This Day in Mafia History
Hey, listen up, pal! It’s friggin’ mind-blowing, y’know? Practically every freakin’ day of the year is tied to some important “Family” shenanigan. I mean, c’mon, you got your typical hits, your busts, those unfortunate suckers who didn’t fare too well in court, or maybe they just mysteriously vanished into thin air (Hey, Tony, where the hell are ya?). But hey, it ain’t all doom and gloom, capisce? We got some of The Boys tyin’ the knot, and others gettin’ sprung from the joint. And let me tell ya, we got these huge-ass meetups goin’ on right here too. Ya know, life’s a rollercoaster in this business.
So check it out. We got this fancy calendar thingy, right? It’s got all these tiny icons, so even you can understand what the hell’s goin’ down. And it’s packin’ all the juicy details about what went down on those dates. Keep your eyes peeled, and don’t ask too many damn questions. Got it? Good.
May
May 2, 1938—blood hit the pavement in the Motor City when Joe Tocco, a big-time Detroit mobster, got smoked by none other than Joseph Zerilli. It wasn’t no accident—Zerilli moved in like a shadow, took care of business, and snatched the whole operation right out from under Tocco's cold, lifeless grip. One bullet, one boss gone, and just like that, the streets whispered a new name—Zerilli ran Detroit now, and everybody knew it.
May 2, 1953—Meyer Lansky, the Mob’s financial wizard, took a little vacation courtesy of the state, doing a three-month stretch in a New York joint for illegal gambling. But don’t get it twisted—this wasn’t no fall from grace. Lansky played it cool, took the rap like a pro, and walked out with his empire untouched and his books still cookin’. The feds thought they clipped his wings, but all they did was give the man a smoke break from counting stacks.
May 2, 1957—bullets flew in Manhattan when Vincent “The Chin” Gigante tried to send Frank Costello to the grave on orders straight from Vito Genovese. The hit was sloppy—The Chin missed, but the message landed. Costello, old-school and sharp as ever, took the brush with death as his cue to bow out quiet. He walked away alive, but he handed the reins over, making room for Genovese to slide into the top seat. One shot didn’t kill the man, but it killed his reign—Costello stepped down, and the underworld shifted.
May 4, 1942—something slick went down in the NYPD files, like ghosts slipping through the cracks. Eight days before Anthony "Tony Romero" Romanello got pinched, his WANTED notice vanished—poof—right alongside big names like Albert Anastasia, Jack Parisi, James Ferraco, and Vincent Mangano. No explanation, no trail, just silence and smoke. Somebody upstairs pulled strings, greased palms, or burned pages, 'cause you don’t just erase that kind of heat by accident. It wasn’t luck—it was power playing chess behind the curtain, and the streets felt it.
May 5, 1899—somewhere in the cold grit of Russia, Jacob "Gurrah" Shapiro took his first breath, and the streets didn’t even know what was coming. Born into hard times, he crawled outta the dirt and into the muscle game, bringing that raw, unshakable fire to New York’s underworld. He’d grow up to break bones, collect debts, and run rackets with a steel stare that said more than words ever could. From the frozen East to the concrete jungle—Gurrah was born, and the game would never be the same.
May 7, 1929—Albert Anselmi and John Scalise, two tough hitters who once rode high with the Chicago Outfit, got their last taste of life in a dark room with Al Capone. Word is, they were plotting to take out the boss, but Capone wasn’t the type to let betrayal breathe. He played it cool, wined and dined 'em—then the party turned bloody. Capone and his boys beat 'em down old-school, no mercy, no second chances. That night, the message was loud: you cross the Big Fella, you don’t get a goodbye—you get a bullet and a body bag.
May 8, 1940—the courtroom lit up with the stink of blood and betrayal as trials kicked off for Murder, Inc. hitters Frank Abbandando, Harry Maione, and Harry “Pittsburgh Phil” Strauss over the brutal rub-out of George Rudnick. But by the next day, Strauss got yanked from the case—fast. Headlines screamed he was ready to flip, spill guts to save his own. The streets buzzed—one of their own thinking about singin’? That wasn’t just dirty, it was dangerous. When a killer talks, the whole house of cards starts to shake, and everyone knew the fallout was coming.
