June 20, 1910: The Plaza, Los Angeles
The moon was hidden behind a thick layer of marine fog that had rolled in from the Pacific, turning the narrow, unpaved alleys of the Plaza into a maze of gray shadows. It was quiet, save for the distant barking of a stray dog and the heavy, confident footsteps of five men moving toward a small storefront on Olvera Street.
The shop was a modest tailor's establishment, the windows dark, the sign above the door peeling slightly in the damp air.
"Old fool," the leader of the group spat, shifting the heavy tin of kerosene in his grip. He was a burly man named Carlo, a cousin of Sam Matranga who prided himself on the fear he inspired. "He actually told the collector to 'get a real job.' Can you believe the balls on this guy?"
One of the other men, a wiry enforcer named Vinnie, laughed cruelly. "That's the problem with these old-timers. They think because they've been here since the pueblo days, they don't have to pay the toll. He thinks he's stubborn? He will learn that fire is more stubborn."
"We light it from the back," Carlo instructed, his voice oozing with arrogant boredom. "Let it catch the fabric storage first. By the time he wakes up upstairs, he'll be lucky to get out with his skin. Maybe then he'll understand that Sam Matranga isn't asking for a donation. And that the Matranga family owns the Plaza."
They reached the rear of the shop. The smell of rotting vegetables from the nearby market bins mixed with the sharp tang of the kerosene they were preparing to uncork.
"Spread out," Carlo ordered. "Check the exits. I don't want anybody running out the back door."
The four men melted into the shadows surrounding the small courtyard. Carlo set the can down and pulled out a box of matches, whistling a low, off-key tune. He waited for the signal that the perimeter was secure.
Thud.
It was a soft sound, like a sack of flour hitting the dirt.
Carlo paused, the matchbox in his hand. "Vinnie?"
Silence.
"Marco? Quit screwing around," Carlo hissed, his irritation rising.
Thud.
Another one. Closer this time.
A cold prickle of unease danced down Carlo's spine. He stood up, abandoning the kerosene can. The silence in the alley wasn't empty; it was heavy.
He had heard news that over the last month, a group of men in masks had intervened in their business. But those stories always involved two or three guys who just knocked people out and vanished. That's why Sam had sent five tonight. These were made men, experts in violence.
"Hey!" Carlo barked, trying to sound angrier than he felt. "Answer me!"
No response.
Carlo reached for the revolver tucked into his waistband, his heart hammering against his ribs. He spun around, intending to bolt back toward the main street.
He froze.
Four figures stood blocking the alley exit. They were dressed entirely in black, their faces covered by simple, dark cloth masks. They stood perfectly still, not in a defensive stance, but with the relaxed posture of predators who knew the cage door was already locked.
"Who the hell are you?" Carlo demanded, his voice cracking slightly. He tried to puff out his chest, summoning the bravado of the Matranga name. "You interfering with us? Do you know who we belong to?"
The figures didn't speak. They just watched him.
Carlo gritted his teeth. "You're making a grave mistake. You mess with me, you mess with Sam Matranga. I'm gonna—"
His hand whipped behind his back to grab his gun.
He never touched the metal.
From the darkness directly behind him—a space he would have sworn was empty—a shadow moved. There was a silver flash, followed instantly by a stinging, wet heat across his right wrist.
"Gaaah!" Carlo screamed, clutching his hand as the gun clattered uselessly to the cobblestones.
Before he could process the pain, a hand clamped onto his shoulder, spinning him around. He found himself staring into the mask of a fifth man. This one was taller than the others, broader in the shoulders, and radiated a suffocating, freezing pressure that made Carlo's knees buckle.
Another figure stepped forward and kicked the gun away into the dark.
"Who are you?" Carlo gasped, cradling his bleeding wrist. He looked frantically around the courtyard. "Where are my men? What did you do to them?"
The tall man in the center pointed a gloved finger to the side of the yard.
Carlo squinted through the gloom. Four bodies were lined up against the wall, slumped over and motionless.
"You killed them..." Carlo whispered, terror finally shattering his arrogance.
