Back to 1910: Building America's Greatest Mafia

Early in the morning, long before the sun had fully cleared the industrial skyline, seventeen men aged sixteen to twenty-seven were lined up outside the new Hudson piers warehouse.

​Most of them were desperate, thin-faced street minions from Barney’s outfit, recruited discreetly through Peter and the other street captains. They stood in the damp morning chill, shifting their weight, looking around the quiet brick alleyway with cautious, uncertain eyes.

​The heavy double doors of the warehouse rolled open, and Danny stepped out into the doorway.

​"Alright, line up single file!" Danny called out, his voice calm, clear, and carrying easy authority. "Step inside, get your measurements taken, and put on the suits."

​As the men filed into the spacious warehouse, Danny’s staging crew began passing out sets of dark wool three-piece suits and flat caps—simple, durable uniforms that Ricky had prepared in bulk.

​"What’s the pay on this job, mister?" one of the younger recruits asked, adjusting his cap as he pulled the wool jacket over his broad shoulders. "We heard it was daily cash."

​"Daily wage is two dollars and seventy cents," Danny announced, standing near the inventory desk with a ledger open. "That includes four hours of overtime for the heavy loading."

​A murmur of disbelieving shock rippled through the seventeen men. Two dollars and seventy cents was an extraordinary daily sum for labor—more than three times what Barney ever let them keep from a day of extortion if they luckily given or if he was in the mood.

​"Overtime?" another recruit frowned, looking thoroughly confused. "What the hell is overtime?"

​Danny chuckled softly, leaning his hip against the wooden desk. "It means if you work past eight hours, the company pays you extra for every hour you give us. You do your job, you keep your hands off the stock, and you take home clean silver every evening."

​The recruits stared at him, some of them shaking their heads in quiet disbelief.

​"Why do we gotta wear these suits, though?" a stocky recruit asked, smoothing his new jacket. "We’re just hauling crates, ain’t we?"

​"Because you’re representing the company," Danny explained patiently. "Our shopkeepers don’t want dirty, coal-dusted thugs standing on their back stoops. You look clean, you act polite, and you follow your senior agent’s orders."

​"Man," one of the recruits whispered out of the corner of his mouth to his buddy. "Is this really Barney’s job? Or are we working for those commission boys?"

​"Who cares?" his friend muttered back, running his thumb over the clean wool sleeve. "Anything’s better than starving. I wish we could work for these guys forever."

​Near the center of the warehouse floor, two long wooden folding tables were set up with chairs. Danny’s staging crew brought out heavy iron pots of thick, steaming pork and vegetable stew, accompanied by stacks of fresh, crusty rye bread.

​"After you recieved and fitted your uniforms, take on bowl and bread each, sit down and eat." Danny shouted to the men. "The boss doesn’t like his workers hauling drayage on an empty stomach."

​The seventeen temporary workers didn’t need to be told twice. After they fitted their uniforms, they crowded around the tables, picking up spoons and devouring the hot stew like starved wolves. Two of Danny’s warehouse boys walked between the tables, pouring scalding coffee into tin cups for each man.

​Near the end of the first table, a young recruit sat with his hands trembling violently as he held his spoon, his face pale from days of barely eating.

​The warehouse boy pouring coffee noticed the boy’s shaking hands and filled his cup to the brim. "Take it easy, pal. There’s plenty of bread if you want a second piece."

​The recruit looked up, swallowing hard, a desperate, worried look in his eyes. "Hey... can I work for you guys permanently? For real?"

​The coffee server offered a sympathetic, pitying smile, shaking his head gently. "I can’t make that call, pal. You’d have to ask the boss. But don’t worry—as long as there’s wagons to load, we’ll have work for you every day."

​The recruit forced a faint, grateful smile, clutching his warm coffee cup with both hands.

​While the new field hands finished their breakfast, three black spring-wagons rolled into the wide loading bay. Driving the rigs were six senior commission field agents—experienced men chosen from the Syndicate’s original Greenwich and Midtown routes.

