iceknight90
Generally facetious
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The team should be thankful Mikhail doesn't subscribe to the Uday Hussein brand of sports team management.
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My brothers Keeper, an SI as the twin brother of Stalin (Reworked)
- Thread starter Alenco98
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Silver or Lead
New
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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Excerpt from the Wikipedia page on The Mangione Affair
The Mangione Affair is the name given to the events in the United States surrounding the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson by Luigi Mangione in downtown Manhattan, followed by Mangione's subsequent flight and defection to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C., where he sought and was granted asylum by Soviet Premier Vissarion Stalin.
-----
"No doubt the US is ahead of us in household and consumer goods, but the fact Bidets aren't mainstream in the your country shows you guys have a lot to learn from us in regards to sanitation. A Bidet is the sign of a civilized nation."
Mikheil Jugashvili speaking to Vice President Richard Nixon during the kitchen debate in 1959
-----
December 14, 1923
The Grand Hotel
Stockholm, Sweden
I stood by the window of the top-floor room, looking out over Stockholm. Not that this was the only room, of course, I'd rented out the entire floor for all the scum I was about to meet, along with the largest conference room the hotel had to offer. Officially, I didn't exist. Mikheil Jugashvili was back in Moscow, helping Dzerzhinsky run the Cheka. Here, I was Viktor Reznov, a Russian exile, a cossack, and a man about to sit down with the scum of American society.
The door opened. Patruchev entered first this time, Boris just behind him, and Rothstein trailing after both of them.
"It's been a while," I said, walking toward him, my tone considerably friendlier than the circumstances warranted. "Did you manage to get them all?"
Rothstein let out a sigh, not just any sigh, but the sigh of a man exhausted down to the bone. Mentally, physically, spiritually, all of it at once. "You don't want to know how many favors I called in to get this many people in one room. Trust me."
"Oh, I quite understand. You've been traveling a lot, from what my men tell me. Los Angeles two weeks ago, San Francisco before that, New Orleans, St. Louis, Miami, Chicago, Boston." I nodded approvingly. "You've been a busy man."
Rothstein just stared at me.
"Like I said." I continued, unbothered. "I'm not some small time criminal you're used to dealing with. I have the Soviet state standing behind me, and believe me, they're very invested in how this goes. My life and my reputation are on the line here just as much as yours, my friend, maybe more than your own."
"I prefer the word associate."
"How unfortunate." I shrugged. "I'd hoped we might at least build something resembling friendship, but so be it. Anyway, the others?"
"They'll be arriving shortly."
"Good. Wait for them in the conference room, I'll come down last. Keep them entertained, liquor, food, I even cleared out half of Stockholm's finest brothels for the occasion, though that's for later in the evening."
"You talk like you're the one running this."
"Well." I spread my good arm out. "I did rent out the entire hotel. Paid for the false papers, the travel, the food, the rooms, the women, every last detail here is running on my money and my organization. So tell me, am I not in charge?"
He gave me a look then, the kind that said you're far too clever for your own good. It reminded me of Joe, oddly enough. Rothstein didn't say much after that, leaving me alone with Boris and Patruchev.
"Are the guards in position?" I glanced at Patruchev.
"Yes, Comrade Jugashvili. They're in the conference room, orders given."
"Good. Patruchev, go join them, you'll be handling crowd control tonight." I turned to Boris. "You stay with me. My personal security's your job."
"Yes, sir."
I took a small chair, set it by the window, and sat watching the city below, I saw tiny figures moving under the evening lamps. No doubt their lives were richer than mine in every way that mattered. Friends. Lovers. A place to come home to that actually felt like home. Ever since Cuba, it had felt like something in me had gone missing. beyond even the loss of whatever autonomy I'd had thanks to my little diary. It was as if reality itself had leaned in close and whispered, Look at the life you had. You'll never have it again.
I didn't feel sad about it, strangely. Didn't even cry. It sat in me more like a scar, one that had frozen over long ago and stopped hurting the way fresh wounds do. And it wasn't all doom and gloom really. I had Elsa. My kids. The one on the way. Joe, whatever his flaws, was still my brother. Nadezhda. Even my old cop buddies, the ones I'd scooped up and put on payroll. I leaned back, running through lines from Narcos, Escobar, Gallardo, trying to recall the best bits for my pitch tonight. I ran through them again and again, until the door opened behind me.
Rothstein.
I stood and turned to face him. "They're here I take it."
"They're waiting on you."
"Good." I crossed the room. "Let's not keep them waiting any longer, then."
