The Old Colchester Weapons Plant: Harbor District. October 30th, 2026. 9:34 PM

One might think the war had started up again. The dirty factory floor was flooded with armed men, and the streets around it were filled with patrolling cars. Even some of the foundries were operational, producing ammunition and makeshift armor for cars. The decaying industrial district was now a nerve center for the Salvatore family.

“I want an armored car and an SUV in every garage from here to South Hill. Watch near university. Place is crawlin with Draks.”

José pinned his mother's silver crucifix over his kevlar vest. A smaller one roped on underneath. His two silver-plated Italian sidearms were holstered and loaded with extended mags of silver bullets. The men around him also carried two weapons. One with standard copper jackets, and a smaller .22 revolver with 'silver tips.' José’s body reacted to the smell. Every man was covered in talismans of Garlic bulbs and sage.

“Take these numbers and memorize em. If you are injured, that’s your ambulance. From here on, assume everyone in scrubs is a drak. We’ve got our guys at Sacred Heart, but even still watch your soldiers. If Jesus ain’t on the wall, he ain’t goin in.”

José didn't look at any of them, and his men returned the favor. Each focused on their own arms or taking directions from their capos. José walked in procession with his lieutenants, each of them carrying a crate of silver. Some of it "donated" by generous clients; others taken from their own houses. They took it to a portly man in a wife-beater who sorted through it to put into the kiln to melt.

“Another generous donation, from the Granny Aquino collection. Tony, take all this to the furnace. Tell’em 22’s and just the tip. We need bullets, not full silver jackets!”

Past the metalworking was a large rusted table arranged with guns and the Don's Underbosses. Normally impeccably dressed, Leo and Vince had abandoned any pretense in favor of heavy armor and athletic wear. They kept themselves busy with laptops and underlings while the seated Don whispered to the elderly priest at his side. Monsignor Russo - chaplain to the capos -was a longtime collaborator and part-time conscience for the Salvatore family. Duties which earned him a large church with a dying congregation, and a brand new roof. Now he was listening to his father mutter in his ear and performing Last Rites.

After thumbing a cross of oil on the Don's forehead, the Monsignor struck a pitying glance at the son. Only to shake his head before attending to the other criminals with something to get off their chest.

The Don didn't get up from his chair, saving what energy he had left for the night ahead.

"Ready to clear up your fuckin mess, smart-ass?" Leo asked José.

José bristled but could see no malice; it was a genuine question. The enforcer gestured to the table of guns.

"I am," José replied.

The Don himself rose from the chair, his hands supporting him as his eyes surveyed the table of silver bullets & wooden stakes.

"I never thanked you for taking up the role so quickly. You dropped everything. You ignored your mother's pleadings, all to fill in the shoes of a brother you never met."

"You don't have to thank me, Pop, I—"

"I'm not going to. Your mother still hasn't forgiven me. I pulled a lot of strings to set you up with a legitimate finance job. You could have at least pretended to hesitate before you tossed it all away."

José winced but refused to concede. "You took over for Don Joseph when you were younger than me! Why should I sit in an office in Hartford when I could save your empire?"

"Yeah, some work you did with that kid!" Leo snarled.

The Don did not look up, but with a hand silenced his enforcer.

"Leave us, please."

Then Don Salvatore finally looked up at his son, his brow sunken and cheek muscles weakening. The Don inhaled the sooty-garlic air before he could speak.

"What makes you so sure it was the family business I was trying to protect?"

"What?"

"This part of the business? Wasn't yours! It was your brother's. I gave you your share of the inheritance, and you spat it out. You'd rather play gangster."

"I'm—I'm sorry, Pops."

"No, you aren't, so don't apologize. And never apologize to your men either, even though they deserve one." The Don's arms trembled, and José rushed across the table to guide the Don to the plastic chair. The Don accepted the help with an arm around his son's shoulder. His voice breaking from the strain.

"We're a family, dammit! What good is an empire without heirs? What good is a family without?” The Don took an unexpected breath, his face shining from sweat. José looked over for Don Salvatore’s doctor and waved him over. “You've got to survive this, José. You’ve got to survive, and you've got to give your mom some grandkids."

His voice was hoarse and starting to falter. José tried to hide his worry with a smile.

"Easy there. You want me to start chasin' girls, pops? You've got it! How many do you want?"

The Don Salvatore let out a soft smile and wheezed as he calmed his breathing. His face fell into a melancholic firmness as he looked out over the factory.

"Send Leo back over, and go prep your men. Whatever’s left is yours."

The Don straightened himself in the chair. José gave him a pat on the back and walked to the metal shop.

“Ey Marty, I’m getting reports from Elm St.”

“What kinda reports?”

“Manny was expected to pass through; nobody’s seen em.”

“Glamored. Call Rufo, get everyone outta Dwight.”

“We need that corridor, Marty”

“We need those men more. Reinforce Sherman, get a call out to the Yellow Kings in MLK, see if we can pay them to cause some trouble there.”

“The Kings ain't gonna work for us.”

“Not askin ‘em to work for us, just to make money killin his rivals.”

The buzzer rang, announcing the Metal stamper had finished its work.

The metal stamper came with the building, and in its glory days was used to shape gun cases and other gun parts. The Salvatore family found occasional use for the machine making phony license plates. Today the stamper had a three-step process: one stamp to engrave the image of Christ, one to emboss the cross, and a third to cut it out. With every 10-minute buzzer, the machine produced another 225 crucifixes. Capos gathered them by the crate to bolt onto personnel and equipment.

José looked to his own capos then to his father's men.

“This round’s on me!” José took the silver crucifix off of his neck and gave it to the foundry men, along with his rings and chains. "This is all pure silver, you hear; I better see a whole armory with these." Then, grabbing a crate of crosses from the stamper crate, he affixed one to his chest and handed the others out to his own men by the fistful.

"I want one of these in every spare pocket, nailed to every gunstock, sewed to every shirt. We're gonna turn a whole fleet of clunkers into crosses, so don't be stingy. All your men should have spares. And until sunrise, I want one within eyesight at every point. Because if you can see one, draks can't look there."

"You got it, boss."

"And that's your solution, kid?" asked an older underboss. "You gonna save our souls with three trinkets?"

"These trinkets, wise guy." José held his ground, holding the crucifix to the unflinching underboss with sunken eyes. "It only makes it a fair fight. Draks have got guns and soldiers too, and their bullets don't need an invitation. Take away all their mind games, and they're just another gang. That's how we take back this city."

"Time to make that time in Sunday school pay off. Padre's got a vat of holy water back there. Go fill up jugs of it. It is now mandatory to use it. Shake hands with it.

Spritz your cars with it. I don't care if you meet a hooker, you put some on her cheeks before you do anything."

Snickers from the crowd of hardened criminals, Don José looked his challenger in the eye.

"You think it's funny? Tony thought it was funny too. Now he's kosher beef, and his brothel is full of ghouls.”

The underboss grunted before accepting the crosses and falling back in with the crowd. The buzzer on the foundry rang again. José didn't earn their devotion, but he was content for now with begrudging respect.

"Draks are moving in. You know what to do, make these bloodsuckers fear the night!"