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.
March
Dutch Schultz didn't leave his dirty work to nobody—he handled it himself. On March 2, 1935, he called in Jules "Julie Martin" Modgilewsky, his own extortion boss, to the Harmony Hotel in Cohoes, where Schultz was waiting on trial. Modgilewsky had been playing both sides, skimming twenty grand off the top, and under the heat, he cracked—big mistake. Without hesitation, Schultz blew his mouth apart right in front of his rattled lawyer, Jules "Dixie" Davis. Then, cool as you like, he turned to Davis, muttered an apology, and got to work carving up the body. Later, when asked about it, Schultz just smirked and said, "I cut his heart out."
March 4, 1944—Louis "Lepke" Buchalter, the boss of Murder, Inc., took his last ride, straight to the chair at Sing Sing. The king of contract killing, the man who turned murder into a business, finally ran out of deals to make. New York wanted him dead, and they got their wish. When the juice hit, Lepke went stiff, the last of his crew to get fried. The empire of killers he built was finished, and with one final jolt, the book on Murder, Inc. slammed shut.
March 4, 1944—Louis Capone, another butcher from Murder, Inc., took his seat in Sing Sing’s hot chair. No mercy, no second chances. He wasn’t the boss, but he was just as guilty, just as ruthless. When the switch flipped, the lights dimmed, and Capone’s number was up. Another cog in the syndicate burned out, proving that even the most feared killers couldn’t outrun the reaper when the state came collecting.
On March 4, 1944, Emmanuel "Mendy" Weiss, a stone-cold torpedo for Murder, Inc. and the trigger suspected of putting Dutch Schultz in the ground, took his final walk at Sing Sing. No tears, no mercy—just the electric chair waiting to burn him off the books. The same outfit that made him a killer couldn't save him now. When the switch flipped, Weiss paid the price in full, proving one thing—live by the gun, fry by the chair.
March 9, 1952—Arnold Schuster, just a regular Brooklyn shoe salesman, ended up on the wrong side of the underworld. His mistake? Talking too much. Albert Anastasia, the Mad Hatter himself, heard Schuster’s name and didn’t like the stink of it—"I don’t like rats," he said, and that was that. A contract went out, and Schuster got ventilated, left bleeding in the street as a message to anyone thinking about crossing the wrong people.
March 10, 1943—The Chicago Outfit took a hit when a grand jury dropped the hammer on some of its biggest names. Frank Nitto, Paul "The Waiter" Ricca, Phil D’Andrea, Charles "Cherry Nose" Gioe, Lou Kaufman, Louis Campagna, and Filipo Sacco—better known as Johnny Roselli—got fingered for shaking down Hollywood. The feds had rats in the mix, Willie Bioff and George Brown, two snakes from the Theatrical Stage Employees union who sold out the Outfit to save their own skins. Betrayal, indictments, and a mob empire caught in the spotlight—Hollywood had never seen a script this good.
March 11, 1957—Frank Costello, the Prime Minister of the Underworld, walked out of federal custody like a man who owned the joint. The Supreme Court was giving his case another look, but Costello already knew the game—stay sharp, stay quiet, and let the lawyers earn their keep. He wasn’t just some street hood; he was a kingpin who talked with senators and rubbed elbows with high society. The law had him for now, but Costello had been slipping out of tight spots his whole life. This was just another day in the life of a gangster who played chess while the rest played checkers.
March 11, 1957—Frank Costello, the Prime Minister of the Underworld, walked out of federal custody like a man who owned the joint. The Supreme Court was giving his case another look, but Costello already knew the game—stay sharp, stay quiet, and let the lawyers earn their keep. He wasn’t just some street hood; he was a kingpin who talked with senators and rubbed elbows with high society. The law had him for now, but Costello had been slipping out of tight spots his whole life. This was just another day in the life of a gangster who played chess while the rest played checkers.
March 15, 1914—New York City welcomed a future king of the shadows. Aniello John "Neil" Dellacroce came into the world destined for the life—hard, ruthless, and loyal to the code. He’d grow up to be the silent terror behind the Gambino family, the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make his point. Born in the streets, forged in the underworld, Dellacroce wasn’t just another gangster—he was the kind that made other wiseguys nervous.
March 15, 1951—Virginia Hill, the Mob’s redheaded queen, stepped into the national spotlight, taking the stand before the Kefauver Committee on live television. She played it coy, dodging questions with a smirk, but everyone knew the score—she was Bugsy Siegel’s old flame, the woman who carried secrets men would kill for. Senators pressed, cameras rolled, but Hill wasn’t rattled. She knew how to survive in a world of killers, and no committee was gonna change that.
