Levi Cohen was known in the underworld as Scarface, because of a deep scar running across the bridge of his nose.
Rumor on the streets claimed he got it at sixteen or seventeen, when he killed a rival for his boss, Mogreen, and was slashed by the enemy's dying counterattack.
But only Levi knew the truth—he had cut himself.
He did it to look more vicious, so Mogreen would allow him to join the gang.
During the Great Depression, hunger was far more painful than a scar.
But because his cut was so crude and never properly treated, every time Levi grew agitated or anxious, the scar throbbed faintly in pain.
Just like now—he stroked his burning scar, his mood foul.
Moments earlier, several Hollywood studio heads—who usually paid him protection money—had summoned him, demanding he quickly deal with the protesting Hollywood workers.
Normally, Levi liked handling these matters—they were simple. A little intimidation, a few threats, and most people bent.
But this time was different.
Levi was smart. He believed that to survive long as a gangster, you had to keep an eye on politics—never offend the wrong people by mistake.
And this time, he knew he wasn't facing ordinary Hollywood workers, but the American tycoon behind them.
Levi was no stranger to this rapidly rising magnate—because his own boss, Mogreen, had died at the man's hands.
In Levi's view, if the American Mafia had a godfather, it would be this young man: Leo Valentino.
He needed to think very carefully about how not to offend him.
While Levi sat in his office, wracking his brain, he didn't know that just a few blocks away, on the second floor of a respected Jewish restaurant, the very tycoon troubling him was dining with several studio heads who had just hired him.
It was late, the restaurant mostly empty, open only because Leo had paid to keep it so.
"Gentlemen, there's no need to look so wary.
Your companies are not in my sights.
Your hostility toward me comes only from fear of television.
But television is already here—it will inevitably enter every household.
Even without me, someone else would do it.
So our struggle is meaningless."
As Leo finished speaking, Barney—edgy from recent setbacks—blurted:
"We understand what you're saying, Mr. Valentino. But movies are our lifeblood. We can't just surrender because of a few words from you!"
Leo smiled and looked out the window.
Outside, several Lincoln Continentals belonging to his lieutenant Mike had pulled up.
Over a hundred Mafiosi in heavy coats slipped into the night.
Armed with submachine guns and led by bought-off informants, they stormed into the homes of Levi's Jewish gang members.
Gunfire erupted.
The night of slaughter had begun.
The instant the shooting started, the studio heads—who had just been challenging Leo—darted under the table with surprising agility for their girth.
But peeking out, they saw Leo still calmly seated, glass in hand, watching them like clowns.
These men were shrewd—they knew Leo feared death as much as anyone.
For him to sit so casually could only mean one thing: he knew exactly what was happening outside.
They turned toward the windows, realization dawning.
This street… wasn't it Levi's stronghold?
Their faces turned pale.
They had just discussed countermeasures that day—yet by nightfall, those very problems were being erased.
From the houses came screams. The pampered studio heads had never seen such carnage.
Barney in particular watched someone try to climb out a window to escape—only for a gunshot to drop him, blood splattering the glass.
Barney vomited on the spot.
"You're insane, Mr. Valentino! This is Los Angeles—what the hell are you doing?"
Jack Warner shouted, his voice distorted with fear.
"What am I doing? Having dinner with you fine gentlemen.
We just happened to stumble upon a little gang war, that's all."
Leo answered coolly.
"Gang war? This is slaughter! This is fascism!"
Louis B. Mayer shrieked hysterically.
"Perhaps. Let me offer you some advice:
Allow me to buy shares in your studios. Not much—just ten to fifteen percent of each.
That way, we're family. With my backing, Hollywood will not fall to television.
Gentlemen, your lawsuits begin soon. Time is running out. Think carefully."
Leo left in his car. Mike sat across from him in the back.
"All arranged?"
"Don't worry, Leo. Tonight, this street will bring both joy and grief."
Indeed, not everyone on the street was Jewish mob.
Inside gang homes, blood and tragedy unfolded.
But their neighbors? First shocked by armed Mafiosi barging in, they quickly turned joyful when those same men left carrying large bags—bags that were handed over before leaving.
The moment doors closed, nearly every neighbor opened the bags.
Stacks of Franklins' smiling faces erased their fear.
Remembering the Mafia's parting words, they forced themselves to forget the neighbors who had just died.
Leo's car drove away, but Mike stayed. Carrying a suitcase larger than the bags, he entered another Jewish restaurant on the street.
He didn't linger on the first floor but went directly upstairs.
The second floor looked more like a chapel than a restaurant.
Seated inside was an old man, face full of rage: Rabbi Ankara, leader of the community.
Mike bowed respectfully:
"Honored Rabbi Ankara, tonight's violence was purely a gang feud, not an attack on innocent Jews.
To apologize for disturbing the community's peace, we bring you a gift."
At his signal, his men opened the suitcase.
The rabbi's fury faltered at once.
