A Bar Owner Laughed When Carlo Gambino Asked for His Cut — The Bar Was on Fire Before Closing Time 

March 3rd, 1957, 2:15 p.m. Tommy Sullivan stood behind the bar at the Emerald Room, polishing glasses and watching the lunch crowd thin out. His bar sat on the corner of Malberry and Grand in Little Italy, and for the past 8 years, it had been his kingdom. Three stories, art deco fixtures, a woritzer jukebox that played Sinatra on repeat, and a steady stream of long shoremen, union guys, and neighborhood regulars who kept the register ringing.

 Tommy had built this place from nothing. After coming back from Korea in 1949, he’d And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Saved every penny from his job at the Brooklyn Navyyard. He’d bought the building for 18,000, renovated it himself, turned it into the kind of establishment where a working man could get a cold beer and a hot meal without some wise guy shaking him down.

That was the thing Tommy was proud of. The emerald room was clean. No bookmaking in the back. No lone sharking. No policy slips changing hands under tables. Just honest business in a neighborhood where honest business was getting harder to find. The door opened. Three men walked in and the [clears throat] temperature in the room seemed to drop 10°.

 The man in the middle was short, maybe 57, wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit and a fedora that probably cost more than Tommy’s monthly rent. His face was calm, almost pleasant, but his eyes were the eyes of a man who’d seen things, done things that normal people couldn’t imagine. Carlo Gambino, the new boss of the Mongano crime family, though everyone was already calling it the Gambino family now.

 Albert Anastasia’s under boss, the quiet one, the man who never raised his voice, but somehow always got his way. Tommy knew who he was. Everyone in Little Italy knew who he was. and everyone knew what it meant when Carlo Gambino walked into your establishment in the middle of the afternoon with two associates. The lunch crowd suddenly remembered they had places to be.

 Within 90 seconds, the emerald room was empty except for Tommy Carlo and the two men flanking him. One was Anelo Delroce, Carlo’s most trusted captain. The other was a enforcer named Joey Gallow, built like a fire hydrant with fists like canned hams. Mr. Sullivan, Carlos said, his Sicilian accent still thick after 30 years in America.

 He sat down at the bar, folded his hands, smiled. Beautiful place you have here. Very clean, very respectable. Thank you, [snorts] Mr. Gambino, Tommy said carefully. His heart was hammering, but he kept his voice steady. Can I get you something? Coffee? A drink? Information? Carlos said simply. I’ve been hearing things. good things.

 Your business, it does well. Friday nights, Saturday nights, the place is packed. Union boys from the docks, construction crews, even some of the families from Uptown come here. You’re making good money. Tommy said nothing. This was how it always started. The compliments, the friendly tone, the suggestion that someone was paying attention.

 The thing is, Carlo continued, “This is a good neighborhood, safe neighborhood, and safety, Mr. Sullivan. It costs money, you understand. There it was, the protection racket. Tommy had watched it happen to every business on this street. Pauliey’s butcher shop, 200 a month. The bakery on the corner, 150. Even old Mrs.

 Castanza, who ran the flower shop, they were taking 75 from her. But Tommy Sullivan hadn’t fought in the chosen reservoir. Hadn’t watched his friends freeze to death in Korean mud. hadn’t spent eight years building this business just to hand over a cut to some mobster because the guy had a reputation. With respect, Mr.

 Gambino, Tommy said, and he could hear the edge in his own voice. I don’t need protection. I’ve got nothing worth stealing. I don’t run numbers. I don’t fence stolen goods. I just serve drinks and food. There’s nothing here for you. The smile on Carlo Gambino’s face didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes. Something cold. Everyone needs protection, Mr. Sullivan.

Accidents happen. Fires start. Health inspectors find violations. You understand what I’m saying? Tommy understood perfectly. And that’s when he made the biggest mistake of his life. He laughed. Not a nervous laugh, not a placating chuckle. A real laugh. Loud and sharp. the laugh of a man who’d faced Chinese soldiers in sub-zero weather and figured nothing in Little Italy could scare him anymore.

Fire health inspectors. Tommy shook his head, still smiling. Mr. Gambino, I appreciate you stopping by, but I’m not interested. This is my place. I built it. I run it clean, and I’m not paying protection money to anyone. So, with all due respect, you and your friends can finish your coffee or leave.

