In the crumbling streets of Ashfield, where every corner store had bars on the windows and every kid learned to run before they could walk, Vincent "Vince" Marino ruled the night.
He wasn’t born into the life — he earned it. Back in the ‘90s, he was just a kid with a busted bike and a chip on his shoulder. His old man ran numbers for the Calabrese family, and when he got clipped over a bad debt, Vince learned two things: never owe more than you can pay and never trust a man who smiles too much.
By the time he was 25, Vince had turned a crew of street hustlers into the Marino Syndicate — a tight, disciplined operation that ran guns, numbers, and protection rackets from Ashfield all the way to East Point. He wore tailored suits but kept the scars on his knuckles clean — a reminder to anyone who thought he got soft with money.
The cops knew him but couldn’t touch him. The other bosses respected him but kept their distance. But nothing in Ashfield stayed stable for long. When Frankie Rizzo, a slick-talking upstart from the south side, started muscling into Vince’s clubs with promises of cheaper protection, Vince had a choice: negotiate or send a message.
He chose the latter.
One cold December night, Vince walked into The Blue Lantern, Frankie's favorite joint. The place went silent as he strode to the back table, flanked by his right-hand man, Rico, and two others. He set down a single silver lighter on Frankie's table — the same one Frankie had lifted from Vince when they were kids running dice in the alleyways.
Frankie’s smirk faded.
“I taught you how to hustle, kid,” Vince said calmly, voice like gravel and ice. “Don’t make me teach you how to lose.”
By dawn, Frankie Rizzo’s operation had vanished. Some said he skipped town. Others whispered Vince buried him under the old Ashfield Pier. Vince never said a word either way. That was his style.
Years later, even when newer gangs tried to rise and the old world started to fade into the shadows of glass towers and corporate money, folks still crossed the street when Vince Marino’s black Cadillac rolled by. They knew — Ashfield belonged to him.
And always would.
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If you want, I can make it longer — or even turn it into a series. Want part two?