We left my suite and walked down to the conference room where they'd all gathered. Rothstein and I paused outside the door together. I looked up at it for a second, took a breath, and pushed it open.
Every eye in the room landed on me instantly. I didn't bother looking at any of them, I just walked straight to the seat at the head of the table, where a bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass sat waiting. I poured myself a drink, took a sip, and set the glass down.
"My apologies for the wait, gentlemen. I simply wanted everyone assembled before we got started, this is likely to take a while. But don't worry yourselves. Room, board, food, women, all arranged for the duration of your stay. Men too, if that's your preference, just let my people know discreetly." I rapped my knuckles twice against the table.
Several of my men filed in, carrying a stack of envelopes, and laid one in front of each guest.
"Open them, please. Take your time looking through the contents. Save your insults, threats, and questions for after."
One of them narrowed his eyes at me. "And who the hell are you to tell me that?"
I laughed. "Open it. You'll find out exactly who I am."
I smiled, just a little, I'd always had a soft spot for the brash, defiant ones. Watching them fold under pressure was half the fun. I watched him and the others tear into their envelopes, and there it was, that same look Rothstein had worn earlier. Terror. Confusion. Disgust, thick as tar.
"What the fuck is this?" the same man demanded, the one who'd dared talk back.
"That," I said, pointing at the folder in his hands, "is a little record of my work. I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name-" I leaned forward to check the small placard in front of him. "Ah. Mr. Masseria. As you can see, that's a modest sample of what I'm capable of." I looked around at the rest of them, letting my eyes settle on each face in turn. "The same goes for the rest of you fine gentlemen. I'll admit, I don't fully understand how American crime operates. But I do know one law that holds true everywhere in this world: strength, fear, and a demonstrated willingness toward violence are the only things men like us actually respect. So consider this a demonstration. Men, women, children, infants, even the family dog, no one will get spared when my associates and I come calling. Now." I settled back into my chair. "Now that we all understand exactly who I am, shall we begin?"
"As most of you already know, I've been working with Mr. Rothstein to ship alcohol into New York from the Soviet Union. Between July 1921 and March 1923, the Soviet state alone pulled in approximately sixty million dollars from that trade. Sixty million. And we've kept it running since—another nine months through this December adds roughly eighteen million more. Seventy-eight million total. That's New York alone." I let the number sit in the air for a moment. "And as Mr. Rothstein tells it, the market's flooded—which has left men like Mr. Masseria's Sicilian outfit understandably unhappy. So here's my proposal: I cut you all in. Not just New York, Chicago, Boston, St. Louis, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia, every major city on the map. The USSR has an ocean of liquor, gentlemen, and there's more than enough to go around."
I stood and let my eyes sweep the table. "But this doesn't come for free." I paused, savoring it. "I've done my homework, market research from your point of view. I know the Jews, the Irish, the Chinese, the Italians in this room can barely stand the sight of each other. I won't pretend the Soviet Union is some utopia, trust me, we manage about as much mutual tolerance back home as you all do here. But I have no interest in watching my customers shoot each other in the street and drag the Bureau of Investigation down on all our heads. So here's my offer, gentlemen, plain and simple: we form an organization. One that pools resources, trains soldiers, trades intelligence, and buys silence where silence needs buying. Mr. Rothstein handles day-to-day operations stateside. All you owe him is his expenses."
I began pacing slowly around my chair. "In return, you get several things. Mr. Rothstein arbitrates every territorial dispute between your organizations before it turns into a bloodbath on the sidewalk. Alcohol prices get fixed at an artificially high, standardized rate nationwide, every speakeasy sells at the same number. If some upstart competitor tries to undercut you, we drop prices in their neighborhood and lean on them until they fall in line, one way or another. Bribes, bail, blackmail, and any liaison work with American law enforcement or government, Rothstein handles all of it. And if anyone, anywhere, is foolish enough to touch us?" I let the pause hang. "Our federation handles that too. Think of this organization as the League of nations, but for American organized crime, except with more teeth."
Masseria looked at me for a long moment, then finally spoke. "You make an interesting offer, Mr. Jugashvili." Then his expression hardened into a glare. "But tell me, who exactly do you think you are? I'll give you credit for your manners. You paid for our passage, our hotel rooms, our food. But you really think that buys us? You really think I'll work under that fucking kike?" He jabbed a finger toward Rothstein. "And you think I'll take orders out of Moscow, on top of it?"
