Atlantic city war, p.1
Atlantic City War, page 1
C Lowry
Atlantic City War
Copyright © 2025 by C Lowry
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Contents
ATLANTIC CITY WAR
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
Chapter 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter 29
The End
ATLANTIC CITY WAR
CHAPTER 1
Sal Bonano sat in the back office of DiNardo’s Wholesale Restaurant Supply watching security camera feeds from six different locations and thinking about how being legitimate was more profitable than being criminal ever was.
On screen one: the warehouse in Port Richmond. Forklifts moving pallets. Workers loading trucks. All above board. All legal. Mostly.
Screen two: the union hall on Delaware Avenue. Guys coming and going. Shaking hands. Making deals. The kind where nobody talked about the twenty percent skim that kept Sal’s operation running.
Screen three: a pain clinic in Northeast Philly. Doctors in white coats. Patients waiting. Prescriptions being written. All legitimate. Except for the pills that got diverted. The ones that never made it to the pharmacy.
Screen four: his restaurant in Old City. Lunch rush. Businessmen. Tourists. Families. Good food. Good service. Good cover.
Screens five and six: social clubs. One in South Philly. One in Pennsport. The places where real business happened. Where money changed hands. Where problems got solved.
Three years since the church. Three years since he’d almost gone to prison for life. Three years since he’d made the hardest decision of his life and given up Vince.
Vince had beaten the charges. Walked free. But his organization was finished. Most of his guys came over to Sal. The ones who didn’t retired or disappeared or died.
Now Sal ran Philadelphia. All of it. Legitimate and otherwise.
And it was good. Better than good. It was perfect.
Tony DeMarco walked in. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
Tony sat down. Looked at the screens. “We got a problem in Atlantic City.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Bookies are complaining. Say someone’s offering better rates. Better terms. Taking their business.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know yet. But it’s organized. Professional. Not some independent trying to make a score.”
Sal leaned back in his chair. “How many bookies we talking about?”
“Three so far. Maybe more. Ray Testa called this morning. Said he’s thinking about switching. Wanted to know if we’d match the new terms.”
“What are the terms?”
“Lower points. Slower collection. More flexible payment plans.”
“That’s not sustainable. Nobody runs a book like that and makes money.”
“Unless they’re running volume. Unless they’re trying to build market share fast.”
Sal thought about it. Three years of smooth operation. Three years of no drama. No wars. No problems.
Now someone was making moves in Atlantic City.
“Find out who it is,” Sal said. “Send Marco down there. Have him ask around. Be polite. Be respectful. Just find out what’s going on.”
“You want me to go?”
“No. I need you here. Marco can handle it.”
Tony didn’t look convinced but he nodded. “Okay. I’ll call him.”
“And Tony? Tell him to be careful. Whoever this is, they’re not stupid. They’re not coming into our territory by accident.”
Tony left. Sal went back to watching the screens. Everything looked normal. Everything looked fine.
But something was bothering him. A feeling. An instinct. The kind you get when you’ve been in this life long enough to know when things are about to change.
His phone rang. His wife Maria.
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?” she said.
“Work. Why?”
“Your daughter has a recital tonight. Seven o’clock. You promised you’d be there.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You said that last time. Then you showed up an hour late.”
“This time I’ll be on time. I promise.”
“Sal. She’s twelve. She needs her father. Not your promises.”
“I said I’ll be there.”
Maria hung up. Still mad. Still resentful. Still married to him but barely.
Three years since the church and she still hadn’t forgiven him. Probably never would. But she stayed. For the kids. For the money. For whatever reason people stayed in broken marriages.
Sal looked at the screens again. At his empire. At everything he’d built. At the price he’d paid for it.
Worth it? He didn’t know anymore. Some days yes. Some days no. Today he wasn’t sure.
Marco called back. “Tony told me. I’m heading down now. Should know something by tonight.”
“Good. Call me when you know.”
“You got it, boss.”
Boss. Sal liked that word. Liked how it sounded. Liked what it meant. Power. Respect. Control.
He’d wanted it his whole life. Now he had it. Now he understood why Vince held onto it so long. Why he fought so hard to keep it. Because once you had it, once you knew what it felt like, you couldn’t imagine living without it.
His computer dinged. Email from his accountant. Monthly financial report. He opened it. Scanned the numbers.
Legitimate businesses: $340,000 profit this month.
Illegitimate businesses: $180,000 profit this month.
Total: $520,000. Split between him and Tony and five other guys who’d helped him take over.