May 9, 1929—Meyer Lansky, the Mob’s quiet genius with ice in his veins and numbers in his blood, made it official with Anna Citron. No headlines, no limos—just vows between a man who moved millions from the shadows and the woman who stood by while he built an empire brick by bloody brick. While bullets flew in the streets and bosses played chess with bodies, Lansky said “I do” and kept building his kingdom, one dollar and one secret at a time. Love and loyalty—Mob style.
May 10, 1939—Sam "Tootsie" Feinstein said he wanted out, told a few too many he was done with the life, ready to go straight. That kinda talk don’t sit well in Brooklyn. He vanished like a whisper, last seen breathing next to none other than Charlie “The Bug” Workman—bad company for a man lookin’ for redemption. His widow, Elsie, got greased with a neat $50 a week to keep her lips zipped, moved to Florida, played the clueless act. But the streets don’t forget, and neither did Burton Turkus. Years later, Allie Tannenbaum drops a bomb—home movies show Elsie living it up seaside with Workman and his crew. Boom—perjury charges hit, and the story of Tootsie’s vanishing act turned from mystery to Mob soap opera, dirty and dripping with betrayal.
May 10, 1906—Brooklyn got itself a future butcher when Abraham "Abe" Reles, better known on the streets as “Kid Twist,” came into the world. Born into the grind, raised in the tenements, Abe wasn’t made for no nine-to-five—he was built for contracts, cold steel, and payback. He’d grow up to run with Murder, Inc., slicing through the underworld like a switchblade in the dark. From the cradle to the crime scene, Kid Twist was trouble wrapped in a Brooklyn accent, and the streets would bleed remembering his name.
May 11, 1920—James “Big Jim” Colosimo, king of Chicago flesh and flash, got dropped right inside his own restaurant, a final course served hot with lead. Word on the street? Frankie Yale pulled the trigger, flown in special for the job, doing a solid for his pals Johnny Torrio and a rising young hitter named Al Capone. Big Jim didn’t wanna play ball with the bootlegging game—too old-school, too loud—and that made him dead weight. Torrio wanted progress, Capone wanted power, and Yale delivered the message—one bullet, one boss gone, and the Chicago underworld officially under new management.
May 11, 1937—Louis "Lepke" Buchalter was cleaning house the only way he knew how—through blood and whispers. Working the angles with Albert Anastasia and Louis Capone, Lepke made sure anyone even thinking about talking got silenced permanent. That day, his Murder, Inc. killers—Frank Abbandando, Harry Maione, and Harry Strauss—caught up with loanshark George "Whitey" Rudnick. They didn’t just take him out—they strangled him, crushed his skull, and carved him up with 63 stabs, just to make sure the message stuck. But someone saw—Joseph Libito. So Lepke sent Vito Gurino to shut him up too. Problem was, Libito caught the scent of death and begged for a cell before a casket. When Gurino paid two little visits to jail, Libito cracked, called his lawyer, and suddenly, the murder of Whitey Rudnick wasn’t so buried anymore. The game got messy, and Lepke's house of knives started to wobble.
May 11, 1937—Ferdinand “The Shadow” Boccia ran outta luck, and this time, the house didn’t just win—it buried him. Vito Genovese, cold and calculating, called the shot, and his boys Willie Gallo and Ernest “The Hawk” Rupolo answered. The Shadow thought he could shake down Genovese over a rigged card game—big mistake. Genovese don’t play games, and Boccia’s body was the receipt. Gallo and The Hawk made him disappear, no noise, no trace—just another whisper in the dark. That day, The Shadow faded for good, and Genovese proved why he ran the streets with fear as his right hand.
May 12, 1942—Charlie “Lucky” Luciano, the kingpin who built the modern Mafia like it was his personal empire, got shuffled from the icy walls of Clinton up in Dannemora to Great Meadow in Fort Ann. No freedom, just a new set of bars and a different view of the sky. But Lucky didn’t sweat it—he was still pulling strings from the inside, making moves while locked down. A prison transfer for most guys means time just drags different—but for Luciano, it was just another square on the chessboard, and the game was still his.
May 12, 1942—Cops finally nabbed Tony Romanello, a ghost tied to the Panto hit and blooded deep into Mafia lineage—cousin to Gus Caminiti, uncle to future Bonanno bruisers Alphonse and Joseph Indelicato. They booked him as a vagrant, just a placeholder while they figured out what to do with him. O'Dwyer's office got the call—crickets. No one showed, no questions asked. A Bay Ridge magistrate let him out on bail like it was a parking ticket. Tony told the family he was off on a “business trip” to the racetrack. He never came back. Just vanished. Another wiseguy swallowed by silence, and the streets never said a word.