​Ricky had purposely arranged the new fleet so that two senior agents were assigned to each wagon. It was a calculated test of their coordination, giving each agent a chance to practice route leadership side-by-side with a peer, preventing petty rivalries before they were officially promoted to full Route Leaders.

​The temporary workers looked up from their stew, watching the six senior agents step down from the wagons in their immaculate, tailored black three-piece suits. The senior agents moved with an easy, unbothered confidence that commanded instant respect.

​"Alright," one of the senior agents called out, his voice sharp and professional. "Don’t rush your food. Finish your coffee, and then assemble outside by the tailgate."

​The seniors walked past the tables, heading toward the rear staging area.

​"Man," one of the temporary workers muttered, watching them go. "Why do those guys look so clean and scary at the same time?"

​His friend shrugged, taking a long sip of his hot coffee. "Because they’ve got money in their pockets, idiot."

​Before the recruits could finish their food, the side door clicked open, and Arthur Murphy walked into the warehouse. His broad shoulders filled his black suit, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

​"Alright, listen up!" Arthur’s deep, raspy voice boomed over the tables, silencing the room instantly. "Your job today is simple. You follow your senior agent’s orders to the letter. If you need to step away or handle something, you ask for permission first. Nobody leaves the route without a nod, or there won’t be a next time. Understood?"

​"Understood!" a few of the recruits called out.

​Arthur gave a single, firm nod, turned on his heel, and walked out to join his own wagon team for his morning Greenwich run.

​Upstairs, in the small, glass-windowed warehouse manager’s office overlooking the main floor, Ricky stood by the desk. Down below, he could see Danny’s staff organizing delivery logs and tallying inventory sheets.

​Ricky was holding a folded piece of paper—a report sent down by Owney Madden’s point man earlier that morning.

​"So," Ricky said, looking up from the page, "Owney moved his entire initial trial allotment of whiskey in three days?"

​Danny’s administrative assistant, a sharp-eyed young clerk, nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. His lieutenant brought a heavy leather pouch of cash two days ago. Madden is requesting another batch of order, they said they’ll be coming tonight for the goods. They’re specifically asking for more of our branded whiskeys."

​Ricky walked over to his desk, leaning his hip against the wood as he pondered the request.

​Owney Madden was running a massive distribution network up in Hell’s Kitchen. But if Madden pushed the exact same brands—Black Cap, Three Piece, and Royal Spades—into his saloons, it wouldn’t take long for Barney or Frank Knox to notice the identical bottles floating around the West Side. The Dusters would immediately realize Ricky was supplying their arch-enemy behind their backs. So Ricky had created a parellel brand of whiskeys.

For the cheap workingman’s rye—the base Black Cap formula—Ricky designed a bold red-and-white label featuring a sharp, crossed revolver and dagger over a dark rose. He named it Blood Rose.

​For the mid-tier Three Piece formula, he swapped the tailored-suit logo for a sleek, silver-trimmed label featuring the elegant, stoic side-profile of a Roman lady. He named it Albino’s Curse.

​And for the luxury, top-shelf Royal Spades formula, he replaced the ornate gold-foil card symbol with a rustic, light-brown label lined with white trim, depicting a heavy iron woodsman’s axe wedged deep into an oak stump. He named it Lumberjack’s Piss.

​Ricky chuckled softly as he remembered the designs. It was purely random, but luckily, it had turned out well.

​According to Madden’s report, a few veteran saloon patrons in Hell’s Kitchen had already argued over the taste, some swearing the new liquor tasted suspiciously similar to the fine stuff flowing down in Greenwich. But most of the patrons had fiercely rejected the idea, pointing to the bold new labels and insisting it was superior because it was a "pure American domestic blend," whereas the Greenwich liquor was marketed as an "imported European reserve."

​Ricky closed the report, a dry, deeply satisfied laugh escaping his lips.

​He had just created his own fierce commercial rival out of thin air, and both sides were going to pay him a fortune to drink it.

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