Did Dummy O’Connell Just Start a War No One Can Survive?
The Fall of Dummy O'Connell - Part 2 | Marching to Hell |
This is Part 2 of a four-part crime saga.
Dummy O’Connell thinks he’s on the rise, but Chicago doesn’t crown fools—it buries them.
The O’Connell crew piled into the car, their leader grinning like a lunatic.
With zeal and reckless speed, they darted toward the East Side—toward Joey Russo’s place.
A bar.
Joey Russo. The name alone made wise men think twice.
An Italian so feared even the Irish, Jews, and American boys knew better than to cross him.
To hit his joint was suicide.
It meant war.
And the Russo Family?
They hadn’t lost a war in ten years.
A long silence fell inside the cab.
No one spoke.
A bead of sweat trickled down the temple of one crew member, his fingers clenching tight around his gun, knuckles white. Like he was bracing for the worst.
Another glanced at the death grip, sensing it. Not fear—anxiety.
They knew this wouldn’t end well.
But they were loyal. Steadfast. Dummy’s men.
As they rounded the corner, just blocks from Russo’s bar, Dummy twisted in his seat, eyes blazing.
He threw his arms wide, rallying his men.
“This is IT, boys! Heaters out—NOW! THIS is where WE get our STRIPES. MAKE ‘em proud!”
The crew soaked in his words—doubt flickering, but the hunger for respect burning hotter.
One by one, they pulled their irons, steel flashing in the dim streetlights.
Elbows braced against the window frames.
Barrels pointed out.
The bar loomed ahead.
A whisper slithered through Dummy’s mind.
"Yer a wild dog, Dummy. Always bitin’ at the feckin’ leash."
Mickey O’Malley’s voice.
Not a soul on the street.
Perfect.
Through the bar’s windows, silhouettes moved—shifting shapes of men pacing, talking, plotting.
A hit on O’Malley?
Or just business as usual?
Didn’t matter.
They were competition.
Adversaries. Nuisances. Obstacles.
The gateway to gangster glory—the final offering before an Irish crew could claim its place in blood and fear.
For the first time, Dummy started to think.
His hand snapped out, gripping the driver’s arm.
“Whoa, whoa—hold up, Billy! Got me an idea.”
Before anyone could protest, Dummy threw the door open and jumped out.
His crew shifted uneasily, shuffling in their seats.
A few muttered curses, but no one dared stop him.
They didn’t want their fearless leader getting himself lit up like a feckin’ Christmas tree.
But Dummy?
He jogged forward, careful on the wet, icy street, boots crunching over slush.
He reached the sidewalk, then crept up to the glass pane covering the main entrance.
Peering in, he squinted through the frost.
Russo’s men.
But something was off.
One of them was getting dressed in a Santa suit, the others helping him adjust the beard.
In one of the far, shadowed corners of the speakeasy, a slick-haired, dark-skinned Italian in his thirties lounged at a bar table, mustache neat, suit sharper than a razor.
Newspaper in hand, feet kicked up like he owned the joint—because he did.
Nothing about him looked out of place. He wasn’t watching the room. The room was watching him.
Dummy’s brow furrowed.
“What in the feck am I lookin’ at?”
The men started jivin’ with the Santa dresser, pokin’ him in the ribs, thumbs up like pistols, laughin’ like schoolboys.
Dummy stared, eyes narrowin’. He couldn’t feckin’ believe it.
They’re plannin’ somethin’. He just knew it.
“This eejit piece o’shite thinks he’s gettin’ one over on me,” he muttered to himself, jaw clenched.
This’s a feckin’ job on O’Malley—and us! The feckin’ nerve, usin’ the holy days for some scumbag hit!” Dummy snarled, breath hot with fury.
“I’ll show those cocksuckin’ bastards.”
He didn’t need proof. Just rage—and that was plenty.
He sprinted back toward the car, nearly losing his footing, slippin’ and skippin’ over icy patches, dodgin’ mounds of snow like a madman on fire.
His face twisted—part giddy, part terrified.
He lunged to the passenger side, stuck his head in the window, eyes wild.
