Rocco Marino (Rocky)'s Questionnaire

Staten Island, 6:14 AM – Garbage Route 7B

I live in Great Kills, Staten Island. It ain’t the most glamorous place, but it’s mine. Been here my whole life. Two-story house, a little old, but it’s got everything we need. I keep it clean for the family. My wife’s got a knack for making a home outta whatever we’ve got, but I handle the repairs. Green shutters, a porch that leans like it’s got a story to tell old man’s touch.

My son’s 13 now, starting to get that look in his eyes. I can see him trying to figure out what he’s gonna be. My daughter’s 16, too smart for her own good. Always reading, always thinking she’s got me figured out. And then there’s my wife—tough as nails, but keeps the house together when everything else seems like it’s falling apart.

We’re a family, and that’s why I stay. These walls might not be the best, but they hold everything I care about.

Brooklyn, 11:47 PM – Back Room at Sal’s Deli

I am not tryin' to be some hothead chasin' power just to feel big. I got a family. A wife who stuck with me when things were lean. Two kids who still think their old man’s solid. I got a house, a job, money comin' in. I am not throwin' all that away on some wild move.

But I do want more. I want respect. A place in the family where my name carries weight. Not just the guy drivin' a truck, but someone who gets the call when things need to get done right. I want to build something that lasts. Something clean, even if the work ain’t.

Would I kill for it? If someone threatened what I love, yeah. But I ain’t reckless. I pick my battles. I keep my head down and my ears open. When I move, I make sure it’s worth it.

I plan to rise without losin’ what matters.

Staten Island, 10:36 PM – Backyard, Smoke in the Air

The night my old man got clipped, that was it. I was twenty-two. He was takin’ out the trash behind the diner where he worked, and somebody put two in his back like he was nothin'. Cops said it was a robbery gone wrong. We knew better. He used to do favors for people, carry messages, run errands—nothing loud, nothing flashy. But sometimes even quiet men say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

I remember holdin’ the garbage bag he dropped, still tied tight, like it meant somethin'. Like keepin’ it from spillin’ would make it all less real.

That night didn’t make me angry. It made me pay attention. It showed me the kind of world we live in, and what happens to guys who don’t play it smart.

Since then, I watch what I say. I remember who’s listenin’. And I keep my eyes on the long game. Always.

Staten Island, 7:20 PM – Front Steps, After Dinner

First one that comes to mind is Dante. We call him Vice. Known him since we were kids runnin’ around in scuffed sneakers, tossin’ rocks at street signs. We came up together, both took the same road without really talkin’ about it. He’s like a brother, the kind who’d dig a hole with you without askin’ why. We run jobs together, clean things up, keep our mouths shut. He’s reckless sometimes, but he’s never left me hangin’.

Then there’s Nonna. My father’s mother. She raised me more than anyone else after he passed. Tough old woman. Cooked like she was feedin’ saints, cursed like she was fightin’ devils. Still lights candles for me every Sunday. Still tells me to come home clean, even when she knows I can’t always promise that.

And my family—my wife, my kids. They’re the reason I don’t let this life swallow me whole. I do what I do for them. Period.

Staten Island, 9:42 PM – Sitting in the Truck, Engine Running Cold

Childhood was loud. Not in a bad way. Just full of voices, smells, arguments over dinner, the TV always on too loud. We lived in a tight apartment over a pizza place real old school. My father worked two jobs, line cook at one, janitor at another. Always smelled like grease and floor wax. Quiet guy, but you could tell when he was proud. Didn’t say much, but he’d give you a look, a nod, like, yeah, you did alright.

Ma was different. Fire in her. Ran that house like a general. Kept the books, yelled at the landlord, made sure we didn’t fall apart when money got tight. She had a soft side, but you had to catch her in the right moment.

School? I went. Did alright. I wasn’t dumb, just… didn’t care much. Never fit in with the clean-cut crowd. I had other things on my mind. Always did.

Manhattan, 10:30 PM – On a Bench in Battery Park

Yeah. I’ve been in love. Still am. Her name’s Maria.

Met her when we were both barely outta high school. She worked at a bakery on Bay Street, used to give me the cold shoulder every time I tried to be cute. I kept showin’ up for cannoli I didn’t need. Eventually she started smilin’ when she saw me.

Maria’s the kind of woman who doesn’t take crap from anyone. Not me, not the world. She’s seen the life I’m in, and she chose to stay. That means somethin’. We got two kids now, and she’s still got that same fire in her eyes. Still looks at me like she’s tryin’ to figure me out.