His cut: $200,000. After taxes on the legitimate stuff. Before taxes on the illegitimate stuff because you didn’t pay taxes on things the government didn’t know about.
Two hundred grand a month. Two point four million a year. More money than his father made in a lifetime. More money than he’d ever imagined having.
And it still wasn’t enough. Never was. Never would be.
That was the thing about this life. The more you had, the more you wanted. The bigger you got, the bigger the target on your back.
He closed the email. Stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out at the city. His city. Philadelphia. Home.
Three years of peace. Three years of prosperity. Three years of building something that would last.
Or so he thought.
His phone buzzed. Text from Tony: Marco says the Russians. Out of Brighton Beach. Setting up in AC. Moving into booking and lending.
Sal stared at the message. Russians. That was new. That was different. That was potentially a big problem.
The Italian families had rules. Territories. Agreements. You didn’t move into someone else’s city without permission. Without paying tribute. Without showing respect.
The Russians didn’t care about rules. Didn’t care about respect. They just moved. Just took. Just did what they wanted.
He texted back: Find out who’s running it. Who’s in charge. What they want.
Tony: On it.
Sal put the phone down. Looked at the screens again. Everything still looked normal. But it wasn’t. Not anymore.
Someone was making a move. Someone was testing him. Seeing how he’d respond. Seeing if he was strong enough to protect what was his.
He was. He’d spent three years building this. Three years consolidating. Three years making sure everyone knew Philadelphia belonged to him.
He wasn’t going to let some Russians from Brooklyn take it away.
His phone rang again. Different number. He didn’t recognize it but he answered anyway.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Bonano? This is Viktor Romanoff. I believe we should talk.”
Sal’s jaw tightened. “About what?”
“About business. About opportunities. About how we can work together instead of against each other.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Viktor laughed. “Of course you don’t. That’s why your guy Marco is in Atlantic City right now asking questions about me. That’s why you’re wondering who’s taking your bookies. That’s why you’re calling your people trying to figure out what to do.”
“How do you know what I’m doing?”
“Because I make it my business to know. That’s how I’ve lasted this long. That’s how I’ve grown. By knowing. By plan
“And what do you want from me?”
“Just to talk. Just to see if we can find a way to both make money. Both prosper. Both avoid unnecessary conflict.”
“And if I don’t want to talk?”
“Then we don’t talk. And things happen the way they happen. And we both lose more than we gain. Is that what you want?”
Sal thought about it. Thought about wars. About violence. About how the church shooting had almost destroyed everything. About how he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t let it get that bad again.
“Where and when?” Sal said.
“Neutral ground. Somewhere we both feel safe. I’ll text you an address. Tomorrow. Noon. Just you and me. No guns. No crews. Just business.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long. Opportunities expire.”
Viktor hung up.
Sal sat there holding the phone. Thinking about Russians. About wars. About three years of peace that might be ending.
About how nothing good ever lasted in this life. How you were always one phone call away from chaos. One decision away from disaster.
He called Tony. “The Russians just called me. Guy named Viktor. Wants to meet. Tomorrow. Says we should work together.”
“You gonna go?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think if you don’t go, he takes it as disrespect. He pushes harder. He takes more. But if you do go, you’re legitimizing him. Giving him a seat at the table.”
“So what do I do?”
Tony was quiet for a second. Then: “You go. You listen. You don’t commit to anything. You figure out what he wants. What he’s willing to do to get it. Then you decide if you can work with him or if you need to go to war.”
“I don’t want another war.”
“Nobody does. But sometimes you don’t get to choose.”
They hung up.
Sal looked at his watch. Five-thirty. Hour and a half until his daughter’s recital. He should leave now. Get there early. Show Maria he meant it this time.
But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not with this hanging over him.
He made three more calls. To Jimmy Longo. To Carmine Russo. To Little Nicky’s younger brother who’d joined the crew after Nicky died.
Told them all the same thing: Russians in Atlantic City. Meeting tomorrow. Be ready for anything.
Then he left. Drove to Abington. To the school where his daughter was performing. Got there at six-fifty. Ten minutes early.
Maria was waiting outside. Saw him. Looked surprised.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I said I’d be here.”
“You did.”
They went inside. Sat in the auditorium. Watched twelve-year-olds play violin and piano and sing songs.
His daughter was good. Really good. Played Beethoven. Didn’t miss a note.
Sal watched her. Thought about how she was growing up. How he was missing it. How in ten years she’d be gone. Off to college. Off to her own life.
Thought about what she’d remember about him. What she’d tell her own kids someday. Whether she’d be proud or ashamed.