"We don't answer to outsiders," he continued, leaning forward. "Not Jews, not Irish, not Russians, not you. We Sicilians didn't build this family so we could hand it over to some foreign commissar and his kike errand boy. In Sicily, blood is blood. Family is family. We don't open our doors to strangers, and we sure as hell don't open our books to them either. We were willing to hear you out, perhaps cooperate in some limited manner, but this?" He spat the words like they tasted foul in his mouth. "You can dress it up however you like Mr. Jugashvili, but at the end of the day you're still an outsider asking men to bow to a man they've never met, for a country they'll never see."
"That's a relief, honestly." I smiled. "I was warned you Italians, Sicilians especially were stubborn. I'm glad to see the reputation's earned. Frankly, managing men as pigheaded as you and yours would've been more trouble than it's worth." I let that sit for a second before my tone shifted, colder now. "But I will warn you Mr. Masseria, once and only once. If you or your men so much as touch one of our speakeasies, one of our men, we take ten of yours in return. Kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours. And if you're foolish enough to go to war with us, we won't stop at your men. We'll start with Maria, your wife. Funny coincidence, actually, my first wife was named Maria too. Of course after her corpse is in the Hudson we will work our way down the list. Claire. Bernard. Vitina. James. Joseph. You should have paid attention to that folder before making empty threats, I am not above touching civilians."
I watched his knuckles whiten as his hands clenched on the table, murder written plainly across his face. "You're bluffing."
I laughed. "Check the folder again, pretty sure I sprinkled some women and children in there too. I'm telling you this once Masseria. I am not some criminal off the street. You are dealing with a state. And right now, I am handing you and your wops the chance to make an enormous amount of money." I lowered myself back into my chair. "You people love your terms, omertà, made men, loyalty, brotherhood. Fancy words all of it, all to cope with whatever nonsense you all get up to. But I know for a fact that every single man in this room would sell out his own brother for the right price, or to keep himself out of a jail cell. You're not the only one I did my homework on after all. Your subordinates were remarkably cooperative once the number got high enough." I laughed. "After all, now I know your wife loves to attend 9 am mass with your family and only a few guards. In my opinion, society and me to a lesser extent doesn't need your excuses, It only needs you to know your place and cooperate."
I smiled, finally, my chance to deliver the line I'd been sitting on all night.
"So let me remind everyone in this room exactly who they're dealing with. My name is Mikheil Vissarionovich Jugashvili. My eyes are everywhere. That means not one of you moves a single finger in this country without my knowing about it eventually. And if I wanted to, I could have any man in this room who refuses me thrown behind bars before the week is out." I snapped my fingers.
The doors swung open. Several of my men filed in, carrying suitcases, which they set down on the table and opened one by one. Inside: paperwork, stacks of it.
"This," I said, gesturing at the files, "is tax documentation. Filings, records, receipts, on every single business represented in this room. Now, I couldn't touch you all for murder, extortion, anything like that, not easily, anyway. But tax evasion? That, gentlemen, I can absolutely make stick. You're all sitting on fortunes and paying pennies on the dollar to the government for the privilege. I could mail every last page of this straight to Mr. William J. Burns at the Bureau of Investigation tomorrow morning and watch every man at this table go down for evasion. And while you're all rotting in courtrooms and cells alongside your top lieutenants, I could sweep in behind you, dismantle what's left of your organizations, and leave your families with absolutely nothing." I yawned, stretching back in my chair. "But I'm a reasonable man. A merciful man. A businessman, first and foremost." I reached down, drew a pistol from my side, and set it gently on the table between us. "So the choice is simple, gentlemen."
"Silver, or lead." I looked around. "Feel free to decide whether you're in or out. And if you're out, just remember, touching the organization means war."
The Mangione Affair is the name given to the events in the United States surrounding the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson by Luigi Mangione in downtown Manhattan, followed by Mangione's subsequent flight and defection to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C., where he sought and was granted asylum by Soviet Premier Vissarion Stalin.
-----
"No doubt the US is ahead of us in household and consumer goods, but the fact Bidets aren't mainstream in the your country shows you guys have a lot to learn from us in regards to sanitation. A Bidet is the sign of a civilized nation."
Mikheil Jugashvili speaking to Vice President Richard Nixon during the kitchen debate in 1959
-----
December 14, 1923
The Grand Hotel
Stockholm, Sweden
I stood by the window of the top-floor room, looking out over Stockholm. Not that this was the only room, of course, I'd rented out the entire floor for all the scum I was about to meet, along with the largest conference room the hotel had to offer. Officially, I didn't exist. Mikheil Jugashvili was back in Moscow, helping Dzerzhinsky run the Cheka. Here, I was Viktor Reznov, a Russian exile, a cossack, and a man about to sit down with the scum of American society.
