War vet seeking clean respect in a messy city. Loyal, practical.

Vito Scaletta

Loud charm, quick favors. Means well more than he admits.

Joe Barbaro

Polite smile, careful math. Likes tidy ledgers and loyal faces.

Carlo Falcone

Right hand with a too-big laugh. Serious when doors shut.

Eddie Scarpa

Kid glow, big dreams. Learning fast, hopefully right lessons.

Marty Santorelli

Blunt in a nice suit. Ends meetings quickly.

Alberto Clemente

Handler with short fuse, longer memory; trying mindfulness.

Luca Gurino

Eager climber, underestimated; fixing that.

Antonio Balsamo

Old-school don, long view. Prefers quiet solutions.

Frank Vinci

Silver-tempered strategist. Prevents headlines.

Leo Galante

Quiet calculator. Feelings filed under receipts.

Henry Tomasino

Decent to the bone. Hopes Vito finds a safer lane.

Francesca Scaletta

Dock boss who counts favors like ledger lines.

Derek Pappalardo

Muscle with principles—mostly about safety.

Steve Coyne

Hot head, cold nights. Neighborhood pride first/last.

Brian O'Neill

Quiet center of a wide web. Speaks rarely, listens always.

Zhe Yun Wong

Post-war Empire Bay hums with neon and near-misses. Work a respectable hustle, ferry sealed paperwork, sing under soft lights, or walk a careful beat. ‘Gentle noir’: mysteries, favors, and reputation carry the story. No dice — just choices, consequences, PG only.

Joe brushed ash into the slush. ‘Yesterday was the deadline. Today’s the story about why it wasn’t.’ Vito’s coat held the night. ‘Let’s keep this friendly,’ he said. ‘Help us keep it that way.’

Francesca folded napkins as the jukebox bent a sad note into hopeful. Eddie slid onto a stool. ‘Place is too clean for good news,’ he said. ‘Then wipe your shoes before you talk to me.’

O’Neill’s boys spread across the alley like they were painting it. Luca chewed a toothpick. ‘Territory’s a church word, kid. Out here we call it walking.’ No one raised a voice.

Shopkeeper fell behind on a legitimate security retainer. Nudge kindly.

Overdue Account Reminder

Deliver sealed documents from Southport to the Skylane. No detours.

Courier Errand

A relative landed at the precinct after a misunderstanding. Sort it politely.

Station Mix-Up

Car Trouble (PG)

Two officers, one notebook, professional tone.

Routine Check

Old War Buddy

Noisy Alley Dispute

Lifelong friends; thick as thieves, metaphorically.

Errand Runner

Envelopes, schedules, keeping your head down.

Lounge Singer

Red-light spotlight and blue-note secrets.

Mechanic / Driver

Grease under nails, plates that actually match.

Beat Cop

Reporter (City Desk)

Ink-stained curiosity with rent due Tuesday.

Numbers Clerk

Ledgers that sing when the math is honest.

Basil, bread, and rumors. Respect buys favors; disrespect buys a closed door.

Little Italy

Factories cough smoke over row houses. Union whispers and stretched pay.

Kingston

Cranes, cold water, clever paperwork. Most mysteries arrive by boat.

Southport Docks

Tailored suits, quiet deals, watchful doormen.

Uptown

Corner groceries, locksmiths, cash-only anonymity.

Freelands

Neon, cinemas, alleyways that collect stories and rain.

Downtown

Local rules posted nowhere, enforced with side-eye.

Hunter’s Point

Tree-lined calm with trouble behind good curtains (paperwork kind).

West Side

Flickering neon, thin walls, thicker alibis. Great coffee at 6 a.m.

Skylane Motel

Low light, long tabs, jukebox that knows your mood. Favors board.

Freddy’s Bar

Mansions behind hedges; men behind committees. Power speaks softly.

The Hill

The train sighs in. Coffee, coal, welcome with conditions. A tailor offers what you can’t afford; a recruiter offers what you’re not sure about. Snow slants as Joe barrels in, scarf crooked. ‘Look at you, hero.’ Warm bar, small job, square quick. A patrolman watches with gentle curiosity. A billboard sells refrigerators to families with everything but peace. A man in a dark coat measures your boots. The city isn’t asking what you want. It’s asking how careful you’ll be.

Home from the War

Southport stings the fingers. You sign for a crate that weighs wrong. Derek’s lamp burns; Coyne leans like punctuation. A box splits — not scrap, not the form. ‘Wrong manifest,’ a longshoreman mutters: code for ‘fix discreetly.’ Footsteps: two uniforms, one notebook. Nudge the crate out of sight and sort later, or hold ground and invent a harmless shipping story.

Dock Shift, Odd Manifest

Lounge lights red enough to float a dream. Between sets a courier rests a slim envelope by your elbow like a compliment. Eddie raises a glass; a reporter’s brim tilts. The envelope is light — sheet music and permits — with: ‘Deliver to the Skylane, no detours.’ A beat cop steps in, brushing snow, scanning faces. Your cue hits the spotlight. Sing and let the city move, or move first and see who follows?

Song at the Red Velvet

Your beat runs from church steps to pawnshops. A man in a camel coat waits where your flashlight fades. ‘City’s calmer when the right people stay comfortable,’ he says, offering an envelope that feels like flyers. He mentions The Hill without saying it. A TV shows handshakes with men you just warned about loitering. Radio crackles with a call you could pass. Walk on, walk away, or walk in? The streetlight pops; the sidewalk dims, politely.

Badge and a Bagman (PG)

You cut through Hunter’s Point to save ten minutes and lose your schedule. Two kids post up at an alley. ‘Toll’s gone up,’ one jokes, tapping a bat like a metronome. Past them, a Buick idles. At the curb, a Chevy slows as if the city wants to watch you choose. Buy your way past with a smile and a newspaper, chat them down with local names, or call to the shopkeeper who knows your aunt. A window lifts; someone’s listening. Empire Bay loves a witness.