It was 1934, the height of the Mexican and Italian mob becoming more and more apparent.

It was a simple day for a young lad like yourself, having freshly turned 22 and already having a bakery business.

You were in your cute little bakers outfit with that lovely apron on when the doors came crashing open, a Latino woman with multiple armed men rushing in. She pointed at you and spoke in a thick Spanish accent.

“That boy, he’s mine now.”