May 13–15, 1929—Atlantic City wasn’t just booze and broads that week—it was the Mafia’s throne room. Frank Costello and Charlie “Lucky” Luciano called the shots, gathering the country’s top bosses under one roof like it was a royal summit of sin. Out on the Boardwalk, they smoked, drank, and carved up the future of organized crime like a Sunday roast. Turf was discussed, hits were greenlit, and the old-school mustache petes got told their time was up. The conference was calm on the surface, but underneath, it was all power plays and quiet threats. That weekend, the Mafia got modern—and it was Luciano and Costello holding the knife.
May 14, 1956—The "Prime Minister of the Underworld," Frank Costello, finally got clipped—not by bullets, but by the IRS. Convicted of tax evasion, the feds threw the cuffs on him and handed down a stretch in federal prison. After years of running rackets, greasing politicians, and ruling the streets with a handshake and a smirk, Costello got brought down by unpaid taxes—death by decimal. No witness flipped, no rival took the shot—just Uncle Sam, counting coins and cracking skulls the legal way. The king didn’t fall in a hail of gunfire, but in a courtroom, wearing a suit instead of a shroud.
May 15, 1940—New Orleans, the Big Easy, just made it easy for Frank Costello and his right-hand man Phil Kastel. Both were staring down tax evasion charges, but the jury didn’t blink—came back clean. Acquitted. Just like that. Costello, the smooth-talking shot-caller, walked out grinning, untouchable once again. The feds tried to catch him slippin’ on the books, but Frank had the game too tight, the papers too pretty, and the courtroom dancing to his tune. That day, Lady Justice took a bribe and lit a cigar.
May 16, 1929—Al Capone, king of Chicago, gets picked up in Philly like some street punk. The charge? Packin’ heat—concealed piece in his coat. Word is he wanted a little vacation from the heat back home, so he let the cops grab him easy. Couple nights in a cushy cell beat a bullet in the back. Capone knew the game—better to do time on his terms than end up face-down in an alley. Philly booked him, the press had a field day, but Big Al just smiled. Even locked up, he was still the boss.
May 17, 1966—Joe Bonanno, the man they called "Joe Bananas," strolled back into the spotlight after 19 months in the wind. No raid, no cuffs—he walked into Foley Square Courthouse like it was a reunion, not a surrender. The Feds had been chasing shadows, but Bonanno played ghost like a pro, hiding while his empire twisted in the wind. Then—boom—he shows up calm, clean-shaven, like nothin’ happened. The boss was back, and the streets held their breath. When Bonanno moved, it wasn’t just a surrender—it was a power move in a tailored suit.
May 19, 1936—Buffalo got bloody when a bomb meant for Nicholas Longo missed the mark and blew up his wife Angela instead—who just happened to be the sister of boss Steve Magaddino. One wrong move, one bad wire, and boom—family turned to ashes. The streets whispered it was a message gone sideways, but in this life, mistakes cost blood. Magaddino’s clan took the hit, and the don lost more than just muscle that day—he lost blood. And when a boss buries his own, someone’s head usually follows.
April 27, 1941—Max "Boo Boo" Hoff drops dead in Philly, not from a bullet, not from a beef, but from his own damn heart giving out. The rackets, the booze, the fast living—guess it all caught up to him. No headlines, no shootouts, just the quiet end of a once-big man in the game.
May 23, 1934—Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, the devil-may-care sweethearts of crime, got lit up like a pinball machine by Federal Marshals in a dusty Louisiana ambush. No warnings, no sirens—just steel rain tearing through their Ford. They’d been robbing banks, gunning down cops, and turning headlines into legends, but the law caught up with 'em the only way it knew how—hot lead and no mercy. By the time the smoke cleared, the car was Swiss cheese and the outlaw love story was over. Bonnie and Clyde went out the way they lived—fast, loud, and full of holes.
May 23, 1940—Frank Abbandando, cold-blooded killer from Murder, Inc., took the stand and didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in and whispered a threat to Judge John Fitzgerald like it was just another hit being lined up. The jury didn’t blink—they dropped the hammer on him and his co-defendant, Harry Maione, with twin death sentences. No mercy, no deals. The courtroom was ice-cold that day, and Frankie’s smirk didn’t save him. Appeals flew, but the message was clear: even a killer’s glare couldn’t stare down the chair.
