Prologue: Mercy is for the Weak

—Brooklyn Heights – Monday, April 8, 1996—

Shafts of morning light filtered through the thick canopy of trees as a molten sun burned above the horizon. Its tangerine rays cast shadows along the high rise apartments and office buildings of downtown, glass towers in the distance gleaming all around, igniting a new dawn in Brooklyn Heights.

It was spring, and the beaches would already be filling up as they always did, the blazing heat forcing the sun worshippers to cool off among the spring breakers by mid-afternoon. Further south, down the county road leading towards the lake, resident vendors prepared for the day, ready to hock their wares to the many tourists hoping to snag a few souvenirs. 

The man drove on autopilot, the radio off, his mind numb. On several different occasions he had asked the police department for assistance. The local criminal element had been making life hell in the Asheville subdivision where he and his family called home and this morning had been no different. They wanted protection money. It was payment for nothing; hard earned money stolen from their pockets and the good people of Asheville had refused to pay.

Awakening to a thunderous uproar, he’d stepped out onto his lawn to find many of his neighbors’ homes had been burglarized. Several cars had been stolen or vandalized, booths arranged for the morning trade had been overturned and destroyed. A number of trashcans with uncollected garbage were spilled throughout the streets, littering the normally spotless community. But worst of all, his next door neighbor’s 14 year-old daughter had been raped in her own bed.

He had always prided himself on being a peaceful man; always capable of taking the high road. It was his good nature that made him a target to the seedy underworld. But this had been the last straw, and it was time to take matters into his own hands. 

A decade earlier, the city, two exits and three square miles off US 76, was a drab and sleepy bedroom community in the shadow of Brooklyn Heights; a place where suburban homes on wide, grassy lots could still be bought on a working man’s wage. It was a simple slice of Americana where one could settle and raise a family. But, after the Piozzo family moved in, it lost its innocence to drug wars, drive-by shootings, and a numbing tide of violence that settled like smog over the small suburb.

The man drove towards the object of his angst in his small white Toyota Prius. As he turned into the driveway of the large home at 822 Palm Terrace Drive, two men standing beside a dark red pickup glanced towards him as he sat idle near the wrought iron entrance.

One of the men padded up the driveway towards their visitor, the dull gray metal of a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum protruding from his belt. “You lost?” he asked in a thick northern accent as he placed a hand on the butt of his gun.

The thin beanpole of a man at the wheel didn’t bother to look at him as he replied. “I’m here to see your boss. Why don’t you tell him he has company? I’ll wait.” The man shut off the engine of his car and leaned back in his seat as the man at his window backed away with a confused glower.

“Yo, Donnie, you hear this? This man wants to see the boss!” the man laughed as he leaned back to eye level with the driver.

Donnie Pelosi blew out a cloud of smoke as he eyed the occupant of the vehicle. The man appeared calm and unaffected by the men’s display of fire power. “Well then, Vega, I guess you’d better do what he says. He looks wily.” Mike Vega laughed as he turned towards the house.

Vincent Piozzo stepped outside his home onto the front porch, followed closely by the gunman from before. For a moment, he only stared at the man in the small hybrid blocking his driveway. He didn’t seem familiar and in no apparent way did he appear hostile. The driver’s side door opened and the man exited and leaned against the side of his vehicle.

With a snap of his fingers, Vincent ordered an additional two men at his side and together, they marched towards their new guest. “Dad!” Vincent turned suddenly, hearing the voice of his son rushing behind him. “I wanna show you what I got on my project for school today.”

“Not now, Sammy,” the man replied in a heavy New York accent. “Take your sister inside, I’ll have a look at it later.” He waited as the young children retreated indoors before returning his attention to the man at his gate. “Who are you?”

“No one you’d know but, someone who’s felt the blow of your closed fist one too many times.”

“And you’re here to what? Give me what’s coming to me?” Vincent laughed, causing the other men in his company to do the same. “You know what happens to people in this town who can’t follow orders?”

At that, the man from the red pickup raised his weapon, aiming it at the visitor’s head as he cocked the hammer. Then, as if on cue, the sharp wailing of police sirens sliced through the still morning air, heading in their direction. “You didn’t really expect I’d come up here alone?” he asked, staring down the barrel of the gun as the sounds drew nearer.

“Put it away,” Vincent instructed. Danny Merchant quickly tucked his weapon into the waistband of his pants and pulled his shirt over top. “So what is this?”

“This is me putting you on notice, Piozzo. Leave the people of Asheville alone. We don’t want trouble. We just want to live our lives in peace as we always have.”

“I’m afraid that’s no longer an option. There’s only one rule in the world I live in; no one talks to the cops. And you just brought ‘em to my front door.”

“I brought them for the rapist of a little girl. As a father of one yourself, I know you can understand my outrage. When the police get that, I’m sure they’ll leave you alone. You are, after all, an upstanding, ethical citizen, right?” the man asked, stepping towards his car door as one of two police cruisers pulled into the driveway. “Officer, I hope you find what you need. I’m sure the Piozzo family will be extremely forthcoming,” he said before hopping into his Prius.

“Who was that guy?” Vincent asked, watching the car disappear down the road it traveled.

“The hippie? Wolf I think he goes by. He lives up in Asheville.”

“Wolf, huh? Grab the boys. Tell ‘em I got a job that needs doing.”

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