Just as Cohen had predicted, Dougal finally saw the truth.
Though both Irish and Italians were white, their standing in America was barely higher than that of Black people. Most worked as laborers or in service jobs. If not for Prohibition, in this rigid social structure, neither the Irish nor the Italians would have ever amassed wealth.
They rose through bootlegging profits, clung to power to protect their fortunes. Yet in the eyes of respectable society, nothing had changed. No traditional Anglo-Saxon family would ever marry their daughter to an Irishman or an Italian—such a match would bring disgrace.
Thus, both groups wrestled with the same question: how to elevate their status.
The Italians were first to find a path. What began as a money-laundering front—Hollywood—gradually became a stage where Italians pushed into culture and the arts.
The Irish, by contrast, came from a homeland of famine, not art. What they had was straightforward thinking and strong bodies.
As a gangster long dealing with police, Dougal had lost any illusions about law enforcement. He knew well that American police served only the rich. That truth gnawed at him: We're all dogs for the wealthy—so why do they bask in glory while we scurry in the shadows?
Dougal began infiltrating the police early and had reaped results. The deputy head of Chicago PD's Gang Unit was his man. More than once, that mole saved him from Mafia traps.
During a meeting in neighboring Missouri, Dougal heard of a legend: in Kansas City, a powerful mob family had once influenced state politics.
The Pendergast family. They had backed none other than Harry Truman, today's U.S. President. Though Truman later broke with them, the benefits they had reaped let them wash clean and rise legitimately. Now, multiple police chiefs across Missouri owed loyalty to Pendergast men.
The precedent dazzled Dougal. He lacked the vision or patience to groom a president, but money—money could carve paths.
Of course, money required agents of influence. And though Dougal knew many Chicago big shots—he'd cleaned up plenty of their messes—he also knew no master ever allowed a lieutenant to truly break free.
So he turned to Cohen, the Jew whose influence was undeniable. Dougal was sure Cohen would agree. Strictly speaking, they were bound to the same fate.
Cohen might boast loudly, but Dougal knew the truth: anyone plotting to assassinate a Mafia Don was terrified inside. The Mafia was America's greatest underworld empire.
And everyone knew its true master: Leo Valentino, patron of presidents, the most influential man in America, and the richest man alive.
If word of this plot ever reached him, Cohen would be finished—no matter how well-connected his backers were.
As Dougal expected, Cohen accepted the deal readily.
"Your thinking is sharp—sharper than most Irishmen. You'll go far," Cohen flattered.
"Hahaha, all thanks to your help, Mr. Cohen," Dougal replied, proud of his gambit. His dream was clear: to make his family the Irish Pendergasts of Illinois, wielding power over the state.
The thought alone set his heart racing.
But before they could trade more pleasantries, Cohen's face suddenly hardened.
"Dougal… don't you think it's too quiet outside?"
Dougal froze, then strained his ears. His visit had been discreet. He'd brought only a driver, a bodyguard, and a bagman. The driver and guard had stayed outside, chatting loudly. The chapel's thin walls had carried their voices all this time—until now.
Silence.
A veteran of the Mafia crackdowns, Dougal harbored no illusions. He dove behind a stone bench in an instant.
Cohen also scrambled for cover. Both men's eyes locked on the chapel's wooden door.
Nothing. Long minutes passed.
"Maybe your boys went out for cigarettes?" Cohen whispered.
"Impossible. They're old hands. Why do you think they talk so loud? To mask anything unusual." Dougal narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you've no escape tunnel here?"
Cohen shook his head.
"Nonsense. You're Jews. Thousands of years wandering—you'd never build a synagogue without a back door. There's an ambush outside. With our numbers, we're trapped."
Cohen's calves trembled. Though the Cohen family once ran rackets, they'd gone legitimate generations ago. Today, they controlled Illinois' soybean futures.
A man in shoes, Cohen valued his life dearly. Yes, there was a tunnel beneath the synagogue—but it also housed a vault packed with gold belonging to Chicago's Jewish tycoons.
If Dougal saw it, word would spread, and Cohen's family would be ruined. Better that Dougal die here.
Malice flickered in his silence, but Dougal sensed it instantly. Darkness hid Cohen's face, yet Dougal could feel the betrayal.
He struck first.
Both men drew. Guns roared.
Cohen, long unused to pulling a trigger, was slower. A bullet tore through his gut, dropping him. His bodyguard fell to Dougal's bagman.
Dougal wasted no time. He knelt by Cohen, shoved his hand into the bloody hole in his stomach, twisting viciously.
The bagman clamped Cohen's mouth shut as muffled cries filled the chapel.
"Tell me where the tunnel is, and I'll make it quick," Dougal growled, pulling out his hand for emphasis.
The bagman loosened his grip for a moment. Cohen tried to shout, but was silenced again. Dougal plunged his fingers back in, grinning cruelly.
Sweat streamed from Cohen's brow. He would not speak. Even in agony, he knew: if he died, his family lived. If he talked, they were doomed.
Dougal grew frantic. Time was running out. The gunfire would draw attention. He drew a knife, driving it through Cohen's finger.
Cohen's screams turned into prayers for death.
And death answered.
The synagogue's old wooden door screeched open.
Dougal ducked behind cover, gun in hand. His bagman also drew.
The door cracked slightly. Dougal fired. Nothing.
Then, from the gap, small cylinders clattered in.
Grenades? He hit the floor.
Instead—blinding light.
Flashbangs.
Cohen's hoarse laugh rang out:
"Flashbangs… this isn't mob work. Dougal—you're about to join me."
As Dougal's vision blurred, footsteps closed in. He fired blindly at a shadow. Missed. Pain exploded in his arm; his gun fell.
A blow struck him hard. Darkness swallowed him.
The last thing he heard was a cold voice:
"Target secured. Prepare for extraction. Sweepers, move in."
Gunfire erupted across Chicago. Thompson submachine guns—"Chicago typewriters"—chattered on every street.
Everyone had expected chaos after Paul Ricca's death, but none foresaw the Mafia's sheer ferocity.
Police dared not intervene. Two men in a squad car stood no chance against seven or eight gangsters with automatics. Their revolvers were toys compared to the Mafia's firepower.
And this frenzy wasn't about avenging Ricca. It was about the prize Corondo promised: millions in rewards, and the chance to meet Leo Valentino himself.
Though only Joe Accardo remained as a general, Victor's forces had been absorbed intact. A young capo named Caracci now led one faction.
Both sides knew the truth: to end the war in a day, they needed Dougal, the Irish boss who had plotted with Victor.
The Mafia's speed stunned Chicago's other gangs. They'd expected infighting after Ricca's death, a window to seize territory. Instead, they ran headlong into Mafia killers, crazed with greed.
Battles flared everywhere. The Mafia's ruthless style drove the violence higher. In neighborhoods beyond downtown, even grenades exploded.
To civilians, Chicago no longer felt like America's Midwest hub—it was a battlefield from World War II.
Police phone lines jammed with calls. But officers refused to respond. They knew: the gangs were beyond reason, and tonight, the badge meant nothing.
Even the brass were helpless. Desperate for leadership, they begged the police chief to finish his call with the mayor.
The secretary shook his head bitterly.
"He's still being cursed out."
In his office, the chief clutched the phone, enduring the tirade of Mayor Martin Kennelly.
The normally calm mayor had lost all composure. His voice was sharp, rapid, every sentence punctuated with the same furious word—Fuck.
The sudden gang war had blindsided him. Now, powerful men and financiers were demanding answers. His dignity lay in tatters, and his fury only grew.