East Broadway, 3:17 a.m.The night smelled of dampness, sewer, and tension. The streets were emptier than usual, but rumors moved in the shadows like rats. Giovanni walked unhurriedly down the back alley behind Finnegan's butcher shop, located on Henry Street, flanked by five of the best hitmen of the Moretti family. Men who had done the dirty work of three wars and were still hungry.
Unlike the Romani, who were impulsive and visible, the Irish knew how to hide. Six clandestine bases housed the 100 men of the Bravos. They were joints disguised as shops, bars, and even abandoned churches. All armed to the teeth. But Giovanni had chosen the first victim: the joint above the butcher shop.
The group split up. Giovanni and Renzo "the Quiet," his stealthiest man, climbed to the roof. The other three—Santino, Lucchese, and Marco—took positions at the front, disguised as beggars armed with Thompson submachine guns.
Giovanni placed the explosives with cold, precise hands. A small package of dynamite, right above the center of the place. Renzo watched from a skylight.
—"Ready?" —Giovanni murmured.
Renzo nodded.
BOOM.
The roof exploded into a cloud of dust and wood. The hole exposed a poker table, flying whiskey bottles, screams, and chaos. Molotov cocktails rained through the gap, breaking bottles against the wood and igniting everything instantly. The flames licked the walls, cards, and clothes.
The Irishmen screamed.
—"Fire! They're burning us alive!"
They tried to flee, but when the front door suddenly opened, they were met by Thompsons held by the other three hitmen. A metallic sound swallowed the dawn: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…
Those who came out fell riddled with bullets.
Some ran back inside, but it was all fire now. The screams turned into moans. Then silence.
Giovanni descended the metal staircase, walking past the charred corpses.
—"One down. Five to clean." —he said unemotionally.
Renzo spat on the ground.
—"This wasn't a war. It was an execution."
—"And the worst is yet to come." —Giovanni replied.
📝 Attack Results:
26 Bravos men dead, all hitmen.
Henry Street joint completely destroyed.
Clear message to Sean Malone: the Moretti don't forgive.
Rumors spread. The roof fire was visible from Brooklyn.
Police arrived late. Bribed.
Not a single witness. Only the smell of burnt flesh.
4:51 a.m. – East Broadway, corner with RutgersThe White Rose laundry operated as a front for one of the Bravos' most discreet hangouts. Only cash was accepted, only men worked there, and no one left with clean clothes before noon. In the basement, there were betting tables, two card rooms, and a small cell holding prostitutes brought from the Bronx. It was one of the main meeting points for the Irish.
Giovanni knew this. His informant had spoken before dying… with his tongue cut out.
This time was different. There would be no fire. It would be a silent operation. Precise. A cleanup.
He divided the group into two squads.
Giovanni, Renzo, and Lucchese would enter through the back entrance, disguised as laundry workers.
Santino and Marco would cut the power from the streetlight on the side street, exactly at 5:00 a.m.
The basement held 18 Irishmen, all armed but relaxed—they believed the first attack had been isolated. They were wrong.
The EntryGiovanni knocked on the back door. A young Irishman, barely twenty, opened it without looking.
A silencer extinguished his future.
The three entered. The laundry smelled of bleach and grease. They slowly descended the stairs while Santino cut the power. The basement fell into total darkness.
Shouts. Confusion. Failing emergency lights.
And then the execution began.
Lucchese turned on a tactical flashlight. It shone just enough to see the targets.
—"The Italians!" —one shouted.
Too late.
Three minutes. Seventeen bodies. One stray bullet.
Only one Irishman escaped through a secondary tunnel. Giovanni didn't chase him.
—"Let him run. Let him tell what happened. Let him say we don't let fear rust us." —he said, wiping his hands with a white linen cloth.
They found $8,200 in cash, several gambling chips, two women locked up (both placed under family protection), and a ledger. The last was the most valuable.
—"This tells us where the other four are." —Giovanni murmured, flipping through it.
Before leaving, he placed a garment on the main table: a white shirt, with a clean slash on the chest.
—"Every joint will fall like this cloth." —he said quietly.
They left without a sound. At 6:00 a.m., the laundry was still closed. To all the neighbors, it was just a day without service.
🧾 Attack Results:
17 Irishmen dead.
Joint completely shut down.
$8,200 cash recovered.
2 women freed.
Ledger with addresses and contacts.
1 survivor sent to spread fear.