What happened? Nothin’ dramatic. We just built a life. Day by day, meal by meal, fight by fight, kiss by kiss. She keeps me grounded. Reminds me who I’m doin’ all this for.

Brooklyn, 4:18 AM – Empty Streets, Low Fog Rolling In

You wanna know what keeps me up at night? It ain’t the cops or some punk with a gun. It’s the idea that I might not make it home one day. That I leave Maria with nothin’ but bills and worry lines, and my kids grow up with a picture instead of a father. That scares the hell outta me.

You see, in this line of work, you don’t always get to choose the ending. One bad job, one wrong word, and it’s over. I’ve seen it happen—guys I knew since I was a kid, gone like they never mattered. Buried with secrets and debts they couldn’t settle. That’s what I’m tryin’ to avoid. I don’t want my daughter growin’ up angry, or my son thinkin’ this life is the only way. I want ‘em to have a shot at somethin’ better.

But there’s more. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and wonder if the man I started out as is still in there. I’m scared of changin’ so much I don’t recognize myself anymore. This life chips away at you, quiet and slow. I fear becomin’ one of those cold, empty shells you see drinkin’ alone at the corner bar, all history, no future. That’s the real fear.

Queens, 9:12 PM – Rooftop Above a Laundromat, City Lights Below

A gold chain. Nothin’ flashy—just solid, simple, old. Used to hang from my father’s neck. He wore it every day, right up until the night he didn’t come home. Cops found it in a sealed evidence bag, handed it back like it was loose change. I wear it now. Never take it off. Not in the shower, not on the job. It’s a piece of him I carry, a reminder of who I came from, and where this all started.

Then there’s the ring Maria gave me when we got married. Thin, scratched up, probably worth a couple bucks to a pawn shop. But to me? It’s a promise I made in front of God, whether I lived right or not. Some days I don’t feel like I deserve it. But I wear it anyway. Keeps me honest. Or at least, close enough.

And I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t say the photo on the fridge means somethin’. Me, Maria, the kids—Coney Island, summer day, everybody smilin’. It’s not the photo, really. It’s what it proves. That even in this life, with all the dirt and deals and danger, I built somethin’ worth protectin’. That means everything.

Staten Island, 5:42 AM – Kitchen Radio Playing Low, Smell of Coffee in the Air

The alarm buzzes before the sun’s even up, but I’m already half-awake. My body knows the rhythm by now. Maria’s breathing steady beside me, and I don’t want to wake her, so I move quiet. Bathroom first. Cold water to the face, shave if I need it, splash of cologne—not too much. Just enough to cover the street.

Downstairs, the house is still dark, except for the glow from the coffee machine. I make it strong. One cup for me, one for her if she’s up before I leave. Sometimes I sit by the window, stare out at the street. Sometimes I don’t. Depends what the day looks like.

The kids are still sleeping. I check on ’em. Just a look, a second. My son’s always tangled in his blanket. My daughter’s got music in her ears even when she sleeps. I smile, just a little.

Then the jacket goes on. Leather if I’m making rounds. Work coat if it’s a collection day. I check my phone. Messages. Names. Times. No words. I step out, lock the door behind me, and I’m not Rocco the family man anymore.

Out there, I’m Rocky. And the city’s already moving.

Upper East Side, 6:13 PM — Hotel Lobby Mirror, Just Before the Elevator Dings

The rain had stopped just before I pulled up, leaving the streets slick like glass. The kind of night where the city looked polished. I parked two blocks down, not because I had to, but because I didn’t want to show up like some eager kid swinging open the front doors. No, I wanted time to walk, to let the wind press the suit to my chest, to feel the weight of the moment.

It wasn’t just any sit-down. This was a dinner invite from Don Lucchese himself. Word was he wanted to put a face to the name. Finally. I’d heard plenty about him, never spoke to the man directly. You don’t get those calls unless somebody up high wants to see what you’re made of.

I’d prepped for hours. Not just the suit, which I had pressed the night before, dark and clean, not a speck on it. Not just the shave, though I took the blade slow, like it meant something. No, I’d prepped in my head. Rehearsed what not to say, how to sit, when to smile. These kinds of meetings are like dancing on a floor full of cracks. Step wrong, fall through.

Maria watched me put on my watch. Said I looked sharp. She didn’t ask where I was going. She’s smart like that. Knows when to ask, knows when not to.

