Vic Martelli’s crew ran uptown, everything north of Central Park. They had the high-end card rooms on the Upper East Side, and all the dope moving through Harlem. Ran it classy, too; never had to shout when cash could do the talking.
Carmine Russo’s boys—they had the West Side. Hookers, dockside smuggling, and a bunch of nickel-and-dime street rackets that kept the lights on.
Martelli was silk. Russo was sandpaper.
They worked together fine, mostly—until somebody got in the way. Then, yeah, maybe a guy took a bullet. But business always came first.
So, when word got out that somebody big just got clipped—real big—mourning incorporated went into action.
The thing is, nobody knew who it was. Like, even that was a secret.
Nevertheless, both families were urged to show up to pay their respects. Business is business, and everyone who’s involved knows the consequences of stepping out of line. That said, when a brother-in-arms takes a bullet, men of respect put aside differences and give him a decent send-off.
Besides, funerals are a great way to catch up.
So, they picked a funeral joint in midtown, Lombardi & Finch, which was located on Park Avenue. High-end. Looked less like a funeral home, more like the lobby of a five-star hotel where the only thing that dies is your credit score. White marble floors, fresh flowers, and Bocelli on Spotify. It was out of this world.
Meanwhile, associates from all over the tri-state started arriving, and still, no one knew who was dead.
All anybody knew was the hit was so bad they had to close the casket.
The Martellis came in first. Sharp suits, shoes, all that uptown polish. Then the Russos walked in, but with that look like they’d been through a door the hard way. Everyone shook hands, nodded, kissed cheeks.
There were whispers, murmurs. You would think someone knew something. But no, not on the programs, not in the eulogies, not even in the bathroom where people usually loosen up. Just “Our Beloved” in gold letters, like it was a wedding invitation. And the casket? Nice custom Italian job, cost a pretty penny. Shiny bronze lid. Air-tight closure, tighter than a bookie’s lips on tax day, if you want to know the truth.
Lombardi laid out a nice spread. Buffalo Mozzarella. Prosciutto. Tortellini Primavera. Champagne. Who could resist?
“Could be Matty the Magician,” a Martelli associate blurted over by the espresso station. “This would have been just like him, too. Now you see me, now you don’t.”
A Russo guy cut in. “The Magician? Saw him on Instagram last week with two blondes and a boat down in Miami. Up to his old tricks.”
“What about Philly Peeps?” someone else tried. “He’s been quiet as fuck of late. Maybe he’s dead.”
“Where you been? Peeps is in Rikers,” came the answer.
“I heard Jimmy D’apalito was on death’s door,” a younger cousin tossed in.
“He’s still running numbers outta his goomah’s bodega in Queens. I just lost five grand to him last Tuesday.”
“I’m thinking this has got to be Lou the Jew. The Jews have closed caskets. It only makes sense.”
“But that was Lou’s nickname. He wasn’t a Jew per se, we just called him that.”
“Like I didn’t know he wasn’t a Jew? I’m saying he might have converted without telling anyone. And this is how he decided to throw it up in our faces.”
They ran through names like they were pulling raffle tickets, but every time, somebody had a reason why the guy wasn’t lying in that box. It was like playing Guess Who? with the whole damn city and finding out every card’s still in play.
Then Vito, a guy from the Russo side, leaned in over the canapé tray and said, “You know, if it’s closed casket, it’s ‘cause the face is gone. Right? Hear me out. And if the face is gone …” Vito shrugged, “That’s Martelli’s thing.”
A couple of Martelli guys bristled. “Whoa, hang on. What the fuck you talkin’ about? You think this was us?!”
“All I’m saying is it don’t add up,” Vito cut them off. “If you wanted a clean kill, you’d do a clean kill. If you wanted the whole world to know, you’d send a message.”
Vic Martelli just sipped his drink, “Since when is disfigurement our thing, Vito?”
One of Carmine’s lieutenants smirks. “Vito’s right, this ain’t got our fingerprints on it. That leaves you. Besides, if this was us, we’d be home taking bets on how long ‘til you find out it was us.”
The theory hung there, greasy and tempting. Nobody wanted to admit it, but there’s a certain logic: you don’t close a casket unless what’s inside is either missing something important… or too important to show.
Vito looked across “Nobody knows who this is! And nobody knows who killed him! So, who gets to retaliate? That’s my question!”
“Nobody’s retaliating!”
“Nobody’s retaliating, meanwhile, there’s a dead body! My only conclusion is someone has already retaliated pre-emptively. How’s it gonna look if we don’t hit back?”
“How do you know that dead body ain’t a Martelli?”
“Then gimme a fuckin’ crow bar and lemme open that God damn casket right now!”
“Settle down, Vito! Nobody gets to hit back until we’re certain!”
“Certain of what?!”
Suddenly, Antoinette Francese pulls up in a Lana Turner outfit.
“Oh Jesus. Here comes trouble.”
The doors banged open like she was Judge Judy making her courtroom entrance; heels clicking, hips swaying, dress in mourning black but cut like she was attending a red carpet event. She had the hair, the jewelry, the attitude. She had ties to both families; her father, Albert, was a Capo before the families split into two.
She stopped dead center in the aisle, both hands in the air like she was calling for divine judgment. “Can I be straight forward with all of you? Who did this? Can I know? WHO WANTS TO TELL ME RIGHT HERE AND NOW WHO KILLED THIS MAN?!” her voice bouncing off the marble.
The whole room went still. Martellis. Russos. Even Mr. Finch, the undertaker, froze with the champagne bottle halfway tilted.
