manhattan, usa
august, 1924

-

Once again, the Changretta family roamed the streets of New York. And in their wake, people cowered, hid, did anything they could to make sure that by the time they were gone, they were still well and breathing.

At their centre was Vicente Changretta, the leader, the father. His face was wrinkled, his eyes sunken, sullen. He wore a beige coat with giant padded shoulders and a fur collar, and a similarly coloured fedora at a tilt on his head. He thought that his clothes made him look like less of a frail, domestic gentleman and more of a ruthless Italian gangleader. 

He wasn't entirely wrong.

Then, at either side of him, were his sons. One was named Angel Changretta. A man of many names and many crimes. He had a misleading round face and a lacking stature that gave him the look of a  docile young man, not the dangerous mobster that he was. 

The youngest was called Nico. He was his brother's superior in many ways: he had a dark, brooding charm, a sharp dress sense, a face that could look innocent, enticing, or chilling at his whim, and had a way with words that came in useful in any given situation. He was a murderer. A womaniser. Dangerous.

As formidable as both of these men were, they were practically tame compared to the oldest brother.

Luca Changretta, towering above his brothers and even his father, dressed in a long black coat and sharp hat with a tommy gun in his arms and a toothpick clamped between his teeth, stood out in the group of men. Not only for his appearance or his height, but because he had killed far more men than his whole family combined. 

In some way, he was attractive; he had dark scheming eyes, a large, crooked nose that somehow suited him, and a constant knowing smirk playing on his lips. But his looks were overshadowed over by his murderous tendencies.

He was notorious, ruthless, the worst of them all.

It was because of those qualities of his that it made it hard for people to believe he had a daughter.

In the midst of the many Sicilian mobsters that followed the Changrettas wherever they went, was Gianna Changretta, a girl of eighteen years.

She looked a little like her father, a little like Nico, a little like her mother. Long black hair, pale green-blue eyes with a constant heavy-lidded, hard look in them, full lips and a tipped nose. Her eyebrows were thick, her hair naturally wavy. Pretty, but in a rough way. 

She was so entirely different to girls her age; while they wore colourful dresses and stiletto heels, carrying silk handbags over their shoulder, Gianna sported piercings and tattoos, wore tailored suits, and carried a silver automatic gun in her holster.

She fitted right in with the mob. 

Had she been a man, and perhaps a little older, no-one would have looked at her twice.

But, she was neither. 

Because of her youth and gender, she came as a shock to some; they saw her only as a girl amongst superior men. They wondered what she was doing with them. They wondered if she was really competent enough to be in the gang, if she was only there due to their shared blood. They wondered how Luca had managed to love someone enough to have a child with them, to love the child themselves at all.

But they never said anything of the sort out loud. Luca would no doubt cripple a man if he heard them so much as bad-mouth his kid.

And Gianna would probably do worse.

Luca looked down at his daughter at that very moment. She sensed his gaze, and glanced up at him, still walking steadily down the road. Her father merely looked down at her for a moment, his eyes sharp, alert. 

Then, turning over his toothpick between his teeth, he nodded at her ever so slightly, his face stoic. 

Gianna nodded back.

And that was that. They turned to look forwards once more, and kept walking.

They moved in sync, each of them walking with an almost arrogant stride. Their faces were blank, hard. Each one of them had a gun somewhere on their person. In their pocket, stashed in a holster by their side, on their belt, in their hand - ready to be drawn at a moments notice. This was how they approached all their jobs - vigilant, prepared. And it came in useful. 

The Changrettas turned into a private road, entering the land of their enemy. And at the sight of the gang, the two guards stationed by the towering gate drew their weapons, their panic hidden behind sunglasses. 

But before they could even take aim, two mobsters lifted their guns, still walking down the driveway, and fired. The bullets drove through their foreheads, and their bodies crumpled to the floor.  

Being vigilant was what kept the Changrettas on top.

Their expressions unchanged, they kept walking, tilting their heads back to view the four-storey mansion. Their enemy was still inside, although no doubt he had heard the gunshots. So perhaps "cowering" was a better word. 

After a moment, they reached the gate, and finally drew to a halt, the men examining the house's exterior, guns aimed around the mob.

And while they did so, Gianna got to work.

On most of their jobs, someone would have simply shot the at the lock to get in. But, they had discovered that this man's security was high-end, and practically indestructible. The best way to get in was with a good old-fashioned lock picker.

Something the mob had - and a skilled one at that.