Thought about the choices he’d made. The life he’d chosen. The man he’d become.
After, they took pictures. His daughter hugged him. “Thanks for coming, Dad.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Yes, you would. But I’m glad you didn’t.”
They drove home. Maria in her car. Sal in his. Following her through the suburbs back to their house in Packer Park.
Normal family. Normal life. Normal everything.
Except for the Russians. Except for the meeting. Except for the war that might be coming.
He parked in the driveway. Sat there for a minute. Looked at his house. Looked at the lights on inside. Looked at the life he’d built.
Three years of peace. Three years of prosperity.
Tomorrow he’d find out if it lasted or if it all started falling apart again.
He got out. Went inside. Had dinner with his family. Pretended everything was fine.
But it wasn’t fine. And he knew it. And by tomorrow noon, everyone else would know it too.
The Russians were here. The war was coming. Whether he wanted it or not.
And Sal Bonano would have to decide: fight or negotiate. Kill or compromise. Survive or prosper.
Same choices he’d been making his whole life.
Just with higher stakes now. Higher costs. Higher risks.
He went to bed thinking about Viktor Romanoff. About Atlantic City. About how everything he’d built could disappear in a war he didn’t start but would have to finish.
Closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. Couldn’t.
Just lay there. In the dark. In the silence. In the calm before the storm.
Waiting for tomorrow. Waiting for noon. Waiting to find out if the next three years would be peace or war.
The clock ticked past midnight. New day. New problems. Same old life.
CHAPTER 2
Viktor Romanoff sat in the back office of the Deuces Wild Casino in Atlantic City, watching three monitors showing his operations in Brooklyn, and thinking about how Philadelphia was exactly what he needed to expand south.
The casino wasn’t his. Belonged to some corporation out of Las Vegas. But the loan sharking operation in the parking garage? That was his. The girls working the high roller suites? His. The sports book running out of the hotel bar? Also his.
Atlantic City was perfect. Gamblers everywhere. Desperate people. People who’d bet their mortgage payment on red seventeen. People who needed money fast and didn’t ask questions about interest rates.
His lieutenant, Dimitri Volkov, came in. Big guy. Six-three. Neck like a tree trunk. Former boxer back in Moscow. Now he broke bones for a living.
“The Italian is here,” Dimitri said. “Marco something. He’s asking questions at the Tropicana. About us. About our operation.”
“Let him ask. We’re not hiding.”
“You want me to talk to him?”
“No. Let him gather his information. Let him report back to his boss. That’s what he’s supposed to do.”
Dimitri sat down. Poured vodka from the bottle on the desk. Drank it straight. “You really think the Italians will negotiate?”
“I think they’re smart. And smart people negotiate. They don’t fight wars they can’t win.”
“What if they can win?”
Viktor smiled. “They can’t. We got more men. More money. More connections. We move product they can’t move. We got supply chains they can’t touch. They’re regional. We’re international. There’s no comparison.”
“Then why negotiate at all? Why not just take what we want?”
“Because taking costs money. Costs lives. Costs time. Negotiating costs nothing. We offer them something. They give us something. Everyone profits. Everyone lives. That’s good business.”
Dimitri didn’t look convinced. He was old school. Violence first, questions later. That worked in Moscow. That worked in Brooklyn sometimes. But in America, you had to be smarter. Had to think long term.
Viktor’s phone buzzed. Text message: I’ll meet. Tomorrow noon. Where?
Good. Sal Bonano was smart enough to take the meeting. That meant he wasn’t stupid. Stupid bosses didn’t last. Smart ones could be worked with.
Viktor texted back an address. A restaurant in Cherry Hill. Halfway between Atlantic City and Philadelphia. Neutral ground. Public enough to be safe. Private enough to talk business.
“Boss?” Dimitri said. “The shipment from Baltimore. It’s ready. You want me to move it?”
“How much?”
“Five kilos. Heroin. Pure. Not the street shit. The good stuff.”
“Where’s it going?”
“We got buyers in Philly. In Camden. In Trenton. They’re waiting.”
“How much are we asking?”
“Forty a kilo. Two hundred total.”
Viktor thought about it. Heroin was good business. Better margins than the loan sharking. Better than the gambling. Better than almost everything except guns, and guns brought too much heat.
“Move it. But be careful. The Italians control Philly distribution. If we start pushing heavy product into their territory without permission, that’s when they stop negotiating and start shooting.”
“So we wait until after the meeting?”
“We wait until after we know what they’re willing to give up. If they’re reasonable, we work with them. If they’re not, we move the product anyway and deal with the consequences.”
