Chapter 4 - The War for Atlantic Avenue
By Monday morning, the underground underworld of New York City was in a state of sheer panic.
In a smoky backroom social club in Little Italy, Don Salvatore Maroni slammed his fist down on a mahogany table, shattering a crystal ashtray.
"What do you mean Falcone took over Atlantic Avenue?!" Salvatore roared at his trembling lieutenant. "That's our territory! We’ve collected the shop taxes there for ten years!"
"Boss, you don't understand," the lieutenant stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Falcone didn't just chase our boys off Atlantic. His enforcers dismantled three of our import warehouses in Red Hook overnight. He seized four million dollars in smuggled contraband, and he sent a message to every captain in our syndicate: Touch Clara Alvarez, and I burn Queens to the ground."
Salvatore went pale. "Clara Alvarez? Who the hell is Clara Alvarez?"
"She's... she's a seamstress with a little girl," the lieutenant whispered. "Word on the street is, the kid walked right up to Dario Falcone in the park on Sunday and called him 'daddy.' Falcone is protecting them personally."
May you like
Salvatore stared into space, a cold realization dawning on him. The Ice King—the most ruthless, unyielding bachelor in the history of the New York mob—had found a weakness. Or worse... a heart.
"If Falcone has gone soft over a seamstress," Salvatore hissed, a dark, venomous smile spreading across his face, "then we don't fight him on the docks. We hit him where his new family lives."