She weaved between the men, who parted to let her pass as she did so, and emerged as lightly and easily as a breeze. Luca kept a sharp eye on his kid as she hurried forward to the gate, silently urging men near to her to keep guns pointed towards the house, should any guards emerge and fire upon the closest mobster. 

The girl reached the gate in moments, and, crouching, removed a tool from her jacket pocket. It looked a little like a scalpel with a thin hook attached to the handle. Her hands steady and certain, she pushed the hook into the keyhole.

She felt the pins move inside, just as they were supposed to, and felt just a little relieved. She had chosen the right tool the first time round. She hated fumbling around to find the right one when she chose wrongly. It ate away at valuable time.

Not letting the first victory sway her focus, she jarred the tool down, moving the pins up. Her breathing was steady as she worked speedily, barely deterred by the large group of men watching her.

It took a few moments, and some elbow grease, but the gate cracked open, and Gianna straightened up, standing to one side to allow the mob to pass.

Within moments, the Changrettas were spilling through the gates, reloading guns, grinding cigarettes underfoot. Gianna fell into step with them, and drew her own gun from her holster. She cocked the hammer, barely having to look down as she did so, and focused her hardened eyes on the house before them.

Just before they reached the house, Luca checked his kid one last time, ensuring she was ready. When he saw her gun was loaded and her eyes were alert, he adjusted his toothpick and turned his gaze forwards.

They scattered once they reached the front door, flattening their backs against the wall, holding their weapons close to their chests. Two of the Sicilians positioned themselves behind Gianna as she got down to picking the second lock, aiming at the door, ready for anyone who might be doing the same from the inside. 

There were a few moments whilst Gianna did her job when the mobsters held their breath, waiting. This was the calm before the storm.

And then, when the door cracked open, and Gianna kicked it further open, the storm was upon them.

The mobsters flooded into the extravagant foyer, and instantly fired upon the five men that raced out to stop them. Their bodies were practically thrown out of midair, and they toppled to the floor as blood sprayed onto the marble floors. Their heads had barely graced the floor before the mobsters were spread across the foyer, seizing the second wave of guards, wrestling them into their arms, preventing them from escaping. When another lot came racing in, the Sicilians fired on them without hesitation.

Within moments of entering the house, the Changrettas had taken over. There were no more guards left; the ones that were still standing were hostages. Luca, Angel, Nico and Gianna, along with a few nameless Sicilians, each had a man in their grasp. Each of them held a guard across the chest, arms trapped behinds their backs. And, of course, each of them held a gun to the guard's heads.

The hostages, who at first had been valiant and brave, were now panting, panicking - some were even praying. A few were trying to squirm free.

Gianna was tall for an eighteen year old, but she wasn't as strong as her uncles and father, who were much older, much leaner. She had taken the smallest guard, and while she was managing to hold him down, he was wriggling, and could escape at any moment. 

She turned her head to her father, eyes wide, who looked back instantly. He glanced down at the man she held captive, and understood instantly. 

Without hesitation, he signalled to the rest of the men, and in unison, just as they had discussed, they threw the captives to their knees, pressing the barrels of their guns to the tops of their heads. Gianna did the same, seizing the man by his collar, pushing her pistol to his temple. 

"Now," Luca announced, the first to speak inside the mansion. "Any of you fuckers try anything, la mia famiglia will spray your brains across the floor. Capite?"

Shaking with fear, the men nodded fervently, muttering their affirmations.

"Good," Luca murmured.

Then, the man raised his head towards the top of the staircase. It lead straight down into the foyer, and had no door or obstructions. It was impossible that he hadn't heard the ruckus they had caused, confirming his suspicions that the man was cowering away.

He released a sigh, one heavy with something close to disappointment. "Come on out, pal," he called.

No reply.

"Don't let any more of these men die," Nico shouted, his voice threatening. "It's going to take a hell of a cleaning lady to mop up these fancy floors as it is. Don't let us make it worse."

There was silence on the street for a few moments. And, despite themselves, the hostages held their breath, waiting.

Fingers twitched over guns. 

All eyes were trained on the top of the staircase. 

And still, no-one came out.

"Goddamn coward," Gianna muttered under her breath.

"Goddamn right," Luca murmured back.

Still, he didn't emerge. Vicente, who was standing between two Sicilians, signalled to the men. He had run out of patience.

But, to his credit, just before anything could happen, the man finally emerged, hands up, gun at his belt. 

A twisted smile appeared on Luca's lips. "Grazie," he said. "Now, let's talk business."