The following day
Thursday
New York City
2:34 A.M.
The explosion ripped, violently, through the prison block.
Alarms sounded across the island, well before the dust had started to settle. Mixed in with the sounds of alarms and falling rubble, were the sounds of men screaming. Those that did nor scream, were already dead.
The dead were scattered around, several of the bodies, badly mangled in the explosion, or by falling rubble. It was shear devastation. Men stumbled about, mauled, some missing limbs.
One man and one man alone, was smiling.
His time had come.
One of the coldest, most evil and calculating men, that the United States of America, had known, was about to be free!
..._...
A group of men, clad in black combat uniforms, ran through the devastation, shooting anybody who stood in their way, prisoners and guards alike. No quarter was given, as the men knew full well that their Boss would show none to them, if they failed and he had a very long reach!
The attack was a total surprise, to all, except for Ralph D'Amico. The relevant authorities had been bribed, threatened, black-mailed or worse, whatever worked! Very little resistance was put up, within the prison. Within twenty minutes, Ralph D'Amico was flying away from Rikers Island and heading for freedom. This matched a sudden, and coincidental, breakdown of local radar cover, meaning that he was impossible to track. He was now free, to launch his attacks on the two Cities. He wanted both Cities, as both Chicago and New York had a certain reputation and if he ran both, then his position would be unassailable.
However he had a large fly in his ointment and that fly was called Fusion!
Later that morning
D'Amico Penthouse
New York City
Ralph D'Amico exited the elevator and walked towards his new home.
"Who do you work for?" D'Amico suddenly asked, of one of the men, lining his route.
"The D'Amico Family!" The man responded, proudly.
"Wrong answer!" D'Amico said dangerously and turned to the man following him. "Get rid of him!"
The man following behind, Rico, pulled a stiletto knife and stabbed the man in the stomach, allowing him to fall to the floor and bleed out.
"Who do you work for?" D'Amico asked, of the next man, lining his route.
"You, sir!" The man responded, carefully.
"Fast learners, aren't they?" D'Amico laughed, as Rico pushed open the double doors, into his office.
D'Amico looked around approvingly.
"You've done well, Rico!" D'Amico said. "Thank you."
"By your command," Rico replied, closing the doors behind his Boss.
"Get that sorry, sack of shit outta here and clean up that fucking mess he made!" Rico ordered and two men jumped immediately into action.
Rico walked off and took station, over by the tall, floor to ceiling, panoramic windows and helped himself to a coffee on the way. Rico was the right hand man for Ralph D'Amico and could be just as ruthless and evil. It was a requirement for the job, many had failed and been replaced. With Ralph D'Amico, 'failed and been replaced', meant death. D'Amico rarely got his hands dirty, but was not above some dirty work, when it appealed to him. Rico was there, when the nephew, Chris, had tried to muscle in, with his own brand of evil. Ralph D'Amico was scathing, when it came to his nephew, especially now that Chris was dead and had failed, so miserably.
However, Chris was still a D'Amico and therefore there was a debt to be cleared. Ralph D'Amico was 'old school', when it came to how he ran his business. He had lost a brother and a nephew. Although he detested the nephew, he would still seek revenge for both dead relatives.
The targets had been identified, only this time, there would be no more stupid, ill thought-out plans.
That same evening
D'Amico Penthouse
New York City
The man was dragged through, from the elevator and into the room on the left.
He found himself being dumped, unceremoniously, into a chair. Two guards remained, on either side of him. D'Amico walked over, from the bar that was to the left of the large picture window.
"You must be Bartolemeo," D'Amico said, conversationally. "From Chicago."
The man was nudged sharply, by Rico.
"Yes!" Bartolemeo said, insolently.
"You worked for that cretin of a nephew of mine," D'Amico continued.
"Yeah!"
"Now you work for me, or you don't work!" D'Amico explained. "Or breathe, at all!"
"Sounds fair!" Bartolemeo admitted, reluctantly and knowing that he had no choice.
"Now, you will return to Chicago and get your cretins together and then I will send you instructions. You will follow those instructions, without a single deviation. Do I make myself clear?" D'Amico instructed.
"By your command," Bartolemeo acknowledged, he was learning.
Later that night
D'Amico Warehouse
New York City
The warehouse was enormous and very new.
The man was secured to a chair, he looked petrified. Rico stood in front of him and to the man's right. Directly in front of the man was the cause of his fear.
"Now, Sergeant, tell me, how did you survive the purge, after Gigante?" D'Amico said, calmly. "You turned, didn't you?"
"No, I... I didn't... I..."
The man screamed, as the machete, severed the fingers of his right hand. The man with the machete, stood back and looked towards Rico, who raised a hand.
D'Amico stared down at the man, with no emotion.
"Now, let's hear what you have to say."
"Fuck you, D'Amico scum!" The man yelled, through the agony.
D'Amico shook his head sadly, nodded to Rico and walked away from the scene, closing his mind to the screams, as the machete dug deep, again and again and again; then the screaming stopped.