Moretti Residence, Lower East Side – The Next Day
The soft morning light filtering through the curtains gave a sense of calm to the Moretti's main hall. But on the solid oak table, maps of Little Italy were spread like chess pieces, marked with lines of war.
Giovanni sat at the head. Beside him, Don Salvatore, his face carved with the weight of someone who'd seen too many dreams turn to blood. Across from them, the caporegimes waited in silence.
"Little Italy is a wild beast," Don Salvatore began, his voice deep. "If you're going to ride it, you better have a firm grip… and riders you trust."
Giovanni nodded, then spoke with conviction.
"That's why I'm dividing the load. The territory will be split into four sectors. Each will be controlled by a direct commander — a capodecina to manage soldiers, collect tributes, and crush resistance before it lifts its head."
With a firm tone, he began naming names.
"Salvatore Greco: you'll control the northern sector. The streets around Houston down to Delancey. Shops, rackets, and everything bordering the Irish."
Greco, as serious as ever, nodded without a word.
"Geronimo Rinaldi: the west is yours. From Bowery to Broadway. Less glamorous, dirtier, but with the docks and smuggling shipments. I need your iron hand there."
"It'll be mine like the back of my hand," Rinaldi replied gruffly.
"Peter Clemenza and Salvatore Tessio will take on different roles," Giovanni then announced, his voice slicing the room like a blade.
A low murmur spread through the room.
"Clemenza will take over logistics: smuggling routes, liquor transport, secure warehouses. He won't command active troops. And Tessio — you'll handle intelligence and espionage. I want eyes in every tavern, precinct, and brothel. We want to know what they'll do before they even think of it."
Clemenza and Tessio exchanged a glance. It wasn't a demotion — it was strategic reassignment. They understood immediately.
"And their crews?" Don Salvatore asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Clemenza's men will be commanded by Luca Brasi."
A pause. Even Rinaldi raised an eyebrow.
"Yes. That Luca Brasi," Giovanni said with no room for doubt. "Now loyal to us. Brutal. Unstoppable. His name alone will bring fear to anyone still loyal to Rosso."
"And Tessio's crew?" Don Salvatore inquired flatly.
"It'll be led by Enzo Ferraro. An old-school veteran. Loyal, methodical, with a steady hand. He's the right man for the job."
Old Salvatore nodded approvingly.
"You've learned well, Giovanni. Distributing power isn't weakness. It's survival."
The Expansion of Little Italy
Street control wasn't enough. Giovanni knew it. You won wars with bullets — but you built empires with money.
"We're expanding our operations," he told his closest men that afternoon. "If the neighborhood burns, let it burn with music, liquor, and profits."
With Clemenza's help — who knew every tunnel and every bribed driver — they began building a network of speakeasies. Some disguised as jazz clubs, others as pizzerias that only opened at night.
"And the cops," Giovanni added, "they drink for free and look the other way. If that's not enough, we buy them off. And if they still say no, we have… other ways."
Tessio, from the shadows, started collecting dirt on councilmen, judges, and district heads. He knew who had debts, who had mistresses, and who feared their name in the papers.
"Also," Giovanni continued, laying a new file on the table, "we're starting the money laundering. Laundromats, bakeries, button factories — anything that brings in money without asking questions."
Greco nodded.
"Good way to hide booze in flour crates."
"Exactly," Giovanni smiled.
By the end of the day, Don Salvatore approached his son and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Today, you stopped being just a soldier. Today, you started building an empire. Never forget: Power that isn't shared rots… and money that isn't cleaned smells like a coffin."
Giovanni didn't reply. He just stared at the map in front of him — where Little Italy was no longer a battlefield…But a board.And he, the player with the sharpest pieces.
Club La Sirena Roja, Little Italy – Midnight
Cigar smoke hung thick above the marble tables, and the dim lights gave the place an air of perpetual conspiracy. At the back of the club, behind a velvet curtain, Giovanni met with the street-level bosses — small-time racket leaders, bookies, mid-tier extortionists. Everyone knew something big was coming.
Giovanni rose from his chair. At his side, like a shadow cast in lead, stood Luca Brasi — the same man who, just weeks earlier, had been a prisoner of Rosso.
"This man," Giovanni said, pointing at Luca, "didn't just escape the hell that was Rosso's basement. He also killed, with his bare hands, three men who tried to cut out his tongue. No weapons. Just hate."
A murmur of respect rippled through the room.
"From today on, Luca will lead the crew formerly commanded by Clemenza. He will be my sword in the streets. If anyone has doubts…" —he locked eyes with one of the captains who looked skeptical— "you can talk it out with him. Right now."
The man looked down. No one wanted to fight a motivated Brasi.
Strategy of Fear and Respect
Giovanni didn't use Luca as a mere enforcer. He understood that fear — properly administered — was as valuable a tool as gold.
Midnight Visits: Luca and his men started showing up at joints still controlled by Rosso or contested. They didn't say much. Just flashed their guns, asked if the owner wanted to pay tribute to the Morettis… and left behind a few broken teeth if the answer was wrong.
Elimination of Remnants: A couple of lieutenants still loyal to Rosso were hiding out in Little Italy. Within a week, both their corpses turned up in alleyways — each with Italian coins in their mouths. A message. Giovanni was in charge now.
Real Protection: But it wasn't all violence. Brasi made sure loyal businesses were truly protected. If someone robbed a baker who paid tribute, Luca personally tracked down the thief — and returned him in pieces.
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