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PIETRO LICCIARDI BANGED HIS FIST against the front door of Lorrimer Urwin's house. He waited for a moment and banged the door again, "Open up, Urwin."
A young man in a flat cap came around the side of the house to join the four standing on the short, dirt path leading to the house, "I checked the back door. It's locked and I don't see anyone inside."
Licciardi banged the side of his fist hard against the door once and swore. "I'll kill you, Urwin," he yelled.
"You want one of us to stay–?"
"No. We'll come back later. Let's head down to the next one." Licciardi swore again and pumped his fist in the air as he led the five men onto the street and crossed to the other side. Moving down to the entrance of an alleyway, Licciardi turned in and marched through the darkness, gravel crunching under his boots, unafraid of anyone. The six men stopped halfway through the alleyway and lit cigarettes.
"I understand you've been interfering in my business."
The six men turned towards the voice and saw three men standing twenty feet away, in the direction they had just come from.
Pietro Licciardi took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke as he took a step forward, "And who the hell would you be?" He stood firm with his feet wide apart. The other five men stepped up beside him and imitated his stance, sending a message of force and toughness to the three men standing calmly in the alley.
"My name is Rocco DeLuca. Mr. Urwin and his son sell my liquor. You're interfering with that–"
"I'm not interfering," Licciardi said. He put a hand to his chest, "All Mr. Urwin has to do is pay me for the privilege of doing business in my territory."
Rocco looked at Licciardi for a moment, "Who do you work for?"
Licciardi laughed, "Who do I work for?" He put the fingers of his right hand together and gestured towards Rocco, "Haven't you ever heard of Omertà, old-timer?"
A light grin on his lips Tommy looked at Rocco from the corner of his eye, his voice low, "Old-timer? How old does he think you are anyway?"
Rocco ignored the comments. Omertà was the code of silence for several Italian organizations such as 'Ndrangheta, Sacra Corona Unita, and even Camorra. It put him no closer to knowing who was pushing this. "You threatened to burn my friend's house down if he didn't give you $2,000," Rocco said. "That sounds to me like...La Mano Nera."
Licciardi blew out a puff of smoke, "I think you should scram, bonehead. Before you get knocked off."
No denial. Which confirms Camorra. Which leads to Roberto Borrasso,"Thanks for your help," Rocco said.
Licciardi looked to his pals like he had no idea what Rocco was talking about. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, blew out the smoke, dropped the cigarette to the gravel and crushed it underfoot. "I think this ends now–"
"I agree," Rocco said.
Tommy Giachetti calmly took two steps ahead, set his feet set wide apart, placed the Thompson at his hip and pulled the trigger. The steady rat-tat-tat beat of the machine gun echoed loudly off the buildings on either side of the alleyway. The flashes from the muzzle lit up the forms of Tommy, Gianni and Rocco as well as the dancing figures of six men being pumped full of slugs.
Then it went silent. Wisps of smoke curled in the air as the three men turned and walked back to the end of the alleyway. Tommy kept the hot Thompson away from his body.
Off to the right up ahead, reporter Latimer Stealey appeared from the darkness of the street. His photographer, Joe Stripling, was right behind him, with his box camera on a tripod over his shoulder. The two men took off at a run down the dark alleyway, heading for the dead bodies, eager to get the newspaper-selling details of the crime scene.
Rocco reached out and grabbed Stealey's arm, stopping him in his tracks.
Stripling stopped right beside Stealey, both men's eyes shining with fear.
Gianni and Tommy continued walking.
Rocco leaned his head closer to Stealey, "Just make sure the headline on your front-page story mentions they were killed for black hand extortion. Got that?"
"I..I don't know what that is–"
"Black–hand–extortion."
"Y-yes, sir." Stealey's head bobbed up and down.
Rocco gave Stripling a hard look.
Stripling's body was shaking so hard his tripod was rattling. "He's the writer, not me," he protested. "B-but...yes...we'll be sure...."
After another hard look at Stealey, Rocco let go of his arm and continued out of the alleyway. Message sent.
Stealey and Stripling ran for the sensational pictures and headline grabbing story that would be splashed across the front page of tomorrow morning's early edition.