The Godfather: Trial in Brooklyn

I kicked open the door to the banquet hall of the Plaza Hotel.

The gilded oak door slammed heavily against the wall, the crystal ornaments of the chandelier rattling loudly. All the guests turned their heads in unison, hundreds of eyes filled with disdain. The smell of engine oil and sweat on me clashed terribly with their perfumes, like a stinking ditch flowing into a rose garden.

It doesn't matter.

I only looked toward the head of the table—Connor O'Brien was gripping Isabella's wrist, forcing her to sign the engagement agreement.

Bella's wrists were red from being squeezed, with five purplish-blue finger marks on her delicate skin. She was wearing a cheap white dress, her hair was disheveled, her face was streaked with tears, and she was trembling like a rabbit caught by a falcon.

“I won’t sign… My mother is still in the hospital… Please…” Bella shook her head, crying, her voice hoarse. “She has a heart condition and needs surgery… Please let me go…”

“Your mother’s heart could stop at any moment,” Connor whispered in her ear, his voice not loud, but clear enough for the guests in the front row to hear. “If you sign, I’ll get her into the best ICU. If you don’t, we’ll be collecting her body tomorrow.”

He said this with a smile on his face, a smile of absolute certainty that he had everything under control. It was as if he wasn't forcing a girl to sign a contract of servitude, but rather enjoying a delicious dinner.

Six bodyguards in black suits stood behind Connor, each with a weapon tucked into their belt. The guests in the front row held champagne glasses, their faces showing anticipation. Someone whispered, "That girl doesn't know what's good for her. It's her good fortune that young Master O'Brien has taken a liking to her." "Exactly, her mother's illness won't last much longer."

That's enough.

I weaved through the crowd, my pace slow, but each step felt like it was pounding on their hearts. Some people recognized me, their expressions changed slightly, and they automatically made way for me.

I walked up to Connor and grabbed his wrist.

"She won't get engaged."

Connor paused for a second, then burst into a shrill laugh: "Where did this stinky driver come from?"

He glanced at my work clothes—dark blue, with "Maligan Freight" embroidered on the chest, oil stains on the cuffs, and mud spots on the trouser legs.

"Security!" Connor waved his hand. "Throw this country bumpkin out!"

Four bodyguards rushed up.

I caught the first man's baton, twisted it behind my back, kicked the second man away, and then struck the third man on the head with the baton. The fourth...

One of them took the opportunity to throw something at me. I instinctively blocked it with my right hand and punched him in the nose with my left. The four men rolled on the ground in pain.

I stood there, breathing steadily. My right hand was bruised from being hit by the police baton, and my left knee throbbed with pain. But the bone wasn't broken.

I walked over to Bella and pulled her behind me.

"Don't be afraid, your uncle is here."

“Uncle Dom?!” Bella looked up, recognizing me through her tear-blurred vision. Her pupils dilated sharply, then contracted again. “You have to go…they’ll kill you…”

"Kill me?"

I looked at Connor.

This idiot has no idea who he messed with.

Connor stood up, straightened his suit and tie, pointed his finger at me, and yelled, "Do you know who I am? My dad is the king of the Brooklyn underworld! If you mess with me, your whole family will die!"

He turned to the guests, raising his voice as if performing on stage: "Everyone saw it! This ignorant peasant dared to run wild on O'Brien's turf!"

The guests chimed in, some taking out their phones to record the scene, others laughing gleefully.

Say it again.

Connor was stunned, probably not expecting me to dare to talk back.

“Your dead brother,” he leaned closer, lowering his voice, but every word felt like a knife stabbing into my ear, “Marco, right? A piece of trash, deserved to die—”

Smack 

I grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up.

A burly man weighing two hundred pounds was lifted into the air by my hand, with my neck in my grip, like I was holding a chick. He kicked wildly, his face turned a deep purplish-red, his eyes bulged out, and he desperately tried to pry my hand off, but my fingers were like iron clamps.

"Apologize to Marco."

Connor shook his head frantically, squeezing out a few words through gritted teeth: "Why...why...is he...just...trash..."

"Let go of O'Brien!"

Sheriff Burke led his men in, at least a dozen police officers, all pointing their guns at me.

Burke, in his forties, with a beer belly and a perpetually fawning smile, held the gun, his hand trembling—not from nervousness, but from excitement. He had waited his whole life for this opportunity to impress O'Brien.

I let go.

Connor fell to the ground, clutching his neck and coughing violently, like a fish thrown ashore.

"Grab him!" Connor screamed, his voice hoarse. "Assault, trespassing! He deserves ten years in jail!"

Burke rushed up, pulled out handcuffs, and snapped them onto my wrists.

The metal is cold.

I looked at Connor and said, "This isn't over yet."

"Not over yet?" Connor staggered to his feet, rubbing his neck, and grinned maliciously. "Fine!"

He raised his glass and announced to the entire room: "From this day forward, this country bumpkin named Dom is an enemy of the O'Brien family! Any company, landlord, or hospital in Brooklyn that dares to take him in is going against me!"

The guests raised their glasses, as if celebrating some grand occasion.

"I'll make sure he can't live in Brooklyn!"

I escorted Bella and her mother Maria out of the hotel.

Maria, in her fifties, with gray hair, a sallow complexion, and purple lips, leaned heavily on Bella, panting with every step. She had a heart condition and needed surgery as soon as possible, but the procedure would cost $500,000. This was also why Connor could control Bella.

I had just stepped out the door when my phone rang.

“Dom… I’m sorry…” Boss Joe’s voice trembled, as if he had just been crying. “The O’Brien family came… You don’t need to come to work tomorrow… They said if I don’t fire you, they’ll burn down my company… I really can’t do it… I have elderly parents and young children to support…”

“I understand,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

hang up.

A second call came in immediately afterward. It was from the landlady, Mrs. O'Malley.

"Dom, move out before tonight. I've left your luggage in the hallway."

"Mrs--"

"Stop talking, I'm just an old woman, I can't afford to offend them."

hang up.

The third, the fourth, the fifth...

Everyone who knows me is distancing themselves from me.

I stood at the hotel entrance, looking at the Brooklyn night sky.

A man in a suit walked over, handed me a letter, and then quickly left.

I opened the envelope, and inside was a picture of my father's ring finger.

Three years ago, I signed a "retirement agreement" with the committee: relinquishing my power as head of the family in exchange for the safety of myself and the Marco family. The agreement is valid until this day next year—372 days remaining. Activating the family network ahead of schedule will be considered a breach of contract. The committee's cleaners will come after me like hounds.

Moreover, only seven of my old subordinates remain who can immediately obey my orders.

The others either dispersed, were transferred by the committee, or... died.

It's time for the city to remember what the surname Santoro means.

I dialed the number that I hadn't used for three years.

It's not because I was ready.

It's because I have no way out.