May 23, 1940—The walls finally closed in on Murder, Inc.’s own butcher boys, Harry Maione and Frank Abbandando. Thanks to stoolie Abe Reles spilling his guts, the jury nailed ’em for the 1937 slaughter of loan shark George "Whitey" Rudnick—the guy they strangled, stabbed 63 times, and crushed just to be sure. They got convicted, sure, but their lawyers pulled a rabbit and got it overturned. Didn’t matter. Round two came back harder—guilty again, death sentences sealed tight. The boys thought they ran the streets. Turns out, the chair runs louder.
May 24, 1908—Straight outta Chicago, Salvatore “Mooney” Giancana came into the world with the city’s smoke in his lungs and the streets in his blood. Born to run rackets and rule shadows, Mooney would climb from wheelman to boss of the Outfit, dealing in votes, vice, and Vegas. He played ball with the mob and the CIA, whispered with presidents, and laughed in the face of danger. From the jump, Chi-Town wasn’t raising no altar boy—it was grooming a kingpin.
May 25, 1944—LAPD slapped the cuffs on Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, the mob’s West Coast golden boy, for bookmaking. But Bugsy wasn’t just muscle—he had Hollywood in his pocket. When the heat turned up, in strutted actors George Raft and Mack Gray, all charm and star power, singing sweet for their pal. Their testimony cracked the case wide open, and just like that, Bugsy walked free, grinning like the cat who owned the canary—and the casino. In L.A., justice didn’t wear a badge—it wore sunglasses and read from a script.
May 25, 1944—LAPD slapped the cuffs on Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, the mob’s West Coast golden boy, for bookmaking. But Bugsy wasn’t just muscle—he had Hollywood in his pocket. When the heat turned up, in strutted actors George Raft and Mack Gray, all charm and star power, singing sweet for their pal. Their testimony cracked the case wide open, and just like that, Bugsy walked free, grinning like the cat who owned the canary—and the casino. In L.A., justice didn’t wear a badge—it wore sunglasses and read from a script.
May 26, 1904—New York City birthed a smooth operator with ice in his veins and hustle in his soul: Vincent Alo, known in the streets as Jimmy Blue Eyes. Born into the shadows, he’d grow into one of the slickest wiseguys to ever shake down Miami and Manhattan. With charm that could con a priest and fists that spoke fluent violence, Jimmy didn’t just play the game—he helped rewrite the rules.
May 28, 1951—Joe Adonis, the high-class hood with a face for Hollywood and a heart cold as a tax collector, finally caught a charge he couldn’t charm his way out of. Busted on gambling raps, the slick-talking prince of the rackets got slapped with two years in Jersey State. The kingpin who once ruled the tables now found himself eatin’ state chow, traded silk suits for prison grays—but even behind bars, Adonis still played the game like a boss.
May 30, 1933—Sebastian “Buster from Chicago” Bomingo took his last breath on the cold streets of New York City. A trigger-happy enforcer with a rep soaked in blood and Windy City swagger, Buster thought he could bring Chi-Town heat to the Five Boroughs. But the Big Apple don’t blink. Someone decided Buster’s ticket was punched—maybe a rival, maybe his own crew, maybe just karma dressed in a fedora. Either way, by sundown, Buster was just another stiff with a nickname and a bullet-riddled past.
May 30, 1955—Louis “Little New York” Campagna, a heavyweight in the Chicago Outfit, dropped dead with a grouper on the line and the Florida sun on his back. One minute he’s reeling in a 30-pounder, next minute his heart taps out—poetic, if you ask the street. The Church wouldn’t even give the guy a Requiem Mass, like he was too dirty for heaven. But the Outfit don’t forget their own—Berwyn, Illinois lit up with the kind of funeral you’d expect for royalty in pinstripes. Mount Carmel Cemetery got another king that day, and the fish got away.
May 31, 1966—Sam Giancana, the flashy boss of the Chicago Outfit, played the Fifth like a symphony. Hauled before a federal grand jury poking around the Windy City’s underworld, he refused to sing—even with immunity on the table. The feds slapped him with contempt and locked him up, but by day’s end, he walked free. Not one to wait around, Giancana vanished south of the border, making himself at home in Latin America until Mexico showed him the door on July 19, 1974. The man knew how to dodge both bullets and subpoenas.
