Prologue: A Message to Don Vincente

The negotiations had come to a stalemate. Vincent Di Rosa, patriarch of the Di Rosa syndicate, eyed his counterparts with barely veiled contempt. To him, they were not worthy of any more of his time. He had allowed them to prosper in the lucrative trade with prescription drugs, mostly steroids and Viagra knock-offs, but now that they had gained in wealth and perceived power they wanted to step in on the Di Rosa turf.

He was leery of them, nonetheless. Those crazy Albanian goons had little regard for the rules of the business. They did not recognize the Cosa Nostra, and they had no foresight or reason to guide them, only greed and archaic concepts of honor.

To Don Vincente, it was clear that this ragtag bunch of goons stood no chance against the Di Rosa organization with its vast resources, not only in manpower, but also in political connections. The problem was that they did not see this point. To them, the Di Rosa syndicate was a toothless tiger, a bunch of old, boccie playing Mustache Petes. This was one disadvantage of Don Vincente's success in keeping out of the public eye. Don Vincente had never been convicted of a crime, had not even been arrested in all his seventy-two years. While this feat had garnered him much admiration in his own closely guarded circles, the average street goon might not even know his name.

"Is that your last word, Di Rosa?"

The rude question, so bare of all refinement and politeness, came from Enver Kaçani who liked to style himself the boss of the Kaçani syndicate.

"My dear Kaçani, what do you expect of me? You come here to my city to start a business. You ask for my help to start things, and didn't I help you? Now that you have found success with my help, you make demands of me. Is that reasonable? What do you offer in return? How do you reward me for the open hand I offered you all those years?"

Kaçani snorted with derision. "You expect gratitude? We paid you for your protection. One last time. Will you support our expansion into South Philadelphia?"

"I have told you, time and again, that I will not tolerate any of your activities in that area. It is quiet there, and my people want to keep it quiet. I believe this meeting has become entirely fruitless," Don Vincente said without emotion. "I wish you a good day and success in your endeavors."

Kaçani's eyes narrowed. Then he shrugged his shoulders and abruptly turned to leave the room with his three lieutenants in tow. Don Vincente waited until his man at the door gave him a nod before he spoke again. He addressed his grandson, Felix Di Rosa, who had been sitting silently, watching the Albanians closely.

"Nobody can reason with these barbarians," Don Vincente sighed.

Felix nodded. "Do we rub them out?" he asked bluntly. Once among themselves, the Di Rosa were not prone to mincing words, and Felix was the numero uno martello of the family, their Nº1 hammer.

"Clear it with the cops first. If they want, leave them a few of the Kaçanis to arrest. It's getting close to Christmas and our good friends can use citations and promotions."

Felix nodded. "I'll talk to our contacts. We have to move anyway. That stuff is getting bad for our business."

He meant sports betting, of course. Any rumor of manipulation made the bettors wary. Then Felix thought of something else.

"The congressman wants to set up a subcommittee to look into sports doping. Maybe we can feed him a few names, too."

"Have this done by Christmas," Don Vincente nodded. "I want to enjoy the holidays without having to worry about those cafones."

Meanwhile, Enver Kaçani, his two sons, three nephews, and his cousin, retired to Enver's huge gym, the Olympic, in an upstairs conference room. Not surprisingly, the subject was the meeting with the Di Rosa.

"Why not take them out?" Enver's cousin, Ilie, proposed.

Enver shook his head. "We must make the old man knuckle under. If we knock him off, another Spaghetti will take his place. We must scare him, make him realize we mean business."

"Felix Di Rosa?"

Enver shook his head again. "He's barely ever seen in public. He only pops up at those meetings. He's also their Number One Hammer and he's never out without some serious muscle."

"Other family members?" his nephew, Nasav, asked.

"The old man's son died last year. Then, of course, you have his underlings, but he's lost a few of them to the Fibbies in the last years and that didn't rattle him. No, we have to hit in the soft underbelly where it hurts. Family, you know."

"Well, what about that furniture store? It's named Di Rosa, too," Nasav suggested.

"That's right," Cousin Ilie joined in. "The owner, he's the old man's nephew; Giancarlo Di Rosa is his name."

