Back to 1910: Building America's Greatest Mafia

"Boss," the man said quietly, as he opened the door, setting the box on the desk. "I finished counting our cut from the neighborhood rackets and the street saloons for the week. We hit two thousand, eight hundred and sixty dollars."

Barney leaned back, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he forced a calm, authoritative expression onto his face.

"Good work," Barney said smoothly. "Take ten dollars out of the box for yourself."

The counter’s eyes widened slightly. A ten-dollar tip was the absolute highest bonus Barney ever handed out, reserved only for his top money handlers.

"Thank you, boss," the man said quickly.

"Now take two thousand dollars straight over to Frank’s place at the usual address," Barney instructed, pointing a blunt finger at the box. "Make sure he knows I’m delivering real, solid cash—so he remembers who’s actually useful around here, unlike those crooked partners of his."

"I’ll take care of it right now, boss," the lieutenant nodded, scooping up the remaining cash and heading for the door.

Once the door closed, Barney took another slow sip of whiskey, staring out his dusty office window, desperately clinging to the belief that he was still the undisputed king of Greenwich.

A little while later, Barney stepped out onto the cobblestones, walking alongside Andy and another one of his men.

He wore a dark cardigan over his long-sleeved shirt, his coat slung casually over one shoulder, and his bowler hat tilted slightly forward.

As they strolled down the sidewalk, passing shopkeepers and pedestrians who quickly stepped aside, Barney smirked. He didn’t mind the lingering stares from the locals—in his head, fear and respect were the exact same thing, and the gazes meant he was famous.

​They turned down Perry Street and pushed through the doors of his usual saloon. The ambient noise in the front room dipped slightly the moment he walked in. Without Barney having to say a word, the bartender picked up a fresh bottle of Royal Spades from behind the counter and set it on the mahogany bar. Barney grabbed the neck of the bottle in passing and headed straight through the heavy curtain leading to the backrooms.

​The rear of the establishment was a crowded, low-lit gambling den. Uptown men in tailored suits sat around felt tables alongside local players, snorting lines of white powder, tossing back whiskey, and placing bets while women, young teenagers and mid 30’s moved between the tables.

​Barney walked past two customers who were tucking small paper packets of cocaine into their waistcoats and pushed open the door to his private office. Inside, a young associate was sitting at a desk, carefully sorting and checking white paper packages.

​"Did you get the inventory refilled?" Barney asked, taking a quick swig directly from the bottle.

​"Yes, boss," the young man said, looking up. "Henry and his crew refilled the white powder at all the saloons just yesterday."

​"Good," Barney said, taking a seat behind his desk. "What about our whiskey? Are we stocked up?"

​The young man fidgeted with his cuffs, his face going pale. "Y-yes, boss... except for Mugs, Indy, and the Paper Dagger. The whiskey stock at those three got stolen last night."

​Barney froze, his eyes narrowing. "What? Stolen? Are you for real right now?"

​"Y-yes, boss," the young man stammered, stepping back nervously. "Reggie and Peter’s crew are out looking around for the thieves right now."

​Barney slammed his fist onto the wooden desk, making the paper packages jump. "These fuckers! Nobody messes with my business! I already know exactly who did it. It’s Kid Yorke. That stupid fossil is green with jealousy over my liquor trade so he thinks he can just steal it out from under me."

​He pointed a finger at the young man. "When the Commission Boys pass through on their routes today, tell them we need an immediate resupply of whiskey. And get hold of Peter—I have things I need to say to those Commission Boys myself. We need to be on high alert for any of Kid’s men sneaking around. Those bastards move fast when there’s money involved."

​"Yes sir, right away!" the young man said, rushing toward the door.

​"Shout for Gresha before you go!" Barney bellowed after him. "I need to blow off some steam!"

​"Yes, boss!"

​Barney pulled his revolver from his belt holster, snapped open the cylinder, and double-checked the brass cartridges loaded inside. He muttered under his breath, "I don’t give a damn about Frank. If I prove you’re stealing from my business, old man, I’ll kill you myself right in front of him."

​A moment later, a young woman pushed open the door and stepped inside. Barney tossed the revolver onto the wooden table with a loud clatter and leaned back on the sofa.

​Meanwhile, over in Gansevoort Market, crate haulers and wagon drivers were shouting across the crowded lanes as buyers negotiated prices for fresh produce.

​Peter and Reggie walked casually along the side of the market street, completely unbothered by the noise around them.

​"So did Kid and his men actually take the bait?" Peter asked quietly, keeping his eyes on the passing wagons.

​"Safe to say they did," Reggie replied, hands shoved in his coat pockets. "Didn’t think they’d act this soon, honestly. It’s earlier than we thought. What about that letter I told you to send?"

​"Barney hasn’t called me in to talk about the Commission Boys yet," Peter said. "What about our flour business?"

​"My boys are busy selling it around Washington Square at night," Reggie said with a faint smirk. "We’re pulling in steady funds. I’m just glad those Commission Boys had the decency to give our tenement kids some real work. Gives them a chance to earn clean money instead of starving."

​"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Though I get the feeling Barney’s going to be furious about it. But, he won’t do anything to wreck his supply deal with Ricky, but he’s going to blow his top."

​"Peter! Hey, Peter!"

​A young runner named Billy came sprinting through the market crowd, ducking around a produce cart and stopping right in front of them, catching his breath.

​Reggie chuckled, clapping Peter on the shoulder. "Speak of the devil. Sounds like your turn up at bat."

​"Yeah," Peter sighed.

​"Best of luck, kid," Reggie said, stepping around him. "Hope you can handle him."

​Reggie continued down the street, disappearing into the market crowd.

​Peter turned to the breathing runner. "Billy, what is it now?"

​"Barney called for you!" Billy panted, wiping sweat from his forehead. "He wants to talk about the Commission Boys, and he’s completely out of his mind angry about the stolen whiskey."

​"As he should be," Peter said smoothly, keeping his voice entirely calm and showing no hint of what he knew. "We still don’t even know who did it yet."

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