March 17, 1930—Big Al walks free, grinning like the devil himself, fresh outta the clink on some two-bit weapons charge. The bulls tried to clip his wings, but Capone? He ain't the kind to stay caged. Chicago knows what's comin'—business as usual, blood in the gutters, and the King of the Outfit back on his throne.
March 18, 1943—The Feds come swingin’, slappin’ indictments on some of the heaviest hitters in the Chicago Outfit. Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti, Paul "The Waiter" Ricca, Cherry Nose Gioe, Little New York Campagna, Handsome Johnny Roselli—the whole crew gets pinched for squeezin’ Hollywood dry. And why? ‘Cause some two-bit rat, Willie Bioff, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The Outfit don’t like snitches, and in this game, loose lips don’t just sink ships—they get ‘em buried.
March 19, 1943—Frank Nitti takes the big sleep. They say he put a bullet in his own skull, takin’ the fall for the Hollywood extortion mess. But whispers in the alley tell a different tale—Nitti seen gettin’ into a car with a couple of dirty cops before his body turned up. Suicide? Maybe. Or maybe the Outfit don’t tolerate loose ends. Either way, Tony "Joe Batters" Accardo steps up, and Chicago don’t miss a beat.
March 20, 1947—Lucky Luciano gets the boot, shipped outta Cuba like yesterday’s trash, straight to Italy. The Feds thought they clipped his wings, but Lucky ain’t the kind to stay grounded. He built the Commission, ran the rackets, and made the rules—deportation don’t change that. From Havana to Sicily, the game stays the same, and Lucky? He’s always got a play.
March 23, 1967—The Feds, with the help of stool pigeon Harold Konigsberg, dig up a Mafia graveyard in Jersey. A little dirt, a few shovels, and boom—skeletons of the past come crawlin’ back. This ain't just any burial ground; it’s where the Outfit buries problems, where guys who crossed the wrong people took their last ride. Snitches, traitors, debts unpaid—the kind of stories the dirt usually keeps quiet. But now? Now the Feds got bodies, and somebody’s gotta answer for ‘em.
March 24, 1941—The NYPD picks up Max Golub, a Murder, Inc. trigger man, on a bum vagrancy charge. Just a cheap excuse to keep him warm in a cell while they slap him with the 1935 hit on Spider Murtha. Six years on ice, and suddenly the cops remember a murder? Nah, somebody’s talkin’. In this business, ghosts don’t stay buried forever, and when the law comes knockin’, even the dead start whisperin’.
March 24, 1966—Virginia Hill, the so-called Queen of the Mob, turns up dead in Salzburg, Austria. They call it suicide, but the street whispers say different. Maybe she knew too much, maybe she talked too much, or maybe the Outfit don’t let loose ends retire. Either way, a bottle of pills and a quiet death don’t fool anyone—when people like her go, it’s never by choice.
March 25, 1954—Joe Adonis, smooth as ever, takes a perjury rap and gets slapped with two years in the pen. But a guy like Adonis don’t do time—he makes deals. Facing deportation, he plays it smart, offers to skip town before the Feds can lock him up. Call it exile, call it a power move—either way, he walks while Uncle Sam thinks they won. But Adonis? He ain't the kind to disappear.
March 26, 1970—John "Sonny" Franzese, a Colombo Family powerhouse and old-school gangster, got slapped with a prison stretch, locked up until ‘79. The feds had been circling, and this time, they nailed him on kickbacks from the recording industry—easy money until it wasn’t. But Sonny wasn’t the type to break, not then, not ever. He went in knowing the rules: do your time, keep your mouth shut, and come out like you never left.
March 27, 1940—Charlie "Bug" Workman, the top button man for Murder, Inc., finally had the law on his back for the Dutch Schultz hit. New Jersey came down with an indictment, all thanks to a canary’s testimony. Workman was the guy who got things done—silent, efficient, no loose ends. But even the best hitters can’t dodge heat forever. The Dutchman’s massacre had been bloody business, and now the bill was due.
March 28, 1928—New York City gave life to Vincent Louis "The Chin" Gigante, a future boss who'd play the long game better than most. He’d grow up to be a street brawler, a hitman, and the mastermind who ran the Genovese family from the shadows. Smart enough to fake madness, ruthless enough to rule with an iron fist—Gigante wasn’t just another gangster. He was the kind that made the streets whisper his name.
March 29, 1940—Cops dragged Hyman Yuran’s corpse out of Sullivan County, and just like that, the walls started closing in. Sholem Bernstein, a cog in Murder, Inc., saw the writing on the wall and decided to sing. One body in the dirt was about to unravel a whole lot more. In the underworld, silence was golden, but fear made men talk—and Bernstein had plenty to say.
