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Now, there were two different kinds of gangs in New York at the time. There were the wealthy, old hat gangs who’d be around for a generation or two, who had money pouring out their ears like wax and who lived in lavish town homes and mansions, and who had summer homes in Long Island and who threw lavish parties with dancers and full bands for no apparent reason. They had Breezers and four or five Moll’s a piece. They dressed in the finest suits, with a different fedora and jacket for each day of the week.
They were the ones who dragged you into a dark alley and slit your throat before dumping you in the Hudson. They were the ones who pulled you into their fancy car and dropped your corpse on your sweetheart’s doorstep, or maybe just bits of you, one at a time. They were the ones who poisoned your drink at a soiree and made you collapsing look like a medical condition, who sent their personal doctors to fool the coppers. They were the cunning, conniving, evil of the city.
Anthony Stark was one of those men.
- Part 1 of Bank's Got Bullet Holes