“When I find out who is responsible for the death of this man—” she jabbed a finger toward the closed casket like it was a defendant in court, “—I will personally take care of them myself! You hear me? Because to me, you’re nothing but a bunch of animals. All of you! FOR WHAT YOU DID TO THIS POOR SOUL, ALL OF YOU ARE NOTHING BUT AN-A-MALS!”
She took a breath and paced, “I don’t care if you’re family, friend, priest, I don’t give a fuck if you’re the Pope, you’re all dead! I will put a bullet in every single one of you, so help me God!”
“Ms. Francese, perhaps you would like a glass of champagne,” Mr. Finch offered.
“I wouldn’t drink that toilet water with your mouth,” she snarled.
Antoinette then whirled on the crowd, pacing like a prosecutor. “None of you even have a right to be here! You disgust me—ALL of you! Look at you! Dressed up in your little suits, sippin’ champagne like this is a freakin’ wedding reception, while this man is lying here, cold, because of you! My father is rolling in his grave right now, may he rest in peace!”
She jabbed her finger again, moving through the crowd.
“You! Yeah, you, Joey Russo! Who supplied you with whores when you needed whores? He did! Without him, you’re selling used Hondas in Newark!”
“And you, Tommy frickin’ lyin’ dirtbag Martelli, you were barely scrapin’ by sellin’ nickel bags to pregnant 15-year-old Dominican junkie girls and their miserable rotten sewer rat boyfriends! Who gave you a leg up? Who gave you something to live for?”
“And don’t think I forgot about you, Vin-cent, you low-life! You back-stabbing fraud! You’re not so inn-o-cent, Vin-cent!”
Nobody moved. Nobody took a breath. Nobody knew who the hell she was talking about, but the guilt level in the room could choke a horse.
A couple of guys instinctively took a step back as Antoinette gave them the once-over again.
“Oh, you’re all lookin’ around like you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. Please! You’re all guilty. Every last one of you!”
Finally, some poor sap from the Martelli side ventures, “Uh… Antoinette, sweetheart…forgive us, we’re all a little lost here. This is gonna sound … I don’t know but, we’re not sure whose funeral this is.”
Antoinette turned and scowled.
“Not to be insensitive or anything, but who’s the deceased?”
“Who’s the deceased?”
“Yeah, did you know him?”
Antoinette froze, then turned her head toward him real slow, like in a horror movie. Her eyes went wide, her mouth opened just enough to let the venom out. “Did I know him?” she repeated, her voice rising an octave with every word. “Did I know him?”
She stormed over, heels stabbing the marble, and before the poor guy could back up, she smacked him across the left cheek—whack!—then the right—whack!—then the left again just for symmetry. “Maybe you’ll remember this,” she hissed, punctuating it with one last open-handed crack that echoed off the casket.
The guy just stood there, slack-jawed, like he wasn’t sure if he should apologize or call a dentist.
Antoinette spun on her heel, muttering curses in Italian, stormed down the aisle, and threw the doors open so hard the hinges groaned. The lilies shook. Then the doors slammed behind her.
For a second, nobody moved. Then, like after a tornado passed, the whole room exhaled at once. Someone in the back muttered, “So does that … narrow down the possibilities for anyone?”
Martelli’s guys shifted their weight, straightened their ties, avoided eye contact. Russo’s men looked around at each other warily. It was like the room had just been hit by an earthquake, and everyone was waiting to see if there’d be an aftershock.
Then the smell of roasted lamb drifted in from the buffet room, followed by Bocelli’s voice swelling from the speakers.
That’s when the new players arrived. Heads turned.
Not street guys. No muscle. No history. Just three men and a woman in tailored suits worth more than most people’s bail, carrying leather portfolios and that faint smell of money that’s never had fingerprints on it.
They moved like they owned the place, because, judging by the buffet spread and the catering staff, they did.
The woman in front, perfect hair, perfect smile, the kind of confidence you rent by the quarter-hour in mergers—walked right between Vic and Carmine like they were two potted plants in her way. “Gentlemen,” she said. “We’ll be handling the transition.”
Vic’s voice was all velvet and razor. “Transition?”
She nodded toward the casket like it was a podium at a shareholder meeting. “The entity formerly represented here will now be operated under our corporate umbrella. Full absorption. Streamlined operations. Shared resources.”
Translation: We own you now.
Carmine’s mouth twitched. “And what do we get out of this?”
“Continued relevance,” she said, flipping open a folder. “And quarterly dividends. All of this—” she gestured to the buffet, the opera, the floral arrangements “—was willed to both families. With one stipulation: his identity is never revealed.”
That landed like a brick wrapped in silk. They didn’t know who was in the box before—now they knew they’d never know.
You could see it on both their faces; neither one liked it, but neither one could stop it. This wasn’t about who ran the streets anymore. Streets don’t pay like corridors, and the corridors all have security badges and quarterly reports.
The suits headed to a side room to “finalize documents.”
Vic Martelli and Carmine Russo stayed put, staring at the closed casket, each man wondering how he’d gotten here and what “here” even meant anymore.
Finally, Carmine broke the silence. “Days gone by, eh Vic?"
“Yep, days gone by.”
“Guess the family business ain’t the family business anymore.”
Vic nodded slowly, eyes still on the bronze lid. “Nah. It’s just business.”
Bocelli’s voice swelled in the background. The lamb carving station clinked with silver. And the casket, locked and shiny, kept its secret, like it was laughing at both of them.
© Michael Arturo, 2025
Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014.
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