"Don't worry," the tall man said. His voice was deep, distorted slightly by the mask, and devoid of any emotion. It wasn't a threat; it sounded like a judge reading a ledger. "They are not dead. Just unconscious."
Carlo swallowed hard, his mind racing. "Look... maybe we can work something out. But you can't stop us. This is Matranga territory."
"We don't care whether you collect protection from those who are willing to pay. But don't cross the line like this—burning their livelihoods," the tall figure said. "This is a warning. Next time, there won't be a warning."
Carlo tried to rally his courage. "You think a mask scares us? You're making a grave mistake messing with the Matranga gang. My cousin Sam will—"
Before he could finish the sentence, the tall man moved. It was a blur, faster than Carlo could follow. Suddenly, the cold steel of a knife was pressed intimately against the soft skin of Carlo's throat, just below the jawline. A tiny sting of pain told him the skin was already broken.
Carlo froze, hardly daring to breathe.
"The knife doesn't care who you are," the man whispered, his face inches from Carlo's. "And neither do I."
Carlo trembled. The suffocating feeling coming from this man was unlike anything he had felt from Sam or even the police. This was the aura of a man who had killed before and would sleep soundly after doing it again.
"Tell your boss," the man said, easing the blade back just enough to let Carlo speak. "Don't cross the line. Next time he does that, he will definitely know who we are."
Around the courtyard, the other four masked men began to rouse the unconscious gangsters. They groaned, holding their heads, stumbling to their feet in a daze.
Carlo let out a shaky breath of relief. They were letting them go. They hadn't burned the shop. It was just a scare tactic.
Before he could fully breathe that relief, the tall man in black spoke again. "But you have to pay the price for today's crime."
"But… but we didn't even light the fire," Carlo stammered, trying to regain a shred of dignity. "We didn't do anything yet."
"Doesn't matter," the tall man said. "Because the intent was there. If we weren't here, you would have done it anyway."
Carlo blinked. "What... what are you going to do?"
"A small reminder," the tall man said. "So you won't forget."
In one fluid motion, the tall man grabbed Carlo's uninjured left arm. He twisted the wrist, locking the joint, and then—with a sharp, sickening snap—he broke the arm at the elbow joint.
"AAAAHHH!" Carlo's scream echoed off the brick walls, a high-pitched wail of agony.
Simultaneously, around the courtyard, four other sharp cracks rang out as the rest of the team administered the exact same punishment to the groggy enforcers. The alley was suddenly filled with the sounds of men wailing and curling into balls on the dirty ground.
Lights flickered on in the windows of the tenements above, but nobody opened a sash. Nobody looked out. The omertà of the neighborhood meant that screams in the night were ignored for survival.
The tall man stood over the whimpering leader. "It will take six months to heal," he said calmly. "But you will get your normal function back then. Next time you do this, I will chop off your whole fucking arm."
He signaled to his team. Without a word, they melted back into the darkness, leaving the Matranga enforcers broken and writhing in the dirt.
A few blocks away, in the safety of a secluded alley behind a warehouse, the five men stopped. They pulled off their masks, revealing the faces of four hardened Kingston Security veterans and Michael Kingston.
The men looked at Michael with a new level of respect. They knew he was the boss, the billionaire who signed the checks, but tonight they had seen something else. His movement, his silence, and the brutal efficiency of the arm-break spoke of training that didn't come from a boardroom.
"At first I wasn't sure if you should come, sir," one of the men, a former cavalry sergeant named Miller, said quietly. "But... hell. You're proficient. Better than any of us."
Michael wiped the small amount of blood from his knife with a handkerchief and folded it away. His expression was grim. He felt no thrill from the violence, only the cold satisfaction of a problem temporarily solved.
"Will they stop doing this?" Miller asked, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "After a beating like that?"
Michael shook his head. "Men who are used to violence and power don't relinquish it that easily. Their pride is wounded now, not just their bodies. They will make inquiries. They will try to find out who we are."
Michael looked back toward the tailor shop. "They will likely try to threaten the tailor again, just to prove they still own him. Keep a surveillance team on him around the clock. If they come back, I want to know before they even strike the match."
"Yes, sir," Miller said.
"Let's go," Michael said, turning toward the street where the car was waiting. "This is just the beginning."