When the elevator doors opened in that hotel lobby, I caught my reflection in the brass trim. The jacket sat right. Collar neat. Chain just visible, a quiet little flash of gold at the neck. I adjusted my cuffs, nodded once, then stepped in.

Don Lucchese was already seated when I arrived. Two other men flanked him, both with eyes like locked safes. He didn’t smile. Just motioned to the seat across from him.

“Rocky,” he said.

Just that. My name. Like it was a test. Like he was seeing how it sat in the air.

I sat. Calm. Sure. Not cocky, just present. Everything I wore, everything I did, down to the cut of my hair, it all said one thing. I belong here.

And for the first time in a long time, I think he believed it.

Great Kills Marina, Staten Island, 8:02 PM — Back Deck of Tony’s Boat, Warm Breeze Off the Bay

I ain’t one for big celebrations. Never have been. Too much noise draws eyes, and eyes bring questions. But I do believe in tradition. So when the day rolls around, I keep it simple, the way I like it.

Tony’s got this old boat docked near the end of the marina. Been patched up so many times it’s more duct tape than hull, but it floats, and the view’s clean. That’s where we usually go. Just a handful of us. Dante, maybe a couple of the boys, Maria if she feels like getting out of the house. She brings a cooler packed with cold cuts, homemade arancini, and a bottle of wine I ain’t allowed to touch until we eat.

The kids come too. My daughter always rolls her eyes like she’s too grown for it, but she shows. My boy sneaks cannoli early when he thinks no one’s looking.

I light a cigar, sit on the deck, and let the world slow down. We laugh. We talk. No business. No work. Just the sound of water lapping against the hull and the city lights flickering in the distance.

That’s how I mark another year. Quiet. Among my own. Still breathing. Still standing.

Brooklyn, 1:44 AM — Alley Behind Carmine’s, Cigarette Low, Night Heavy

There was a night, years back, before the suits fit right and before people stood when I walked in the room. Back when me and Dante were still hauling bags and breaking knuckles for pocket change. Carmine had a problem with a guy who wouldn’t pay up. Said he needed an example made, loud and ugly.

So we went. We did what was asked.

But there was a kid there. Couldn’t have been older than ten. Hid behind a busted chair, clutching a Game Boy, watching us tear his old man apart. His face didn’t move. Just stared with these big, wet eyes, too quiet for a night like that. Like he knew this city didn’t care who you were, only what you owed. We left, job done. But that stare, it followed me. Still does. Some nights when I close my eyes, I see him clearer than I see my own kids.

That boy didn’t choose that life. I did.

And I can’t take that back...

Staten Island, 3:27 AM — Kitchen Table, One Light On, Coffee Gone Cold

These things I can do now… they ain’t natural. They ain’t me pullin’ rabbits outta hats or hearin’ voices from the sky. They came after I met him the guy who called himself 'the Talent'. Funny name, like he was some Hollywood manager, but he wasn’t here for no headshots. Just looked me in the eye and asked if I wanted more. Didn’t promise glory. Didn’t offer answers. Just opened a door and waited to see if I’d walk through it.

I did.

The way I see it, the Gifts they ain’t wishes, and they sure ain’t free. They’re tools. Extensions of what I already was, maybe. Or maybe they’re what I 'needed' to become. I don’t know if thy came from inside me or were handed down like a button on a detonator. I don’t think it matters.

When I call, Dante shows. When I draw, my hand don’t shake. Whatever this is it’s part of me now. The Talent just lit the stage. I’m the one who stepped into the light.

Bronx, 10:02 PM — After a Job, Leaning on the Hood, Sirens Far Off

I light a smoke and look up sometimes, but I don’t expect answers.

I was raised Catholic, y’know. Nonna made the sign of the cross before every meal, had saints crowdin’ every wall in the house. I used to go with her Sundays, sit stiff in the pew, watch the light hit the stained glass like it meant somethin'. Maybe it did back then. Maybe it still does for her.

But me? These days, I dunno.

I’ve seen too much blood on clean hands, too many lies said with holy words. Doesn’t mean I think there’s nothin’ up there—just means if there is, he don’t get involved much. Or he doesn’t care.

Still, when things get bad, I pray. Not fancy, just a whisper. For my kids, for my wife, that I make it home. Sometimes for forgiveness, though I don’t know if I deserve it.

I don’t need faith to do my job.