The door opened. Patruchev entered first this time, Boris just behind him, and Rothstein trailing after both of them.
"It's been a while," I said, walking toward him, my tone considerably friendlier than the circumstances warranted. "Did you manage to get them all?"
Rothstein let out a sigh, not just any sigh, but the sigh of a man exhausted down to the bone. Mentally, physically, spiritually, all of it at once. "You don't want to know how many favors I called in to get this many people in one room. Trust me."
"Oh, I quite understand. You've been traveling a lot, from what my men tell me. Los Angeles two weeks ago, San Francisco before that, New Orleans, St. Louis, Miami, Chicago, Boston." I nodded approvingly. "You've been a busy man."
Rothstein just stared at me.
"Like I said." I continued, unbothered. "I'm not some small time criminal you're used to dealing with. I have the Soviet state standing behind me, and believe me, they're very invested in how this goes. My life and my reputation are on the line here just as much as yours, my friend, maybe more than your own."
"I prefer the word associate."
"How unfortunate." I shrugged. "I'd hoped we might at least build something resembling friendship, but so be it. Anyway, the others?"
"They'll be arriving shortly."
"Good. Wait for them in the conference room, I'll come down last. Keep them entertained, liquor, food, I even cleared out half of Stockholm's finest brothels for the occasion, though that's for later in the evening."
"You talk like you're the one running this."
"Well." I spread my good arm out. "I did rent out the entire hotel. Paid for the false papers, the travel, the food, the rooms, the women, every last detail here is running on my money and my organization. So tell me, am I not in charge?"
He gave me a look then, the kind that said you're far too clever for your own good. It reminded me of Joe, oddly enough. Rothstein didn't say much after that, leaving me alone with Boris and Patruchev.
"Are the guards in position?" I glanced at Patruchev.
"Yes, Comrade Jugashvili. They're in the conference room, orders given."
"Good. Patruchev, go join them, you'll be handling crowd control tonight." I turned to Boris. "You stay with me. My personal security's your job."
"Yes, sir."
I took a small chair, set it by the window, and sat watching the city below, I saw tiny figures moving under the evening lamps. No doubt their lives were richer than mine in every way that mattered. Friends. Lovers. A place to come home to that actually felt like home. Ever since Cuba, it had felt like something in me had gone missing. beyond even the loss of whatever autonomy I'd had thanks to my little diary. It was as if reality itself had leaned in close and whispered, Look at the life you had. You'll never have it again.
I didn't feel sad about it, strangely. Didn't even cry. It sat in me more like a scar, one that had frozen over long ago and stopped hurting the way fresh wounds do. And it wasn't all doom and gloom really. I had Elsa. My kids. The one on the way. Joe, whatever his flaws, was still my brother. Nadezhda. Even my old cop buddies, the ones I'd scooped up and put on payroll. I leaned back, running through lines from Narcos, Escobar, Gallardo, trying to recall the best bits for my pitch tonight. I ran through them again and again, until the door opened behind me.
Rothstein.
I stood and turned to face him. "They're here I take it."
"They're waiting on you."
"Good." I crossed the room. "Let's not keep them waiting any longer, then."
We left my suite and walked down to the conference room where they'd all gathered. Rothstein and I paused outside the door together. I looked up at it for a second, took a breath, and pushed it open.
Every eye in the room landed on me instantly. I didn't bother looking at any of them, I just walked straight to the seat at the head of the table, where a bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass sat waiting. I poured myself a drink, took a sip, and set the glass down.
"My apologies for the wait, gentlemen. I simply wanted everyone assembled before we got started, this is likely to take a while. But don't worry yourselves. Room, board, food, women, all arranged for the duration of your stay. Men too, if that's your preference, just let my people know discreetly." I rapped my knuckles twice against the table.
Several of my men filed in, carrying a stack of envelopes, and laid one in front of each guest.
"Open them, please. Take your time looking through the contents. Save your insults, threats, and questions for after."
One of them narrowed his eyes at me. "And who the hell are you to tell me that?"
I laughed. "Open it. You'll find out exactly who I am."
I smiled, just a little, I'd always had a soft spot for the brash, defiant ones. Watching them fold under pressure was half the fun. I watched him and the others tear into their envelopes, and there it was, that same look Rothstein had worn earlier. Terror. Confusion. Disgust, thick as tar.
"What the fuck is this?" the same man demanded, the one who'd dared talk back.