 But either way, I’m not giving you a dime. The emerald room went absolutely silent. Anelloo Delicrochi’s hand moved inside his jacket. Joey Gallo took a step forward, his jaw tight, but Carlo Gambino just sat there still smiling that pleasant smile. He stood up slowly, adjusted his tie, picked up his fedora. “You’re a brave man, Mr.

 Sullivan,” Carlo said quietly. “I respect that. I really do. But bravery and stupidity, sometimes they look the same.” He walked toward the door, then paused, looked back. You have a beautiful bar here. It would be a shame if something happened to it. The three men left. The door closed behind them.

 Tommy stood there, his hands shaking now that the adrenaline was fading. Had he really just laughed at Carlo Gambino? Had he really just told the most powerful mobster in New York to get out of his bar? His best friend, Mickey Doyle, who’d been hiding in the kitchen during the whole exchange, came out looking pale.

 Tommy, what the hell did you just do? Tommy poured himself a whiskey, downed it in one swallow. I stood my ground, Mickey. That’s what I did. You signed your death warrant is what you did, Mickey said. You laughed at Carlo Gambino in front of his men. You embarrassed him. Jesus, Tommy, you have any idea what happens to people who embarrass Carlo Gambino? Tommy poured another whiskey.

 I’m not paying protection money. I don’t care who he is. But even as he said it, Tommy Sullivan knew he’d made a terrible mistake. And in Little Italy in 1957, mistakes like that had consequences. March 3rd, 1957, 4:30 p.m. Carlo Gambino sat in the back office of Roselli’s restaurant, three blocks from the Emerald Room, smoking a cigarette and saying nothing.

 Anelo Deloce and Joey Gallow sat across from him. waiting. When Carlo finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost philosophical. You know what the problem is with this neighborhood now? Respect. Nobody understands respect anymore. These mix, these Irish, they come back from the war thinking they’re tough. Thinking because they fought the Chinese or the Germans, they don’t have to respect the order of things here.

 You want me to go back there tonight? Joey Gallow asked, cracking his knuckles. I’ll explain respect to him real clear. Carlos shook his head. No, this has to be handled carefully. Sullivan’s a veteran. He’s got friends. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Union connections.

 Maybe even some cops who drink at his bar. If he disappears, if he turns up in a trunk, it brings attention. The kind of attention we don’t need right now. This was true. In early 1957, Carlo Gambino was in a delicate position. He just helped orchestrate the murder of Albert Anastasia the previous October, installing himself as boss of the family.

 The commission was watching him closely. Law enforcement was watching closer. The last thing Carlo needed was a high-profile hit on a decorated war veteran in the middle of Little Italy. “So, what do you want to do?” Delicroce asked. Carlo stubbed out his cigarette. “We send a message, not to Sullivan directly, to everyone else.

 We show the neighborhood what happens when you disrespect this family. We make an example that nobody forgets. The bar, Joey Gallow said, understanding immediately. The bar, Carlo confirmed, but it has to look like an accident. Faulty wiring, a gas leak, something the fire department writes off as bad luck. No arson investigation, no police digging around, just a unfortunate fire that destroys everything Sullivan built.

Delroce leaned forward. You want to burn it tonight? Tonight, Carlos said after closing time, 2:00 a.m., maybe 3:00 a.m. when the street’s empty. Sullivan lives in the apartment above the bar, right? We make sure he gets out. We’re not killing him. We’re teaching him. And we’re showing every other business owner in this neighborhood what happens when they laugh at Carlo Gambino.

Joey Gallow smiled. I know a guy, Dominico. He’s done this kind of work before. Burned down that warehouse in Red Hook last year. burned down Johnny Rouse restaurant in Brooklyn when Johnny got behind on payments. Never leaves evidence. Always makes it look accidental. Get him, Carlo said.

 Pay him whatever he wants. But I want this done tonight and I want it done clean. What Carlo Gambino didn’t know, what nobody in that room knew, was that Tommy Sullivan had spent the last 2 hours after their confrontation doing exactly what a smart man does when he’s made a powerful enemy. He’d made phone calls. The first call was to his old army buddy, Lieutenant Daniel Murphy, at the fifth precinct.