Though he quickly steadied himself, trying to suppress his greed, he muttered:
"God will never forgive your evil deeds. Nor will the Jews of America forgive you."
Mike shrugged.
"Rabbi, I assure you—even without the Jewish mob, no other gang will trouble this community.
That's the Mafia's promise across America.
As for God—I believe He will be moved by my sincerity."
He signaled again. Another, slightly smaller case was set before the rabbi.
When opened, its golden glow made it impossible for him to hide his desire.
Who could resist so much gold?
"One case of dollars is compensation for the community.
This case of gold is for you, personally."
There was no better persuasion in the world.
As Mike left, he asked his men:
"You got the photos?"
They nodded. With those, he needn't fear the rabbi's betrayal—or his continued greed.
The gunfire faded. A faint glow appeared on the horizon.
Mike said:
"Have the gunmen carry out the corpses. The cleaners can take over."
On the third day of the week, Los Angeles Mayor Fletcher Bowron stormed into his office, face dark.
The night before, Hollywood studio heads had raged at him about the city's worsening law and order.
Their words about a bloody massacre made Bowron feel as though the city he protected had been trampled by an Eastern upstart.
"Did you buy the newspapers?"
he asked his secretary.
"They're on your desk, sir. But there's no report of the violence you mentioned."
"Impossible!"
He snatched them up, flipping pages. Sure enough, aside from editorials blasting studio exploitation of workers, the rest was trivial news.
His fury erupted. He swept the papers to the floor, roaring:
"An Easterner dares to twist truth on my turf! He'll pay!"
Just then, an aide burst in, panicked:
"Bad news, Mayor! Dozens of reporters are outside, demanding to interview you!"
The aide braced for abuse. In the past, Bowron always lashed out in such situations, venting at him before facing the press.
But this time, instead of anger, the mayor clapped him on the shoulder with satisfaction:
"For once, those bloodhounds are slower than me.
Come, I'll put on a show—let that Easterner know Los Angeles is not his playground."
Inside, Bowron's ambition burned—he longed to be governor.
All California knew the current governor, Earl, had bowed to that Eastern tycoon. Many were displeased. Bowron sensed opportunity.
He summoned his anger anew and strode out of city hall.
Reporters surged forward, cameras and microphones raised.
"Mayor, what's your response to the escalating Hollywood protests?"
"Mayor, will the city legislate to curb the studios' power over workers?"
The questions silenced Bowron instantly.
He opened his mouth—no words came.
He couldn't continue his prepared tough-guy script.
As mayor, admitting problems would only hand enemies ammunition.
So, before the whole press corps, the man who had marched out with righteous fury turned without a word and fled.
On the third day, Hollywood magnates did not gather to discuss countering Leo.
Instead, they hid at home, trembling from the hellish scenes they had witnessed.
But hiding changed nothing.
In fact, fueled by Leo's New Times, the story spread nationwide.
Even Eastern newspapers usually hostile to Leo now aligned with him.
The reason was simple: Easterners relished mocking the West.
More importantly, on the matter of Eastern capital infiltrating Hollywood, they shared Leo's stance.
On the fourth day, studio heads hoping for rest found no peace.
Reporters camped outside their homes.
At studio gates, protests became full-blown marches.
In this storm of outrage, they dared not step outside, forced to watch disaster after disaster unfold.
That day brought especially grim news—several Washington politicians began denouncing Hollywood's monopoly.
"Think fast!" Barney, Paramount's president, roared in a phone meeting.
"This is just like when the Paramount Decree hit. If we don't act, our interests will be gutted again!"
"I'll add worse news," said Louis B. Mayer of MGM.
"That greedy vulture Hays has struck. He's slapped 'Not Recommended for Youth' ratings on our films.
And I hear he's preparing to impose ratings across all studios.
You know what that means—soon, we won't be studio heads, just dogs on Hays' leash!"
Jack Warner sighed.
"No wonder this man became a billionaire in just four years. His multi-layered offensive—I've never seen anything like it."
"Jack, now's not the time to praise him!" Barney barked.
"You're always the crafty one—think of something!"
"I only see one option," Jack said.
"Accept Mr. Valentino's offer. My brothers and I have agreed—Warner will accept his investment. I'm sorry, friends, but we're too weak. We concede this game."
He hung up and headed out—toward Leo's Beverly Hills mansion.
Warner's surrender broke many others' resolve.
Only Barney clung to defiance.
He phoned Jack Rockefeller in Sacramento.
"Barney, you disappoint me. Partnering with weaklings only drags me down. You're worthless now."
David Rockefeller hung up without another word.
The dead tone shattered Barney's last hope.
He slumped on his sofa, despair screaming in his mind:
"It's over! The Paramount Decree toppled us from the top of cinema.
This time, we can't even keep Hollywood's throne.
The Eastern invasion cannot be stopped!"
Meanwhile, Jack Warner's visit proved fruitless—not because his surrender was rejected, but because the servants told him Mr. Valentino had already left Los Angeles.
He was in California's capital—Sacramento.