Excerpt
Chapter 1: Who Was Al Capone?
Brooklyn wasn’t the quiet kind of place where kids played stickball in the streets without a care. There were games, yes, but there were also gangs. Not the kind from movies or video games, but real ones—older boys who made rules of their own and didn’t always follow the law. That’s the Brooklyn Alphonse Capone knew.
Al was the fourth of nine kids, and his family was packed into a small apartment in a part of Brooklyn called Navy Yard. It smelled like smoke and street food and salt from the nearby harbor. His parents had come from Italy, speaking only a little English and working hard to survive. His father was a barber and his mother took care of the family. They didn’t have much money, but they had each other—and their rules were strict.
Al was a smart kid, in his own way. He had a round face and deep eyes that watched everything. He could read people fast: what they wanted, what they feared, who they’d follow. That made him dangerous later. But back then, it just made him different.
He liked school well enough—until he didn’t. The rules there didn’t always make sense to him. One day, a teacher hit him for not doing what she asked. He hit back. That was the end of school for Al Capone. He never made it past sixth grade. After that, the streets became his classroom.
Out there, it was all about survival. Kids who didn’t stand up for themselves got left behind. Al didn’t plan to be the toughest, but he didn’t want to be pushed around either. He started spending time with older boys—guys who didn’t work regular jobs and didn’t follow regular rules. Some of them wore nice suits and shiny shoes, even though they never seemed to go to work. That made an impression on him.
One of those older boys was Johnny Torrio. He wasn’t flashy, but he was smart—quiet smart, the kind that didn’t brag. Torrio ran gambling houses and saloons, and he noticed Al. There was something about the kid’s confidence, the way he kept his cool even when things got tense. Torrio started giving him small jobs: running messages, watching doors, collecting money. Al did them all, and he did them well.
It wasn’t long before Al got noticed by people who weren’t as friendly. One night, at a club where he worked as a bouncer, he said something rude to a woman. Her brother didn’t take it lightly. He slashed Al’s face with a knife, leaving three long scars. Al didn’t cry. He didn’t run. He just walked away, bleeding, and kept working the next day. That’s how he earned the nickname “Scarface.” He hated it. If anyone said it to his face, he got angry—fast.
He preferred to be called “Snorky,” a slang word back then that meant stylish or sharp. Al liked looking sharp. Even when he didn’t have much money, he found a way to get tailored suits and polished shoes. He believed people respected you more if you looked like you belonged at the top, even if you weren’t there yet.
But he wanted to be at the top.
Even when he was still in his teens, Al wasn’t dreaming about regular things. He wasn’t thinking about being a doctor or a fireman or a baseball player. He wanted power. He wanted respect. And more than anything, he wanted money—because in his world, money meant safety, comfort, and control.
He also had a soft spot. He loved his mother, Teresa, more than anything. He helped her around the house, even as he started walking deeper into the world of crime. And when he got older and made money, he always sent some home. That part never changed.
As Al grew, Brooklyn felt smaller. He had learned everything he could from the streets, and Torrio saw it too. That’s when the offer came: a chance to move to Chicago, a city bursting with opportunity and danger. Torrio had work there. Real work. Big work. He needed someone he could trust, someone with guts and loyalty. Al didn’t hesitate.
He left New York behind without looking back. His dreams had grown too big for Brooklyn’s streets.
On the train to Chicago, Al probably stared out the window at the blur of towns passing by. He wasn’t the kind of kid to feel scared. He was already thinking ahead: new city, new chances, new power to grab. He was still young—barely 20—but he didn’t act like it. He carried himself like someone twice his age. People listened when he talked. That’s something you can’t teach.
And even though Al didn’t go to school past sixth grade, he was learning all the time. He watched how people reacted. He listened closely during business meetings. He noticed which men were respected and which were pushed aside. He paid attention to what made others afraid—and how that fear could be used.
Brooklyn wasn’t the quiet kind of place where kids played stickball in the streets without a care. There were games, yes, but there were also gangs. Not the kind from movies or video games, but real ones—older boys who made rules of their own and didn’t always follow the law. That’s the Brooklyn Alphonse Capone knew.
Al was the fourth of nine kids, and his family was packed into a small apartment in a part of Brooklyn called Navy Yard. It smelled like smoke and street food and salt from the nearby harbor. His parents had come from Italy, speaking only a little English and working hard to survive. His father was a barber and his mother took care of the family. They didn’t have much money, but they had each other—and their rules were strict.
Al was a smart kid, in his own way. He had a round face and deep eyes that watched everything. He could read people fast: what they wanted, what they feared, who they’d follow. That made him dangerous later. But back then, it just made him different.
He liked school well enough—until he didn’t. The rules there didn’t always make sense to him. One day, a teacher hit him for not doing what she asked. He hit back. That was the end of school for Al Capone. He never made it past sixth grade. After that, the streets became his classroom.
Out there, it was all about survival. Kids who didn’t stand up for themselves got left behind. Al didn’t plan to be the toughest, but he didn’t want to be pushed around either. He started spending time with older boys—guys who didn’t work regular jobs and didn’t follow regular rules. Some of them wore nice suits and shiny shoes, even though they never seemed to go to work. That made an impression on him.
One of those older boys was Johnny Torrio. He wasn’t flashy, but he was smart—quiet smart, the kind that didn’t brag. Torrio ran gambling houses and saloons, and he noticed Al. There was something about the kid’s confidence, the way he kept his cool even when things got tense. Torrio started giving him small jobs: running messages, watching doors, collecting money. Al did them all, and he did them well.
It wasn’t long before Al got noticed by people who weren’t as friendly. One night, at a club where he worked as a bouncer, he said something rude to a woman. Her brother didn’t take it lightly. He slashed Al’s face with a knife, leaving three long scars. Al didn’t cry. He didn’t run. He just walked away, bleeding, and kept working the next day. That’s how he earned the nickname “Scarface.” He hated it. If anyone said it to his face, he got angry—fast.
He preferred to be called “Snorky,” a slang word back then that meant stylish or sharp. Al liked looking sharp. Even when he didn’t have much money, he found a way to get tailored suits and polished shoes. He believed people respected you more if you looked like you belonged at the top, even if you weren’t there yet.
But he wanted to be at the top.
Even when he was still in his teens, Al wasn’t dreaming about regular things. He wasn’t thinking about being a doctor or a fireman or a baseball player. He wanted power. He wanted respect. And more than anything, he wanted money—because in his world, money meant safety, comfort, and control.
He also had a soft spot. He loved his mother, Teresa, more than anything. He helped her around the house, even as he started walking deeper into the world of crime. And when he got older and made money, he always sent some home. That part never changed.
As Al grew, Brooklyn felt smaller. He had learned everything he could from the streets, and Torrio saw it too. That’s when the offer came: a chance to move to Chicago, a city bursting with opportunity and danger. Torrio had work there. Real work. Big work. He needed someone he could trust, someone with guts and loyalty. Al didn’t hesitate.
He left New York behind without looking back. His dreams had grown too big for Brooklyn’s streets.
On the train to Chicago, Al probably stared out the window at the blur of towns passing by. He wasn’t the kind of kid to feel scared. He was already thinking ahead: new city, new chances, new power to grab. He was still young—barely 20—but he didn’t act like it. He carried himself like someone twice his age. People listened when he talked. That’s something you can’t teach.
And even though Al didn’t go to school past sixth grade, he was learning all the time. He watched how people reacted. He listened closely during business meetings. He noticed which men were respected and which were pushed aside. He paid attention to what made others afraid—and how that fear could be used.