 Murphy couldn’t protect Tommy from the mob, but he could make sure the police were paying attention if something happened. The second call was to James O’Brien, the head of the Long Shoreman’s union. The union and the mob had a complicated relationship. Sometimes they worked together, sometimes they opposed each other. But O’Brien owed Tommy a favor from 1953 when Tommy had hidden two union organizers in his basement during a mob crackdown.

 O’Brien promised to put the word out, touch Tommy Sullivan, and the docks shut down. The third call was to a freelance photographer named Robert Shaw, who worked for the Daily News. Shaw had been trying to get mob photos for two years. Tommy gave him a tip. Something might happen at the Emerald Room tonight. might want to be in the neighborhood with a camera. Tommy wasn’t stupid.

 He knew he couldn’t fight Carlo Gambino directly, but he could make it costly. He could make it messy. He could make it public. By 10 p.m., the emerald room was packed for Saturday night. Tommy moved through the crowd, serving drinks, acting normal, but his eyes kept drifting to the door. Were they coming tonight, tomorrow, next week? Mickey Doyle pulled him 

aside at 11 p.m. I’m staying with you tonight. You’re not facing this alone. Mickey, you’ve got a wife, kids. You don’t need to shut up, Tommy. We’ve been friends since we were 10 years old. You think I’m leaving you alone after you pissed off Carlo Gambino? We’re in this together. At midnight, Lieutenant Murphy showed up in plain clothes, took a seat at the bar.

Just happened to be in the neighborhood, he said with a wink. Thought I’d have a beer. Might stay a while. At 1:00 a.m., two long shoremen Tommy recognized from the docks came in. They didn’t order drinks. They just posted up near the windows watching the street. And at 1:45 a.m.

, Robert Shaw walked past the bar slowly, a camera bag over his shoulder, finding a spot in the shadows across the street. Tommy started to feel something he hadn’t felt since Carlo Gambino walked in that afternoon. Hope. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought. Meanwhile, three blocks away, Dominic Sedmo was loading his car. Two 5gallon cans of gasoline, a bag of oily rags, a cigarette lighter with a delayed fuse mechanism he’d built himself.

 He’d done this job a dozen times. It was simple. Wait until the bar closed, break a back window, pour the accelerant, set the fuse, walk away. By the time the fire started, he’d be in Brooklyn having breakfast. Joey Gallow gave him the address, gave him 2,000 in cash, gave him one instruction. Make it look accidental, and make sure nobody’s inside when it goes up.

 “Never had a body yet,” Dominic said. “I’m a professional.” At 2:00 a.m., the Emerald Room officially closed. The last patron stumbled out into the March cold, but Lieutenant Murphy stayed. The two long shoreman stayed. Mickey Doyle stayed. And across the street, Robert Shaw stayed, his camera ready. Tommy locked the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and waited.

March 4th, 1957, 2:47 a.m. Dominic Sedmo parked his Chevy Belair two blocks from the Emerald Room in a dark alley off M Street. He sat there for 5 minutes watching, making sure the street was empty. This was the crucial part, the timing. Too early and there might be witnesses. Too late and the sun would start coming up.

 He grabbed his bag, the two gas cans, and walked casually toward the bar. Just a guy carrying some stuff. Nothing suspicious. His plan was simple. The emerald room had a back alley entrance, a metal door that led to the kitchen. He’d jimmyed doors like that a hundred times. Get in through the back. Pour gasoline throughout the first floor, especially the bar area where all that wood and alcohol would turn the place into an inferno.

 Set the delayed fuse for 10 minutes. Walk back to his car. By the time the fire started, he’d be gone. What Dominic didn’t know was that Tommy Sullivan wasn’t sleeping. He was sitting in the dark bar with Mickey Doyle and Lieutenant Murphy waiting. They’d been waiting for 3 hours, drinking coffee, jumping at every sound.

 “Maybe they’re not coming tonight,” Mickey said quietly. “They’re coming,” Tommy replied. “It’s how they operate. Quick, decisive. Send the message before anyone can prepare.” Lieutenant Murphy checked his watch. “Son’s up in 3 hours. If they’re doing this, they’re doing it soon.” That’s when they heard it. The sound of metal scraping metal.