"That," I said, pointing at the folder in his hands, "is a little record of my work. I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name-" I leaned forward to check the small placard in front of him. "Ah. Mr. Masseria. As you can see, that's a modest sample of what I'm capable of." I looked around at the rest of them, letting my eyes settle on each face in turn. "The same goes for the rest of you fine gentlemen. I'll admit, I don't fully understand how American crime operates. But I do know one law that holds true everywhere in this world: strength, fear, and a demonstrated willingness toward violence are the only things men like us actually respect. So consider this a demonstration. Men, women, children, infants, even the family dog, no one will get spared when my associates and I come calling. Now." I settled back into my chair. "Now that we all understand exactly who I am, shall we begin?"
"As most of you already know, I've been working with Mr. Rothstein to ship alcohol into New York from the Soviet Union. Between July 1921 and March 1923, the Soviet state alone pulled in approximately sixty million dollars from that trade. Sixty million. And we've kept it running since—another nine months through this December adds roughly eighteen million more. Seventy-eight million total. That's New York alone." I let the number sit in the air for a moment. "And as Mr. Rothstein tells it, the market's flooded—which has left men like Mr. Masseria's Sicilian outfit understandably unhappy. So here's my proposal: I cut you all in. Not just New York, Chicago, Boston, St. Louis, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia, every major city on the map. The USSR has an ocean of liquor, gentlemen, and there's more than enough to go around."
I stood and let my eyes sweep the table. "But this doesn't come for free." I paused, savoring it. "I've done my homework, market research from your point of view. I know the Jews, the Irish, the Chinese, the Italians in this room can barely stand the sight of each other. I won't pretend the Soviet Union is some utopia, trust me, we manage about as much mutual tolerance back home as you all do here. But I have no interest in watching my customers shoot each other in the street and drag the Bureau of Investigation down on all our heads. So here's my offer, gentlemen, plain and simple: we form an organization. One that pools resources, trains soldiers, trades intelligence, and buys silence where silence needs buying. Mr. Rothstein handles day-to-day operations stateside. All you owe him is his expenses."
I began pacing slowly around my chair. "In return, you get several things. Mr. Rothstein arbitrates every territorial dispute between your organizations before it turns into a bloodbath on the sidewalk. Alcohol prices get fixed at an artificially high, standardized rate nationwide, every speakeasy sells at the same number. If some upstart competitor tries to undercut you, we drop prices in their neighborhood and lean on them until they fall in line, one way or another. Bribes, bail, blackmail, and any liaison work with American law enforcement or government, Rothstein handles all of it. And if anyone, anywhere, is foolish enough to touch us?" I let the pause hang. "Our federation handles that too. Think of this organization as the League of nations, but for American organized crime, except with more teeth."
Masseria looked at me for a long moment, then finally spoke. "You make an interesting offer, Mr. Jugashvili." Then his expression hardened into a glare. "But tell me, who exactly do you think you are? I'll give you credit for your manners. You paid for our passage, our hotel rooms, our food. But you really think that buys us? You really think I'll work under that fucking kike?" He jabbed a finger toward Rothstein. "And you think I'll take orders out of Moscow, on top of it?"
"We don't answer to outsiders," he continued, leaning forward. "Not Jews, not Irish, not Russians, not you. We Sicilians didn't build this family so we could hand it over to some foreign commissar and his kike errand boy. In Sicily, blood is blood. Family is family. We don't open our doors to strangers, and we sure as hell don't open our books to them either. We were willing to hear you out, perhaps cooperate in some limited manner, but this?" He spat the words like they tasted foul in his mouth. "You can dress it up however you like Mr. Jugashvili, but at the end of the day you're still an outsider asking men to bow to a man they've never met, for a country they'll never see."
"That's a relief, honestly." I smiled. "I was warned you Italians, Sicilians especially were stubborn. I'm glad to see the reputation's earned. Frankly, managing men as pigheaded as you and yours would've been more trouble than it's worth." I let that sit for a second before my tone shifted, colder now. "But I will warn you Mr. Masseria, once and only once. If you or your men so much as touch one of our speakeasies, one of our men, we take ten of yours in return. Kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours. And if you're foolish enough to go to war with us, we won't stop at your men. We'll start with Maria, your wife. Funny coincidence, actually, my first wife was named Maria too. Of course after her corpse is in the Hudson we will work our way down the list. Claire. Bernard. Vitina. James. Joseph. You should have paid attention to that folder before making empty threats, I am not above touching civilians."