But sometimes, I need it to sleep.

Brooklyn, 4:38 AM — Outside a Bakery That’s Been Closed 12 Years

I used to think the world ran on rules. Not the kind in books—real rules. Power talks. Loyalty matters. Blood’s thicker than anything. You keep your head down, do right by your people, and maybe, just maybe, you climb the ladder without gettin’ buried under it.

Then the Contracts started.

One second I’m drivin’ the Banchetta through Bay Ridge, next I’m standin’ in a desert made of teeth, some guy talkin’ backwards, time foldin’ like paper. I seen things that don’t belong in this world. Creatures that ain’t got a name, places that shouldn’t exist. And I walked out breathin’.

It rattles you. Makes you wonder if everything you built your life on is just a story someone else made up. I ain’t the kind to scream at the stars or fall to pieces, but I won’t lie, it shakes you, deep.

Still, I’m a Marino. I adapt. I make it work.

I don’t got the luxury of losin’ my mind. I got mouths to feed.

Manhattan, 6:56 PM — Rain on the Window, Watching Yellow Cabs Crawl

I seen some strange company since signin’ that Contract. Not the kind you'd find at the club back in Bensonhurst, that’s for sure.

Yado’s solid. Tall, built like a brick wall, don’t say much. Wears that badge like it means somethin’, even when we’re neck-deep in some nightmare that’d make most men fold. He’s the kinda guy you want on your side when things go sideways. We don’t talk much, but there’s a quiet respect there. He moves like he knows where the line is—just like me.

Then there’s Trussardi. Big-time singer. Flashy, loud, real pretty-boy type. Not the kinda guy I’d invite to Sunday dinner, but I’ll admit—he’s got presence. People listen when he talks. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to keep a bullet outta your gut. He ain’t soft, neither. When it counts, he steps up.

Now… Kyle Miller. Jesus. He’s a full-on furry. Wears a damn animal suit like it’s normal. Gave me one, too. Said it’d “bring out the real me.” I nearly tossed it in the Hudson. Still, guy’s clever. Got guts. We’ve been through hell together, and he didn’t blink. That earns him somethin’—even if I don’t ever wanna see that tail wag again.

We’re a strange crew, but it works. Somehow.

Upper Level, Great Kills — 11:44 PM, Kids Asleep, Door Slightly Ajar

If I could carve out a room just for me—no noise, no business, no blood on my hands—it’d be simple.

Dark wood panelin’, the real kind, not that cheap pressboard junk. One window with heavy curtains I can draw when I want. Warm light, yellow and soft, comin’ from a little lamp with a green glass shade like Nonna had. There’s a leather chair, deep brown, worn just right. I sink into it like the day never happened.

There’s a record player in the corner, some Sinatra or Dean Martin hummin’ low while I nurse a glass of somethin’ good—real good, not the rotgut we drink after a job. The smell? Coffee and cologne, maybe a hint of old paper from the books on the shelf behind me. Family pictures on the mantle, not staged—just honest.

No calls. No guns. No ghosts.

Just quiet. And a locked door.

Belt Parkway Overlook — 1:03 AM, Engine Ticking Cool, Lights of the City Breathing Slow

I take out the trash. That’s what I do. Doesn’t matter if it’s a rat snitchin’ to the feds or some thing with six arms and no face crawlin’ outta a Contract. Trash is trash. You don’t ask it questions. You bag it, you move it, you make sure it don’t come back.

People think it’s all bullets and blood, but they don’t see the care in it—the timing, the clean lines, the way you keep your hands steady even when your heart’s goin’ a mile a minute. You handle it right, nobody gets caught. You mess it up, someone knocks on your family’s door instead of yours.

And that’s the line.

I do what I do so my wife don’t ever have to wonder why I’m late. So my kids can eat and sleep and dream without thinkin’ about the monsters I drag out to the curb.

That’s my craft. That’s my code.

No mess. No mercy. No mistakes.

Queens, 3:22 AM — Parked Under the 7 Train, Smoke Curling from the Dash

I got my lines, just like anyone worth a damn. You cross certain ones, and you don’t come back the same.

Betrayal? That one cuts deep. I built my life on loyalty. You ride with someone, you bleed with someone, you don’t turn your back on ‘em. Someone breaks that? It don’t just sting it rewires the way you look at people. Makes you colder. Makes you meaner.