 The back door. Tommy’s heart started hammering. He looked at Murphy, who nodded and pulled out his service revolver. The two long shoremen moved silently toward the kitchen entrance. Mickey grabbed a baseball bat from behind the bar. In the alley, Dominic Cedo had just picked the lock. The door swung open quietly.

 He stepped into the dark kitchen, set down his gas cans, pulled out a flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating industrial stoves, prep tables, a walk-in refrigerator. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. He unscrewed the cap on the first gas can, started pouring it across the floor, the chemical smell filling the room immediately.

He moved toward the door that led to the main bar area, still pouring, leaving a trail of gasoline behind him. He pushed through the door, stepped into the bar, raised his flashlight, and found himself staring directly into the faces of five men. Tommy Sullivan, Mickey Doyle, Lieutenant Murphy with his gun drawn.

And two very large long shoremen blocking the exit. Jesus Christ, Dominic whispered. Drop the gas can, Murphy said, his voice cop steady. Do it now, Dominic’s mind raced. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The bar was supposed to be empty. How did they know? How could they possibly? His hand moved toward his jacket where he kept a 32 revolver for emergencies.

 Don’t, Tommy said quietly. Don’t make this worse than it is. Dominic froze. Five against one. A cop with a gun. No way out. He set down the gas can slowly, raised his hands. On your knees, Murphy ordered. Hands behind your head. Dominic complied. Murphy moved behind him, snapped on handcuffs. Dominic said, “I know you. I know your work.

 Warehouse fire in Red Hook restaurant in Brooklyn. You’re going away for a long time.” Outside across the street, Robert Shaw had been watching the whole thing through the bar’s back window. His camera had been clicking for the past five minutes. He’d gotten shots of Dominic picking the lock, Dominic carrying the gas cans, Dominic pouring the gasoline, and now Dominic in handcuffs. This was the front page.

 This was the story that would make his career. Murphy radioed for backup. Within 10 minutes, three squad cars arrived, sirens silent, but lights flashing. Officers flooded the emerald room. The fire department came next, cleaned up the gasoline, made sure there was no residual danger. And standing in the middle of it all, Tommy Sullivan watched as Dominic Cedo was led away in handcuffs.

 But Tommy wasn’t celebrating because he knew this wasn’t over. This was just the first move. At 6:00 a.m., the Daily News hit the streets. The front page headline read, “Mob arson plot foiled in Little Italy.” Robert Shaw’s photos were stark and damning. Dominic Cedo with gas cans, the emerald room. And in the accompanying article, names Carlo Gambino, Joey Gallo, Anelo Deocroce.

The article stopped short of direct accusations, but the implication was clear. This was a mob hit that failed. By 7:00 a.m., every news radio station in New York was running the story. By 8:00 a.m., the FBI field office in Manhattan had opened a file. And by 9:00 a.m., Carlo Gambino was sitting in his office at Roselli’s restaurant, staring at the newspaper, his face carved from stone.

 Joey Gallow stood in front of him looking sick. Boss, I swear Dominic’s reliable. He’s done this work before. I don’t know how. Get out, Carlos said quietly. Boss, get out. Joey Gallow left. Carlos sat alone. The newspaper spread in front of him. He’d made a mistake. Not in sending the arsonist. That was standard procedure. But in underestimating Tommy Sullivan, the war veteran had been smarter than Carlo expected. He’d prepared.

 He’d built a defense. He’d turned Carlo’s own tactic against him. And now there were consequences. The FBI was interested. The newspapers were interested. The commission was definitely interested. Frank Costello had already called that morning, his voice dripping with disapproval. You’re bringing heat on all of us, Carlo. Fix this quietly.

Carlo Gambino had built his reputation on being the quiet boss, the smart boss, the one who never drew attention. And in one night, Tommy Sullivan had made him front page news. There was a knock on the door. Anelloo del Crochce entered, his face grim. Dominic’s talking. They offered him a deal.

 Testify about who hired him. And he walks with 5 years instead of 20. He’s going to give us up. Carlo was silent for a long moment. Then he picked up the phone, dialed a number he rarely used. His attorney, the best mob lawyer in New York. We need to have a conversation, Carlo said, about cutting losses. March 11th, 1957, 10:30 a.m.