“Boys—they’re plannin’ somethin’. Somethin’ with a feckin’ Santa suit and all that shite.”
“We hit ‘em NOW—‘fore they hit us!”
The crew shifted in their seats, unease thick in the air. They were strugglin’ to look calm, but doubt had already crept in.
“Yeah, Connie?” one of them asked, voice tight.
“Feck yea, pal! We do this NOW—‘fore they know what hit ‘em,” Dummy barked, hunching over the front seat.
He yanked out the Tommy, then spun on his heel—his long tweed coat flaring wide behind him like a flag whipped by the wind.
The crew sprang out from the backseat, boots thudding in the snow.
Dummy led from the front, motioning them to hang back as he crept toward the speakeasy’s windowpanes.
He crouched low, moved to the main glass door—still locked—and gave a quick, sharp rap.
Then he flattened against the adjacent brick wall.
Inside, all movement stopped. Heads turned toward the entrance.
One of the men approached. Unlatched the door.
He cracked it open—looked left. Froze.
Eyes wide.
Oh, shite.
He scrambled to slam it shut—
But Dummy barreled through, shoulder-first, busting it open—
—and opened fire.
BRAT-BRAT-BRAT-BRAT—TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The crew, still crouched by the windows, lit up the room.
Gunfire swept the bar like a tidal wave.
Screams. Cries. Wood splintering. Bottles exploding.
Somewhere inside, a man—sounded like Russo—shouted orders in Italian, voice ragged with panic.
But the O’Connell crew didn’t stop.
They dumped every last round into the building—until the Tommy drums clicked empty.
Dummy’s gloves sizzled against the barrel. The heat off the drums kissed he and his crew’s palms, stinging through the leather after their Tommy’s smoked from the roaring. Their hands are now slick with sweat and powder.
The crew scrambled back into the Buick, smoke still trailing from the mouths of their barrels.
Dummy slammed the door, breath ragged, eyes wide with thrill.
The car peeled off, tires screaming on slush and ice.
Then it hit.
From behind them—a sound tore through the night.
A woman’s scream.
Not just grief—something deeper. Animal. Mutilated.
A cry so raw it pierced bone, like her soul had been yanked from her through her womb.
The crew fell silent.
Then—another voice. Hoarse. Broken. Raging.
From the bar’s wreckage, they heard it echo across the block in furious Italian:
“Mio figlio! Mio figlio! L’hanno ucciso! Hanno ucciso il mio ragazzo!”
My boy! My boy! They killed my boy!
Russo.
His voice didn’t shake—it split the night open.
And in that moment, the O’Connell crew knew.
They hadn’t just started a war.
They’d killed the devil’s heir.
Dummy snickered.
Not a giggle. Not relief.
A savage, cracked snicker—like something turned black inside him, so dark even a black hole would not take it in.
A divine madness the Devil himself would envy.
“You hear that, lads?” he snarled, twisting in his seat, eyes glinting like broken glass.
“We’re feckin’ legendary. Mikey Collins.”
The crew said nothing.
Stared forward—stone-faced, locked in.
Not proud. Not celebratin’.
Just bracin’.
For what was comin’.
Michael Vecchio was five.
He didn’t understand speakeasies. He didn’t understand gang wars.
He just knew Santa was coming.
He begged his mother to let him inside—the place where the liquor stank, the women smiled too much, and his father, Russo, sat like a ghost at the back table.
He had one wish.
“I want Mommy and Daddy to be together forever.”
He never got to say it.
Because forever ended in gunfire.
They found him curled beside the shattered table, clutching a toy car in one hand and a candy cane in the other.
And the sound his mother made when she saw him?
It wasn’t a scream.
It was the death of something sacred.
She never looked at Russo again.
The legend of Dummy O’Connell just got darker.
A devil’s heir lies dead. Chicago cries for blood.
And Dummy? He laughs.
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Part 1 of The Fall of Dummy O’Connell — The Wild Dog
Part 3 of The Fall of Dummy O’Connell — Trial by Mob — drops next Friday.
Stick around. It only gets uglier from here.
Fast-paced and action-packed. I could see it happening. The death of Russo's five-year-old son was a stunning revelation.