Journal of Robert Olmsted
June 26th, 1924. New York.
After the Calafiore caught up with me at the Ravenscroft Apartment Building, I had no choice but to continue my ruse. I had to go deeper, with the desperate hope that if sidled up to my enemy, their gaze might fall elsewhere while I plotted against them. I want to burn the Calafiore Syndicate to ashes, yet they never seemed suspicious that Robert was in need of money and would take the nothing jobs their other goons passed on.
In bed with those I despise— It was bound to go wrong from the start.
Now here I am, standing outside a corner store, watching a man put boards of the windows. Clearly the Calafiore had already been hounding this man. Harassing his business. It was easy to see from the way he moved that he could handle himself. Then again, so could I. My knuckles were already wrapped, in case I needed to apply pressure to the conversation. But I already knew, taking my first step forward that my heart wasn’t in it.
The Calafiore had me by the throat, and they didn’t take kindly to refusals. This man was the same, only swimming six months in my wake.
Luigi was the mark—the Calafiore portrayed him as a slippery rat. Their intelligence and contacts suggested in a previous life he had a penchant for running liquor through the veins of Chicago. Now, so it went, he called himself the Captain. But with the ire of Calafiore on him, his ship was sailing through murky waters. Luigi was dodging their toll booths, and they didn’t take kindly to this.
He wasn’t the slippery rube they made him out to be. Maybe the Calafiore gave me bad intel purpose and wanted us to kill each other.
In the store, the shelves were nearly empty, the shipments were running late, and you could tell they would never arrive. Even still, it was clear Luigi wouldn’t part with a dime. He would not give the Calafiore the satisfaction. I can admit I admire this about him.
It happened quicker than I thought. The the door splintered as the goons outside approached with guns blazing. Luigi dove behind his desk. I wasn’t so lucky and caught a bullet in the arm.
I thought my time was up. They had the advantage, and more importantly, tommy guns.
Fate had other plans. Outside a private dick named Zeke was parked, fedora pulled low. Mencken, the reporter, snapped photos from the seat beside him. There was a pause while goons reloaded, and inside, Luigi and I saw the heavies light a Molotov cocktail.
Before it could be thrown, Zeke’s bullet broke that bottle and flames crawled up the mobster’s coat. I couldn’t help but smile. That was a hell of a shot and the smell of cooking meat was grotesquely appetizing.
We bolted during the chaos that followed and saw the Calafiore reinforcements arriving en mass.
Running through the dirty streets, we nearly collided with a Rolls Royce—the kind of car that whispered secrets. Father Molokai sat in the back, looking almost tiny on that colossal bench seat. A priest had no business in such luxury. Weren’t they supposed to renounce worldly possessions? Religion was a sham, but even still, Molokai offered sanctuary. We piled in, and something unseen in the trunk clinked—a familiar sound. Luigi noticed it too.
At the church, Sister Catherine stitched my wound. Lucky it was a through-and-through. Coincidence brought us together, and I smoked a few cigarettes as I watched the talk turn to Erica Carlyle, a woman with shadows in her eyes. Jackson Elias, the reporter, dug into her family’s secrets. If these blokes would be looking into this, then maybe helping them could in turn help me gain some much needed allies.
I had to play it cool with Zeke and Mencken though—no need to spill my history like cheap gin. Something told me they’d figure it out soon enough. I just needed to use them for my own ends before they unraveled the mystery.
As I stared at the bullet holes in my arm, I knew one thing: the Calafiore Syndicate needed to pay— I’d collect, even if it meant dancing with devils and priests alike. Honestly, the holy man made me the most uncomfortable. I took a swing from my flask, and then poured whiskey on the wound for good measure. The liquor washed away blood, but not my thirst for vengeance. Not in this city of smoke and sin.