Vic Martelli’s crew ran uptown, everything north of Central Park. They had the high-end card rooms on the Upper East Side, and all the dope moving through Harlem. Ran it classy, too; never had to shout when cash could do the talking.
Carmine Russo’s boys—they had the West Side. Hookers, dockside smuggling, and a bunch of nickel-and-dime street rackets that kept the lights on.
Martelli was silk. Russo was sandpaper.
They worked together fine, mostly—until somebody got in the way. Then, yeah, maybe a guy took a bullet. But business always came first.
So, when word got out that somebody big just got clipped—real big—mourning incorporated went into action.
The thing is, nobody knew who it was. Like, even that was a secret.
Nevertheless, both families were urged to show up to pay their respects. Business is business, and everyone who’s involved knows the consequences of stepping out of line. That said, when a brother-in-arms takes a bullet, men of respect put aside differences and give him a decent send-off.
Besides, funerals are a great way to catch up.