Capture’s another story. I don’t do cages. Not chains, not bars, not collars dressed up as handshakes. The idea of bein’ pinned down, helpless, like a rat in a trap. I’d rather go out swingin’. If they ever lock me up, they better pray I stay quiet.

And anguish… that’s the silent one. You see enough pain 'real pain' you start carryin’ it in your gut. But the minute it hits home, when it’s my wife cryin’ or my son holdin’ back tears or my daughter not lookin’ me in the eye… that’s when the whole world burns.

To break me, you’d have to make me watch the people I love suffer, and make me believe I can’t stop it.

That’s when Rocco Marino stops bein’ careful.

And starts makin’ noise.

Blood, Brass & Banter

1. “Gimme Shelter” – The Rolling Stones

This song captures the constant tension Rocky lives under — the looming threat of violence, the city’s unpredictable chaos, and his role in that machinery. It's about knowing danger is always a few steps away and pushing forward anyway.

2. “House of the Rising Sun” – The Animals

A song about regret and the inescapable weight of one’s past. Rocky has made choices in his life that still echo. This track reflects the consequences of a life tied to crime, and the knowledge that it’s a road with no clean exits.

3. “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” – Dean Martin

Dean Martin represents the classier side of the old-school Italian-American dream. This song plays like the soundtrack to Rocky’s aspirations: nice suits, good food, a loyal family, and a little bit of flash — all while handling his business with style.

4. “Lose Yourself” – Eminem

Rocky sees himself as someone who seized his shot. Driving the garbage truck wasn’t the goal — it was the cover. This song represents his hunger, his ambition, and the seriousness with which he approaches every opportunity to rise in the ranks.

5. “The Godfather Waltz” – Nino Rota

A haunting, elegant theme that immediately evokes the weight of legacy, loyalty, and control. It’s the sound of power, tradition, and the kind of respect Rocky craves. It plays in the background of his ambition.

6. “Hurt” – Johnny Cash

This track reflects the deep, hidden pain Rocky carries. He’s not a monster, and the violence he’s committed doesn’t come without cost. There’s guilt under the leather jacket and bravado.

7. “New York State of Mind” – Billy Joel

 More than anything, Rocky is a product of his city. This song captures his love for New York — its grit, its beauty, and the way it never stops moving. Just like him.

Port Richmond, Staten Island – 11:46 PM – After the Drop

I lit a smoke behind Sal’s bakery, blood still fresh on my boots. The city was quiet—too quiet. That kind of quiet that comes after you settle a score.

Used to be I wanted respect. A name. Enough pull to keep my family safe. But the more I climb, the more I see how soft the foundation is. These bosses? Half of ‘em are fossils with no vision. I could do better. Hell, I should do better.

I’m not lookin’ to die in some alley. I’m not lookin’ to run either. I want out, but I want out on top—with my name carved into the bones of this city.

Someday maybe I’ll hang it up. Move the family someplace quiet. Real quiet. But right now? I keep takin’ out the trash. Step by step. One job at a time.

Staten Island, 7:42 AM – Rear Loader Jammed again

I don’t blow up easy. I’m not one of those hotheads who’s always lookin’ for a reason to shout. But there’s a few things that set me off, and when they do, I don’t calm down quick.

You mess with my family, that’s the quickest way to see the other side of me. My daughter, she’s sixteen, got a good head on her shoulders, but this world? It don’t care. Some punk cat-calls her from a car window and suddenly I’m seein’ red. My son, thirteen, starting to walk home from school on his own—if someone ever tried to hurt him, I wouldn’t need to think. I’d move. That’s how it works when you love something more than yourself. You protect it.

Then there’s dishonesty. I’ve worked with guys who smile to your face and pocket your cut when you ain’t lookin’. Or worse, suits who make promises like candy—real sweet till you realize it’s empty. I been lied to enough in my life. By people in ties, by people in uniforms, by people I thought were friends. A man’s word’s supposed to mean something. When it doesn’t, everything feels cheap.

Little stuff gets to me too. Garbage tossed next to the can like it’s someone else’s problem. People on the street who bump into you and don’t say nothin’. Folks talkin’ down to my wife like she’s just some housewife. You stack enough of those little slaps together, and it starts to feel like the whole world’s pushin’ you around.

That’s when the anger comes. Not loud. Not showy. But slow, deep, and dangerous. The kind that sits in your gut like a stone, waitin’ for the right time to hit back and you just need to endure it.

