starting to fear the sound of his wings.