Lower East Side, January 1921.
The newspapers announced the dawn of a new moral era in the United States. However, in the dark docks along the East River, the real era beginning was that of smuggling.
The meeting took place in the back room of an ordinary storefront on Allen Street. Behind the rusty door of an old refrigerator, a brick-walled room filled with the heavy scent of tobacco and old leather hid: the Moretti family's "war room."
Seated around a round table were Salvatore Moretti, his son Giovanni, consigliere Donato Valenti, the four trusted caporegimes, and two representatives of the Camorra from Grand Street, sent by Don Cataldo Sabino.
Salvatore spoke in a deep voice:
—Starting this week, no bar, no restaurant, not even a damn funeral will serve a drop of wine without going through us first.
Giovanni, crossing his arms, added firmly:
—We already have ships waiting offshore. Scotch whisky, Havana rum, and wine from Naples. We just need the network to move it.
One of the Sabino, cautiously, intervened:
—That could cost blood. There are still Irish around, and fed agents hungry for medals.
Giovanni smiled slightly and replied:
—It will cost blood, yes. But when was an empire ever built without it?
It was midnight at Corlears Hook. Four small boats, camouflaged with fishing nets, were unloading barrels marked "olive oil." Giovanni supervised in person, holding a red flashlight between his fingers.
He addressed a Sicilian stevedore:
—The dark oak ones go to Chrystie Street. The lighter ones to Norfolk. And if one breaks, I'll break your teeth.
Donato, lighting a cigar, asked:
—What if the feds sniff around?
Giovanni answered coldly:
—Let them smell wine. But let them find gunpowder.
They opened an underground warehouse beneath an Italian cold cuts shop. Inside, 80 barrels awaited distribution through the speakeasy network.
The speakeasies were born with innocent names: Il Cavallo Nero, The East Laundry, Luigi's Tailor Shop… Eight places that, behind their façades, hid secret bars with jazz music, women in sequined dresses, and alcohol flowing like a river.
Each bar had two security men, a secret entrance, an escape route, a renowned singer or pianist — Giovanni had hired an African American trio from Harlem — and a truck hidden in the back alley for nightly restocking.
The reputation grew fast. Within a week, politicians, bankers, and judges were already coming. State Senator William Braddock was one of the first to toast at Il Cavallo Nero.
Drunk and smiling, he said:
—I didn't know Italians made such good whisky.
Giovanni muttered sarcastically:
—It's Scotch. But money makes it Italian.
The profits exceeded all expectations. In fifteen days, fifty thousand dollars came in just from alcohol sales.
Each caporegime received a bonus of two thousand five hundred dollars.
Five modified Ford Model Ts were purchased for nighttime transport.
Giovanni ordered shipments from Montreal and Marseille to be doubled weekly.
The Morettis stopped being just a respected family. Now they were indispensable.
In the Moretti office, with curtains drawn and a bottle of grappa open, Salvatore and Giovanni toasted alone.
Salvatore looked at his son and said:
—Money is rain, figlio mio. But rain brings mud.
Giovanni responded with determination:
—Mud doesn't scare if you have firm boots.
Salvatore warned seriously:
—Boots won't save you when the mud tries to swallow you. Remember: wealth attracts envy. And envy brings knives.
The early morning was shattered by the sound of gunfire on Norfolk Street. One of the speakeasies was attacked. Two men died. On the wall, a carved message read:
"This isn't just your party, Giovanni."
And so began not only an empire… but the first war for control of alcohol in Manhattan