Staten Island, 9:11 AM – Pulled Over for Coffee and a Smoke

There’s things I carry that I don’t talk about. Stuff I keep buried deep, ‘cause if it ever saw daylight, I don’t know what it’d do to the people I love—or to me.

What I try hardest to keep secret? It's the work I’ve done for the Napoli family. The real work. Not the garbage runs, not the side cash—I'm talkin’ about the nights when I wasn’t takin’ out trash, but people. Cleaning up messes that breathe and bleed. That part of my life ain’t written down anywhere. No records, no stories. Just long drives, late nights, and a silence I wear like a second skin.

My wife, she ain’t stupid. She knows there’s things I don’t tell her. She sees it in my eyes some mornings when I come home and shower before sayin’ a word. But she don’t ask, and I don’t offer.

I keep it secret ‘cause I still want my kids to look at me like I’m someone worth admiring. My daughter thinks I’m just a tired man who works hard. My son wants to be like me. If they knew the whole picture—the calls in the middle of the night, the things I’ve had to make disappear—I don’t know what kind of man they’d think I am.

So I bury it. I keep my head down, do the work, come home. I tell myself it’s all for them. That maybe one day I’ll be done with that life completely.

But deep down, I know some stains don’t wash out.

Staten Island, 11:26 AM – Lunch Break, Window Down, Sinatra On

If I made it all the way to Harbinger? I wouldn’t take some big name or run Contracts like I’m tryin’ to rewrite the world.

I’d disappear.

No more jobs, no more quiet calls in the night. Just me, sittin’ at the table with my family, coffee in hand, maybe the paper open if I’m feelin’ old-school. I’d fix the porch like I always said I would. Take the kids outta the city for a while. Let my wife sleep in while I make breakfast, bad as I am at it.

I’ve done more than enough out there. If I reached the top, that means I survived things most don’t. So what would I do with power like that?

Nothing.

I’d use it to be left alone. To finally live the life I’ve been fightin’ for this whole damn time. And if that ain’t the point, I don’t know what is.

Staten Island, 1:42 PM – Parked Behind Dino’s, Engine Running

You spend enough time in this line of work, you stop expectin’ people to make it. Doesn’t mean it gets easier.If it’s someone I ran with more than once—someone who had my back when things went sideways—I don’t just leave ‘em there. I ain’t the type to cry over a body, but I’ll carry it out if I can. Make sure they get put in the ground right. No fanfare, just quiet respect. I don’t loot ‘em. Not unless it’s somethin’ they would’ve wanted me to take. Something that needs protectin’. I ain’t no vulture. Bringin’ them back? I don’t play God. If the powers that be wanted ‘em alive, they’d still be breathin’. But I’ll say a few words. Light a smoke for ‘em. Keep their name in my head when it counts.

That’s my way. Quiet. Solid. Respectful. Like they were.

Grasmere, Staten Island, 9:32 PM – Back Lot Behind the Bingo Hall

The trick ain't in hiding bodies. It’s in making sure no one starts asking questions in the first place. I don’t get sloppy. I don’t leave a mess unless I want someone to see it. Most times, it’s just knowing who to call. Couple old hands in Sanitation owe me favors, things get picked up that don’t go through the usual dump. Evidence becomes landfill real quick when you know the schedule. Cops? You treat 'em like dogs. Don’t wave a steak in front of 'em, don’t run unless you gotta. Keep your story clean, keep your truck cleaner. There’s a beat cop in the neighborhood, Sal, comes by the deli I use. I make sure he leaves with a sandwich and no questions. If things go bad—real bad—I got a guy in Bayonne. Fixes problems. Makes them look like accidents, or like they never happened at all. But mostly? I keep quiet. I keep working. And I make damn sure I’m not the one they remember.

Tottenville, Staten Island, 11:47 PM – Under the Outerbridge Crossing

Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last. Some people get into this line of work thinking there’s rules. There ain’t. Just consequences.

He did something ugly—real ugly. The kind that sticks to your ribs like bad meat. But I didn’t flinch. Didn’t call nobody. That ain’t how we do things. You start running to the cops, you’re not just signing his death warrant—you’re signing your own. Whole crew goes cold on you after that.

So I took him aside. Had a conversation. Quiet, no yelling. Just facts. Told him next time he gets messy, he cleans it up himself—and if he drags me into it again, he’s got two choices: the river, or the road. He understood.

I ain’t his priest. I ain’t the law. But I ain’t his shield either and he is certainly not family.