The Shadow's First Blood

The next day, Carlyle slipped out of school and headed straight to Johnny Torrio’s restaurant. By nightfall, the place doubled as an illegal gambling den.

Johnny recognized him at once and greeted him with genuine warmth.

“You made it. Shadow, was it? Wait… how old are you this year?”

“…Fifteen.”

Carlyle straightened his shoulders and added three years to his age.

Johnny threw his head back and laughed heartily.

“That build of yours fooled me completely. All right, tell me what you want.”

“Money. And protection.”

“Bold little one. What can you possibly give me?”

“Information—on the cops, on politicians, on the movements of rival gangs.”

“Ho, information. You’ve brought me something rare.”

Working as a newsboy had taught him the faces of every kind of human. After a year of the same route, he could read people like open books: the cop who tipped his hat, the politician who looked the other way, the businessman who smiled too sweetly, the gangster who paid in small bills. Nobles treated their servants like furniture; the newsboys treated everyone else like air.

He knew which patrol was heading which way, which rival gang was eyeing which block. The scraps he gathered and the whispers he overheard became gossip that could be turned into real intelligence.

“Calling you Italian is a shame—such a waste of talent. All right. I’ll pay you in money. But…”

Johnny paused, eyes narrowing as he studied Carlyle.

“If you want our protection, you’ll have to put your life on the line for me and my family from now on. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Carlyle answered calmly.

By the following year, the Shadows had grown to nearly eighty men. The information network of downtown Manhattan was now entirely in Carlyle’s hands.

He had shot up in height, towering over six feet, and his voice had begun to deepen as he shed the last remnants of boyhood.

Whenever Johnny called, Carlyle ran—whether to deliver a message, break a jaw, or simply stand guard. Word spread through the underworld: the fearless, reckless boy who shadowed Johnny Torrio like a shadow of his own.

He learned boxing at the gymnasium run by Boss Paul Kelly, where crooked fights were nightly entertainment. Carlyle’s assigned duty was to watch the cops, but the real danger came from inside the Five Points Gang.

One of the gang’s most ruthless leaders had been hired to assassinate Paul Kelly on behalf of a rival outfit. Carlyle delivered the tip straight to Johnny.

The moment the leader stepped out to carry out the plan, Paul had his men ready. The fight ended in a single, brutal blow; the rival was finished.

After the arrest, Paul summoned Carlyle to his club.

Smiling in a sharp bow tie and tailored suit, the boss looked every inch the prosperous businessman.

“You’re still too young to run a territory, but if there’s something you want, tell me. Name it.”

Carlyle did not hesitate.

“I want one apartment in one of the buildings we manage in our district.”

Paul raised an eyebrow, then grinned.

“That’s all?”

“My partner Salvatore Romano wants to join the Five Points. He’s the man who delivered the information.”

“Good. Bring him around sometime.”

Carlyle bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Boss.”

While Carlyle’s strength grew, Edel grew thinner and more hollow-eyed. The debt had not shrunk; the loan-shark interest had added nearly a thousand dollars.

Collier’s Hook and the saloons belonged to the Eastman Gang, the old Five Points rival made up of Jewish toughs.

The owner of the brothel where Edel worked was also an Eastman man.

Carlyle had secured the apartment in a block no one in the Five Points dared touch. He decided it was time to move. Every extra day that passed only made Edel more broken.

To blend in, he bought a sharp suit and flat cap, then pressed a bowler hat low over his eyes and headed toward Collier’s Hook. Inside his jacket hid the stiletto knife Johnny had given him as a reward for saving the boss’s life, along with a lead-weighted blackjack.

Salvatore had repaid him for the tip by smuggling him into the Five Points. He waited at the corner of the next block with a small father’s wagon.

Carlyle walked past the bouncer who had once pressed a gun to his forehead. A year had changed him too much for the man to recognize the grown boy.

He claimed a table, ordered a whiskey, and casually asked the waitress.

“I’m looking for the countess.”

“Ha! Everybody knows she’s expensive. Our boss fancies her something fierce. He doesn’t let anyone near her without good money…”

She grumbled.

Carlyle clenched his teeth to keep from losing his temper. Calm. Cold. No mistakes like last year.

“Name your price.”

He slipped a dollar bill onto her apron. She smiled brightly and nodded.

“I’ll ask right away, mister!”

The whiskey glass was slippery with sweat. He kept his eyes on the room while he sipped, back prickling with unease.

Minutes later the waitress returned.

“Twenty dollars up front. The countess is busy just now, so go to the room at the far end of the hall in fifteen minutes. Pay the boss yourself when you’re done.”

As soon as she left, Carlyle rose and climbed the stairs.

He stood before the last door on the corridor, gripped the handle, and gave it a slow turn. It was locked. The only silent way was a sudden strike, but speed had to wait.

Carlyle ignored the muffled screams from inside and knocked lightly.

The door flew open.

“What the hell—?”

One-eyed Schmidt, shirtless and squeezed into the frame by his barrel of a belly, stopped mid-rant.

Carlyle feigned apology.

“Sorry—sorry. The waitress said to come up here…”

“Hah, you big lunk. I’ll finish this quick. Ten minutes and you can wait downstairs.”

“I came all this way. Triple the money if you finish now.”

Schmidt licked his lips and nodded.

“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute. Money first.”

He turned, leaving the door open. Carlyle slipped inside, closed the door, and at the same moment drew the blackjack and smashed it into the back of Schmidt’s skull.

Crunch.

The sound echoed through the room. Schmidt staggered, clutching his head.

Carlyle drove his fist into the twisted face—every ounce of fury, despair, and loss he had carried for years—until blood sprayed across his own cheek.

Schmidt crashed to the floor. Carlyle’s boot came down again and again. The wet crunch of bone snapping against the boards was almost satisfying.

He pulled the stiletto from his jacket and, with one swift stroke, ended the man who had once owned Edel.

Blood jetted from the severed artery.

Schmidt convulsed, foam on his lips, then went still.

Carlyle ground the severed flesh beneath his heel, then lifted his head.

Edel was chained to a post like a beast, staring at nothing, eyes empty. Scattered around her were tools she would never need again.

He crushed the key bundle from Schmidt’s belt and unlocked the chains. He found her coat on a hook, wrapped it around her shivering body, and only then did she blink and look at him.

Edel’s thin fingers brushed his face.

“Carlyle… blood on your face… did you hurt yourself? Are you all right?”

He bit down hard on the sob rising in his throat.

“I’m fine. We’re getting out of here.”

He dragged the unconscious Schmidt to the bed, killed the gas lamp on the wall, and poured the remaining kerosene across the mattress. Finally he tossed the kerosene lamp onto the bed. In an instant the room blazed.

Carlyle checked that the fire had taken hold, lifted Edel into his arms, and ran out shouting.

“Fire! Everyone out!”

He kicked the door shut behind them and roared as he passed the hallway. Guests in nothing but nightclothes spilled into the corridor.

Fire in a whorehouse was too common to make headlines, but Carlyle wove through the panicked crowd and slipped out of the hotel.

He helped Edel into Salvatore’s wagon and rode to the new apartment. He laid her gently on the sofa and filled the tub in the bathroom.

“Mother, the bath is ready.”

Carlyle washed and dressed her while she remained dazed. He carried her to the bed, took her limp hand in both of his, and swallowed the bitter tears.

“From now on I’ll take care of you. Just stay alive.”

That was the year Carlyle Walsh turned fifteen.