I watched his knuckles whiten as his hands clenched on the table, murder written plainly across his face. "You're bluffing."
I laughed. "Check the folder again, pretty sure I sprinkled some women and children in there too. I'm telling you this once Masseria. I am not some criminal off the street. You are dealing with a state. And right now, I am handing you and your wops the chance to make an enormous amount of money." I lowered myself back into my chair. "You people love your terms, omertà, made men, loyalty, brotherhood. Fancy words all of it, all to cope with whatever nonsense you all get up to. But I know for a fact that every single man in this room would sell out his own brother for the right price, or to keep himself out of a jail cell. You're not the only one I did my homework on after all. Your subordinates were remarkably cooperative once the number got high enough." I laughed. "After all, now I know your wife loves to attend 9 am mass with your family and only a few guards. In my opinion, society and me to a lesser extent doesn't need your excuses, It only needs you to know your place and cooperate."
I smiled, finally, my chance to deliver the line I'd been sitting on all night.
"So let me remind everyone in this room exactly who they're dealing with. My name is Mikheil Vissarionovich Jugashvili. My eyes are everywhere. That means not one of you moves a single finger in this country without my knowing about it eventually. And if I wanted to, I could have any man in this room who refuses me thrown behind bars before the week is out." I snapped my fingers.
The doors swung open. Several of my men filed in, carrying suitcases, which they set down on the table and opened one by one. Inside: paperwork, stacks of it.
"This," I said, gesturing at the files, "is tax documentation. Filings, records, receipts, on every single business represented in this room. Now, I couldn't touch you all for murder, extortion, anything like that, not easily, anyway. But tax evasion? That, gentlemen, I can absolutely make stick. You're all sitting on fortunes and paying pennies on the dollar to the government for the privilege. I could mail every last page of this straight to Mr. William J. Burns at the Bureau of Investigation tomorrow morning and watch every man at this table go down for evasion. And while you're all rotting in courtrooms and cells alongside your top lieutenants, I could sweep in behind you, dismantle what's left of your organizations, and leave your families with absolutely nothing." I yawned, stretching back in my chair. "But I'm a reasonable man. A merciful man. A businessman, first and foremost." I reached down, drew a pistol from my side, and set it gently on the table between us. "So the choice is simple, gentlemen."
"Silver, or lead." I looked around. "Feel free to decide whether you're in or out. And if you're out, just remember, touching the organization means war."
iceknight90
Generally facetious
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God the future of Mafia and organised crime movies is gonna be wild in this timeline.
He-Who-Is-I
Nefarious
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it doesn't hit the same as plata or plomo
BuilderOne
Getting sticky.
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Imagine the reactions and the meme on the Internet. "The Soviet are out of line... but they are right!"
Fun fact: in Viet Nam, we have various jokes of the same caliber.
Well, we can always drop it in Russian.
Also, the part about tax evasion just sounds... funny. Like, really. The mafia boss downfall is not because of some DEA or BoI operations, but due to the IRS.
Generic Edgy Zoomer
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
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IRL it's how they got Al Capone, they figured it would be easier than anything else to prove and decided it was good enough. They only got 5 convictions out of 22 charges, but it was enough to sentence him to 11 years, and by the time he got out he was so fucked up from neurosyphilis it didn't matter.
Siryapsalot
"Chill I'm not an Unc just turned legal"
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"The Mangione Affair is the name given to the events in the United States surrounding the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson by Luigi Mangione in downtown Manhattan, followed by Mangione's subsequent flight and defection to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C., where he sought and was granted asylum by Soviet Premier Vissarion Stalin."
Mbappé I can believe the dictator will fuck the butterflies before they touch him but who the HELL!!!!!!!!!!! is being the TVA here?
Mbappé I can believe the dictator will fuck the butterflies before they touch him but who the HELL!!!!!!!!!!! is being the TVA here?
iceknight90
Generally facetious
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View: https://youtu.be/sMk-HPBF6Mw?si=ZJsBb0qDmv81Rk-n
The IRS coming after Prohibition Era gangsters for tax evasion.
Qwerty1234
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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If the Author did a pov chapter from the perspective of a Netflix crew interviewing a Witness from this conference 60 years in the future. Like the Intro scenes from Band of Brothers. The old man now, a young Lt of a crime family then, Saying how initially he wasn't scared, even after reviewing the envelope, the news clippings, the photos.... he didn't quite believe it. But after the ww2, and the film footage that came out of it... He has trouble believing sometimes that he ever survived being in the same room as the Butcher of Berlin.