 Tommy Sullivan sat in a booth at a diner on Canal Street, seven blocks from the Emerald Room. Across from him sat his attorney, Samuel Rothstein, a Jewish lawyer from the Bronx who specialized in defending people who’d gotten on the wrong side of organized crime. “They want to meet,” Rothstein said, stirring his coffee. Carlo Gambino face to face.

Tommy’s stomach tightened. To kill me, to negotiate, Rothstein replied, “The arson attempt backfired. Dominic Sedamo’s testifying. The FBI’s investigating. Gambino’s got heat from the commission, heat from law enforcement, heat from the other families. You embarrassed him, Tommy. But more importantly, you cost him.

 And right now, he wants to stop the bleeding.” What does he want? Immunity. He wants you to refuse to testify. He wants you to tell the DA that you don’t know who sent Dominic Cedo, that it could have been anyone, that you have no evidence connecting the Gambino family to the arson attempt. Tommy laughed bitter.

 Why the hell would I do that? I’ve got him. The photos, the testimony, the newspaper coverage. This is my chance to put Carlo Gambino away. Rothstein leaned forward. No, Tommy. You’ve got a chance to make Dominic the fall guy while Carlo walks away. The DA might get Dominic on arson. Attempted arson. Maybe conspiracy, but connecting it to Carlo, that’s harder.

 Carlo didn’t pour the gasoline. He didn’t pick the lock. And the only person who can testify that Carlo gave the order is Dominic. And Dominic’s testimony is the word of a convicted criminal against one of the most powerful men in New York. It’s not the slam dunk you think it is. Then why does Carlo want to negotiate? Because even a 30% chance of an indictment is too much risk for him right now.

 The commission’s already unhappy with the attention. If this goes to trial, if his name’s in the papers for months, other bosses start wondering if Carlo’s a liability. And in that world, liabilities get eliminated. Tommy sat back processing. What’s he offering? Peace. Complete peace. He leaves you alone. He leaves your bar alone.

 He puts out word that the emerald room is untouchable. Nobody in the Gambino family, nobody in any of the five families goes near you or your business ever. That’s it. He tried to burn down my bar and all I get is a promise that he won’t try again. Rothstein pulled an envelope from his briefcase, slid it across the table, and $50,000 cash.

 Call it reparations, call it a settlement, call it whatever you want, but it’s real money, Tommy. Enough to renovate the damage from the gasoline. Enough to upgrade your security. Enough to set aside for the future. Tommy stared at the envelope. 50,000. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell.

 And more money than he’d made in 3 years of running the Emerald Room. But it felt dirty, like blood money. What happens if I say no? What happens if I testify? Help the DA build a case against Carlo? Rothstein’s face darkened. Then you spend the next 20 years looking over your shoulder. Maybe Carlo goes to prison. Maybe he doesn’t.

 But either way, you’ve made an enemy of the entire Gambino family. They’ve got long memories, Tommy. And they’re patient. 5 years from now, 10 years from now, when everyone’s forgotten about the arson attempt, when the cops aren’t watching anymore, something happens. A car accident that isn’t an accident. A robbery gone wrong. A heart attack.

 That isn’t a heart attack. Is that how you want to live? Tommy thought about Mickey Doyle, about his friends at the bar, about the neighborhood, about the life he’d built. Was revenge against Carlo Gambino worth spending the rest of that life in fear? I need to think about it, Tommy said. You got 24 hours, Rothstein replied.

After that, the offer’s off the table. That night, Tommy sat in the emerald room after closing, alone with a bottle of whiskey. The bar smelled like gasoline still, even after the cleanup. That chemical stench that wouldn’t quite fade, a reminder of how close he’d come to losing everything. Lieutenant Murphy stopped by around midnight, still in plain clothes.

“I heard about the offer,” he said, sitting down at the bar. Rothstein called me, wanted to know if I thought you should take it. “What did you tell him?” Murphy poured himself a whiskey from Tommy’s bottle. I told him, “It’s your decision.” But off the record, between friends, take the money. Walk away. You already won, Tommy.

 You stopped the arson. You embarrassed Carlo Gambino in front of the whole city. You proved you can’t be pushed around. That’s victory enough. It doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like surrender. It’s survival, Murphy said. And survival is the only victory that matters in a war you can’t win. You’re one man, Tommy.

