New York, 1919Lower East Side
The streets of the Lower East Side buzzed with languages, cultures, and silences broken only by the clanging of the trolley bells. The shadows of the low buildings clung to the soot-stained pavement, and the tension between gangs hung like a thick fog.
Giovanni Moretti, eldest son of Salvatore Moretti, walked down Delancey Street as if carrying a surname made of lead. At seventeen, he was no longer a child, but neither was he yet a "made man" in the eyes of the family. His body, still adjusting to his new life — after reincarnating from the modern world — moved with a blend of caution and resolve. He knew too much for his age, and in underworld circles, that didn't go unnoticed.
The Moretti name opened doors—but also painted targets on his back.
Dynasty of the Lower East Side
The Moretti Family wasn't just respected. It was feared.
They controlled everything from Allen Street to Grand Street, with their fingers in every speakeasy, warehouse, and backroom club. Giovanni's grandfather had been one of the first Italian immigrants to wield a machete as skillfully as his tongue. But it was Salvatore, his father, who had structured the family with surgical precision: two Caporegimes, each with five Executives, who in turn commanded the Soldiers that kept the business running smoothly.
Giovanni recalled — from books in his past life — modern corporate structures. This organization wasn't much different. Except here, mistakes were paid in blood, not firings.
"Being a Moretti isn't enough, ragazzo," his uncle Lucca, one of the Caporegimes, would say. "You have to prove you can be one of us. Not because you deserve it, but because you can carry it."
Blood of the Neighborhood
That morning, Giovanni was sent out with a small group of Soldiers to visit a Greek baker who had fallen two weeks behind on his "protection" payments. A simple visit, a symbolic task to introduce him to real work. But Giovanni knew it was a test.
The group was led by Enzo, a middle-aged Executive with a hard face, disfigured by a war wound. Enzo wasn't a man of many words. When they arrived at the bakery, he shot a glance at Giovanni.
—You talking, ragazzo? —he asked with a mocking tone, as if expecting him to fail.
Giovanni nodded. He stepped into the shop, flanked by two soldiers standing by the door. The baker, a thin man with white hair, tried to explain his delay with rushed words, but Giovanni held a cold stare.
—My father doesn't wait. And the family doesn't repeat warnings.
The Greek man tried to plead, but before his voice could rise, Giovanni slapped him — a sharp, precise blow. The baker collapsed to his knees, frightened. Enzo, watching from the door, smirked.
—That was more Moretti than I expected.
They walked out of the shop with an envelope full of cash. Giovanni said nothing, but felt a bitter pang: power was real, but so was the line that separated him from the monster.
Echoes of the Past
That night, seated at the family table with his mother and four younger siblings, Giovanni sat in silent thought. His mother, Rosa, was a strong woman, daughter of a former Caporegime murdered in a gang reprisal. She had grown up between funerals and secrets and guarded her children with the same fierceness the Morettis used to defend their territory.
—How was your day, Giò? —she asked while serving pasta to the little ones.
—Productive, he said simply.
She didn't push further. She knew what that word meant. But her eyes revealed a shadow of fear.
Territories and Tensions
Later that week, in a meeting with the Caporegimes and several Executives, Salvatore presented a detailed map:
Lower East Side: Moretti territory (Italians)
Harlem: Shared by African-American and Caribbean gangs
Hell's Kitchen: Irish stronghold, with brutal clans like the O'Connors
East Harlem: Mixed, hotspot of conflict between Latinos and Blacks
Brooklyn: Fragmented; Gypsy, Polish, and some Russian gangs
Each sector was divided among 4 or 5 minor gangs, but the Moretti family had remained at the top through a delicate balance of alliances, bribes, and targeted violence.
—The Gypsies from Williamsburg are starting to mess with our guys, one Executive reported.
—Have Enzo send them a message, Salvatore ordered. If they don't understand words, they'll understand fire.
That night, Giovanni trained in the backyard with one of the veteran soldiers. Despite his youthful appearance, his reflexes — inherited from his past life as a fighter — were sharper than those of any normal boy.
—You've got fast fists, but you lack cold blood, the veteran said as they exchanged blows.
Giovanni took a deep breath. He knew he couldn't just be "the boss's son." He had to prove he could be a soldier, a man… a legitimate heir.
When he returned to his room, he found a letter under his pillow. It was from his mother. Written in fine ink:
"Being a Moretti isn't a privilege — it's a curse. But if you can't escape it, make sure they fear you. — Mamma"
Giovanni tucked the letter away. For the first time, he understood that his life wouldn't be a tale of redemption, but a slow war for the soul of a man who had lived twice — and might not be saved in either life.