Gio

“I want to be that man for you. In fact, I am that man tonight. If you stand behind me, I will not let the Irish thugs control our city. I will not take losing our earnings to Boston. I will take care of us.”

“Any objections?” I called out.

No one raised a hand. Not a voice chirped to object.

Gian nodded appreciatively. “Saluti.” he raises his glass.

“Saluti.” The men responded in unison.

The games had begun.

The Alibi was the first business Gian, and I opened together. As soon as we were old enough to earn, we were out on the streets. Once we were initiated, the money was flowing. Dirty money needs to be washed, plus a W2 is a pretty necessary thing to have. So we opened The Alibi.

The name was a promise between us. Being born in this life there’s always a chance that one of us will get picked up. The Alibi is our unspoken rule that we’ll always be each other's alibi. Also, it was a nice fuck you to the cops when we get to say our alibi is The Alibi.

The bar is a mix of rustic meets speakeasy. Our sister had a filled day decorating the place. That girl loves to spend other people's money. The exterior walls are red brick and the newer built walls that section the place into rooms are painted a sleek gray. The bar itself is solid wood with a concrete top coated with epoxy giving it a nice smooth finish. The lounge areas house leather couches and high-back chairs with 20s themed artwork. Providence made a lot of money during the Prohibition era, including our grandfather who ran his own speakeasy. This is our nod to him, to our roots.

No matter how many businesses we opened over the years, this one would always be my favorite.

“Skip,” Tony’s voice sliced through my thoughts.

“Tony,” I run a small crew, with only three other men. Tony Cervelli is one of them. He looks nervous, wringing his fingers together. He glances briefly at the other two members of my crew standing behind him. Big Frank DiNonno and Charlie Massero.

“Spit it out, Tony.”

“Well, me and the guys, see…” he trailed. “We’re, uh, itching for work, ya know?”

Yeah.

I know.

I’ve been slacking since my mother's death.

Depression is a bitch. Not that I would tell them that.

“Shit, yeah. I know.” I tell him, scrubbing a hand down my face. “What about the Pearce job?” The Pearce job is something we’ve been planning for a while now. It’s a little personal to me, but sometimes personal works out well. It makes me more motivated when there’s more than money on the line.

In la Famiglia my crew is known for having a specialty. We’re good at a lot of things, but we’re really good at stealing things.

I’m not talking pickpocketing or jacking trucks. Though, we do that too.

I’m talking about the big money.

Diamonds.

I had a mentor, another made man, who caught me stealing at a party once and took me under his wing. They called him the Ghost, he taught me everything he knew before he died. Now, I run my own crew.

I treat them good and in return, they get shit done which leaves us all with money in our pockets.

The system works.

When we do, that is.

I had money to fall back on, but my men have less. So it’s understandable that they are itching for work while I’m laying in bed.

“Ran into a problem,” Tony whispers, setting his hands down on the bar top. The men behind him come in closer, so they can all hear. “There is one entrance on the roof, and we’re not getting through it.”

“Why not?” I asked.