 He’s the boss of 300 made men with connections to judges, politicians, cops. You can’t beat that system, but you can live through it. Tommy drank his whiskey in silence. The next morning, he called Samuel Rothstein. Set up the meeting. March 13th, 1957, 300 p.m. The meeting took place in neutral territory, a private room at the Italian social club in the Bronx.

 No weapons, no associates, just Tommy Sullivan, Samuel Rothstein, Carlo Gambino, and Carlos’s attorney, a man named Vincent Abbrutzy. Carlo looked older up close, tired. The past two weeks had aged him. The stress of FBI attention, commission scrutiny, newspaper coverage. This was a man who’ built his power on staying invisible, and Tommy had made him visible.

 That had to sting. “Mr. Sullivan, Carlos said, his accent thick, but his English careful. I want to apologize for the events of last week. It was a misunderstanding that got out of hand. Tommy almost laughed. Misunderstanding. That’s what they were calling attempted arson now. I don’t want your apology, Tommy said.

 I want your word. Your word that this ends here, that my bar, my business, my life are off limits forever. Carlo nodded. You have my word. And in my world, Mr. Sullivan, a man’s word is everything. The emerald room is untouchable. I’ll put out word to all the families. Nobody touches you. Nobody asks you for anything.

 You run your business in peace. And the $50,000. Vincent Abbrutzi slid a briefcase across the table. Cash. Count it if you want. Tommy didn’t count it. If Carlo was going to cheat him now after everything, there was nothing Tommy could do about it. Anyway, what about Dominic Sedetamo? What about his testimony? You’ll tell the district attorney that you can’t identify who hired Dominic.

Carlos said that it could have been anyone with a grudge. That you have no evidence connecting my family to the arson attempt. Dominic will plead guilty to the arson charge. He’ll do his time, and this will all go away quietly. Tommy looked at Rothstein, who nodded slightly. This was the deal. This was the way out. Fine, Tommy said.

 We have an agreement. Carlos stood, extended his hand. Tommy looked at it for a long moment. This was the hand that had ordered his bar burned. This was the hand that controlled organized crime in New York. Shaking it felt like making a deal with the devil. But Tommy shook it anyway.

 Because sometimes survival meant compromising. Sometimes it meant taking the money and walking away. Sometimes it meant knowing when you’d pushed your luck as far as it could go. The meeting ended. Tommy and Rothstein left. first walking out into the cold March afternoon. “You did the right thing,” Rothstein said. Tommy wasn’t so sure, but he was alive.

 His bar was safe, and he had 50,000 in cash. In Little Italy in 1957, that was as close to winning as a guy like him was ever going to get. 3 weeks later, Dominic Sedamo pleaded guilty to attempted arson and received 7 years in prison. The case against Carlo Gambino quietly fell apart for lack of evidence. The FBI closed their investigation.

 The newspapers moved on to other stories and the Emerald Room kept serving drinks. Tommy used 20,000 of Carlo’s money to install a state-of-the-art security system, reinforced doors, cameras that recorded everything. He put another 20,000 in a safety deposit box for emergencies. The last 10,000 he donated anonymously to a veteran’s hospital in Brooklyn.

 Life went on. Carlo Gambino went on to run the most. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Powerful crime family in America for the next 20 years, dying peacefully in his bed in 1976. Tommy Sullivan ran the Emerald Room until 1982 when he sold it and retired to Florida.

 They never spoke again after that day in the Bronx. But every year on March 3rd, on the anniversary of their first meeting, a bottle of expensive scotch would be delivered to the Emerald Room with no card, no message, just the bottle. Tommy never opened them. He lined them up behind the bar 25 bottles in a row, a reminder of the day he laughed at Carlo Gambino and lived to tell about it.

Because in the end, that was the real story. Not that Tommy won, not that Carlo lost, but that both men understood when to stop fighting. that both men understood respect wasn’t just about power. It was about knowing when you’d made your point. Tommy Sullivan had made his point. And Carlo Gambino, for all his power, had been smart enough to recognize it.

 That was the deal nobody saw coming. Not a war, not a murder, just two men on opposite sides of the law finding a way to live in the same neighborhood without destroying each other. And in Little Italy in 1957, that was the closest thing to a happy ending anyone could hope