Malton Avenue, 'Cedar Tavern.'

  The tavern, an Irish-owned establishment, was bustling with activity around eight in the evening. A black car pulled up on the curb, its tinted windows barely concealing the muzzles of two guns.

  "Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!"

  The sudden burst of gunfire shattered the bar's windows, sending shards of glass flying. Bullets tore through the bar's interior, smashing bottles on the shelves and peppering the ceiling with holes. Panic ensued as patrons screamed, dropping to the floor to avoid the deadly hail of bullets.

  When the gunfire finally ceased, the car sped away, leaving chaos in its wake.

  After a tense few moments, the patrons cautiously lifted their heads. Realizing the danger had passed, they rushed out of the bar in a panicked frenzy.

  'Red Velvet Nightclub'

  A light drizzle began to fall, the neon lights reflecting off the puddles on the street, adding a hazy glow to the atmosphere. The Red Velvet Nightclub, a popular spot in the neighborhood, was under the control of the North Shore Gang. Three of their members, relaxed and laughing, exited the club, unaware of the danger lurking nearby.

  Suddenly, a group of men in dark trench coats emerged from a nearby car. The three North Shore members were caught off guard. They instinctively reached for their guns, but the attackers were faster.

  "Bang! Bang! Bang!"

  Several shots rang out, and the three men crumpled to the ground, blood pooling on the wet pavement. Dalton, one of the victims, was in his thirties and had led an attack on Alessandro just the day before. He had come to the club to celebrate, but his night of revelry ended in a pool of blood.

  Outskirts of Los Angeles

  In the northern outskirts, there was a farm well-known for hosting greyhound races every weekend. The Irish ran the operation, keeping over a hundred greyhounds. The weekly turnover was substantial, with profits often exceeding ten thousand dollars—a critical income source for the North Shore Gang.

  That day, however, visitors were greeted by a grim sight: many of the prized greyhounds lay dead. The person in charge immediately notified the gang's leader, Hemi Weiss. Furious, Weiss arrived at the scene with his deputy, Bugs Moran.

  Staring down at the lifeless bodies of the dogs, Weiss's anger boiled over. He crouched next to his favorite black greyhound, a champion that had won him numerous races.

  "Damn it! Damn it! Who did this?" he shouted, voice trembling with rage.

  The man in charge, visibly shaken, replied, "I don't know, boss. When I came in this morning, they were already like this."

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  "Find out who's behind this!" Weiss bellowed.

  The investigation revealed that someone had poisoned the dog food the night before, but the culprit remained unidentified. Although the perpetrator was unknown, Weiss had a hunch—it was likely the Austrian gang, given the recent tensions and skirmishes between the two groups.

  Looking at the dead dogs, Weiss felt the sting of the loss. Each greyhound had been meticulously selected, and the financial hit was substantial, with losses totaling between fifty and sixty thousand dollars. Without the dogs, his racing business would be halted, leading to further losses, potentially hundreds of thousands of dollars.

  The Irish were quick to retaliate. The very next day, they ambushed an Austrian truck delivering alcohol, unloading their guns into it as it parked outside a bar. The gunfire left two Austrian members dead, and the truck and bar in ruins.

  That same night, seven or eight men in dark coats stormed an Irish-run underground casino. Armed with pistols, shotguns, and machine guns, they burst through the doors, unleashing a torrent of bullets. The three guards at the entrance were gunned down instantly, and the gangsters rushed inside.

  "Ratatatatata!"

  The sound of machine guns filled the casino as people screamed and ducked for cover. Some casino staff attempted to fight back but were swiftly taken down. The gangsters, eyeing the pile of cash near the chips counter, forced a cashier to open the door. They stuffed two backpacks with roughly $70,000 to $80,000 and fled.

  The robbery left the casino in chaos, with terrified patrons vowing never to return.

  The conflict between the Austrian and North Shore gangs had become blatant, with skirmishes playing out almost daily across Los Angeles. The tension in the city was palpable, and local newspapers, like the Los Angeles Times, reported extensively on the recent violence, hinting at the brewing gang war.

  An elderly man familiar with Los Angeles's underworld muttered, "This reminds me of the conflict from seven or eight years ago, when the Austrian gang first arrived. It was the same back then—daily shootouts, businesses destroyed. The city was in fear for months until things finally settled down."

  He continued, "But now, after all these years of uneasy peace, it's starting again. Who knows what Los Angeles will look like when this is over?"

  A younger man asked, "Why don't the police do something?"

  "They do, sometimes. They arrest the shooters, but that's just a drop in the bucket. They can only prosecute individuals, not dismantle the entire gang. And frankly, the gangs aren't afraid of jail. In fact, keeping the gangs around benefits the local authorities."

  "How's that?" the young man inquired.

  The old man chuckled, "They use the crime reports to request more funding, better equipment, and more officers from the city council. Where there's chaos, there's profit. It's the way of the world, kid. The politicians know this game all too well."

  Meanwhile, Dani, a shadowy figure pulling strings behind the scenes, observed the unfolding chaos from his office on the 18th floor. Cigarette smoke curled around his head as he gazed out the window at the city below, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

  He had orchestrated this conflict, nudging the Irish into a series of attacks against the Austrian gang. When one of these attacks went awry, the Austrians retaliated, further stoking the flames of discord. Dani knew that once hatred took root, it was nearly impossible to uproot.

  Turning to his advisor, Burstein, Dani boasted, "Once hatred starts to grow, it's a hard thing to stop. The Irish and Austrians are locked in a cycle of revenge now. Even if they realize it's a trap, they can't back down. Weakness invites more trouble."

  He chuckled darkly, "In the end, they'll keep fighting until one of them falls. And when that happens, the survivor will be too weakened to fend us off. That's when we'll move in and take over Los Angeles."

  He laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet office, a sinister prelude to the violence yet to come.