"I don't know," Enver temporized.

"Look, Uncle Enver, it's perfect. He's close kin to the old man, yet he's not running around with a bunch of buttons to guard him. It's a piece of cake to take him out, and it'll shake the old bastard."

Nasav spoke persuasively; he wanted the job. Enver smirked. Whatever. If that did not work, they could still knock off another Di Rosa later.

"Case him for two or three weeks. Make sure he isn't protected. Then whack him. Make it public and make it look gory!"

Nasav shrugged. What he had in mind was already in line with his uncle's wishes.

Felix Di Rosa surveyed the information he had received over the last weeks. His grandfather's wish to solve the Kaçani problem before Christmas was not easily fulfilled. Kaçani and his closest chums, all blood relations, rarely left the large gym where they had their headquarters.

The problem was not so much the muscle that guarded the place but the fact that there were always three or four off-duty police officers working out in the gym. Kaçani offered free membership to young cops knowing that a hit on his gym was impossible if there was a danger that cops got hurt. Also, the narcs would be leery about catching fellow officers when investigating the gym. Very clever, Felix conceded. The cops probably had free access to Kaçani's steroids, at least by the looks some of them sported.

Just then, the idea hit Felix and he smiled at the beauty of it. He could get rid of the cops in the gym and help a friend with his career. He picked up the unlisted, prepaid phone he used on this day. He dialed the number from memory. He listened to the call tone. The tone stopped and Felix heard the voice of the man he needed.

"Philadelphia Police Department, Department of Internal Affairs, Lieutenant Alvarado. How may I help you?"

"Well, Lieutenant, I work out in this gym, the Olympic. Twice a week, in fact. In the weight room, there's always this group of young men. Very bulky, you know. From how they talk it's clear they are police officers. Now yesterday, I saw two of them in the locker room and they were taking some pills. Afterwards I saw some empties in the trash box. They were labeled 'Nandrolone'. I'm a bit concerned about police officers who consume prescription medicine, Lieutenant."

"Well, Mr... ?"

"Not on the phone. I won't come to your office either. These guys know me. Can you meet me someplace in town?"

"Is this some prank, mister?" Alvarado asked for show.

He had already recognized Felix's voice, no doubt. Felix and the Lieutenant's son had been roommates at Drexel College. One of the Di Rosa's corporations had picked up the tuition bill. Young Dennis Alvarado was about to finish at Cornell law school, and he was already earmarked for the DA's office. The Di Rosa had great plans for young Alvarado.

"No, Lieutenant, really not. I even have those pill boxes and I didn't touch them with my fingers."

"Okay. How about I'll meet you at the Liberty Bell? I'll wear a black coat and a red scarf. Can you be there in an hour?"

"Certainly, Lieutenant. An hour. I'll be there."

Felix signed off and pulled the sim card from the phone. He would not use it again in case Alvarado's phone was bugged. If his plan played out the young cops would avoid the Olympic for a while leaving the Kaçanis without their police shield.

Nasav Kaçani tried to relax. His hand on the grip of the well worn Skorpion 61 was sweaty. He wiped it for the third time in just as many minutes. The furniture store had closed an hour earlier. Di Rosa and his son would be leaving any time soon, as they had done the last three Saturdays.

The small side street off Lancaster Avenue was quiet and the last customers had left the parking lot. There were only commercial developments along the street and most buildings were dark. It was perfect.

Nasav checked his weapon again. He was a good shot with his Beretta, but he was only partly familiar with the Skorpion. It had been standard issue for the goons of most Eastern European communist governments, but Nasav was only twenty-seven, too young to have seen that time. He had emptied three clips on the firing range the evening before and he thought he could handle it.

There! He saw movement around the entrance, and four people exited. Shit! There were two women with them. Nasav contemplated to abort, but then he made up his mind. Tough luck for the broads! He saw how they sat in the car, a nice, shiny BMW 635. In the light of the neon sign above the entrance of the store he could see that one of the women was a young girl.

"You want to abort?" Ilie asked from the driver's seat.

"Fuck, no! The young cunt is sitting in the back. She'll live. Get ready!"

He lowered the rear window and Ilie started the engine. Just as the BMW was heading towards the exit of the parking lot, the old Taurus moved forward to block the way. Nasav sighted over the barrel of the Skorpion and pressed the trigger.

Sitting in the back of the car and aiming sideways, he did not have the same leverage he'd had on the shooting range. Also, the spring of the firing rate reducer was worn, bringing the firing rate up to 1,000 per minute and adding some kick. After four or five rounds the shots went high. The front window of the BMW had three holes in it, but only on the passenger side. Shit! He tried a second burst but after a few rounds an ejected shell ricocheted from the window frame and hit Nasav's face, and again his aim was off. He tried a third burst but there was a single 'click' only. He had expended the twenty rounds of the first clip in two wild bursts. The BMW had come to a stop with its windshield shattered in part.

With trembling hands Nasav removed the empty clip and hastily inserted the second. In his haste he did not insert it properly and the weapon jammed. He tried again, but in his confusion he touched the barrel and screamed with pain when he burned his hand.

"Go, go, go!" he shouted, and Ilie sped off with screaming tires.

Felix Di Rosa was sitting with his grandfather when the first phone call came in. It was on the private line, a number that was known only to a select group of people. His grandfather picked up the receiver and listened quietly. Felix could see how Don Vincente's face paled and his shoulders sagged.

"Are you sure they're dead?" he asked in a calm voice that belied his paleness. "And the children? ... Santa Madonna! ... Will he live? ... Yes, we'll handle it from here. You have my gratitude, old friend!"

With slightly shaky hands Don Vincente put the receiver of the cradle and looked at his grandson.

"They shot up your Uncle Giancarlo and his family, just as they were leaving their store. Gianni is dead, and so is Carla. Little Teresa was headshot, but she's alive. Poor Joseph caught three rounds. He's still breathing, but barely."

Felix felt like he was hit by a hammer. Uncle Giancarlo? The one man who had never been part of the family business? And his family shot, too? Had these animali no regard whatever for the lives of the innocent? He felt Don Vincente's eyes on himself and looked up. The paleness was gone and there was a steely resolve in those wrinkled features.

"Be my Martello, Grandson! Take your regime and exact retribution. This is personal, Felice! Make the answer personal, too! We have been too much of businessmen lately. It is time they feared us again in this city."

"Confirmations?" Felix asked curtly. A confirmation was a public execution, or at least one where the body would be left in public. By contrast, a communion meant the disappearance of the target, greatly reducing the risks of detection and conviction.

"Confirmations," the old man answered. "Kaçani, his sons and the cousins. Spare the women if you can. After all, we are not animali."

"My plans are almost ready. We'll just move them ahead a few days," Felix responded.

To have confirmations would add a few logistical problems, and to send a message to the public would have to be orchestrated skillfully to avoid trouble with the cops and with their political allies. He approved of his grandfather's decision entirely, though. Had the Kaçani feared the Di Rosa family, Uncle Gianni and his family would be enjoying their dinner now. He set his jaw. Those of the Kaçani clan who survived would fear them before another week was over.

"What are your plans?" Felix asked.

"I'll go to the hospital. See after my security."

"I'll come myself." Felix said.

It was long after midnight before a hollow-eyed surgeon approached them.

"Sir, are you next of kin to Joseph and Teresa Di Rosa?"

Don Vincente stood and nodded. "I am their great uncle and their closest living relative."

"The good news first. We could stabilize the girl. She was hit by a glancing shot; it did not penetrate the skull. It caused sub-dural bleeding, though, and we don't know yet how much damage was caused by this. We put in a drainage, and her EEG is getting back to normal.

"Now for the bad news: The young man was shot three times. All wounds are in his back. The ambulance people told us he was found covering the girl. The wounds caused extensive blood loss. We had to perform open thorax surgery to repair the damage to his lungs. We have done what we could, but I don't want to give you false hope. His vital signs are weak."

Don Vincente seemed to totter for a second but he got a grip on himself.

"I am grateful to you, Doctor, for what you did for my nephew and my niece. If there is anything we can arrange ― flying in specialists or equipment ― let us know. Is it possible to see them?"