Chapter 63 - The Second Boss of the Marginals Gang
Street fighting generally falls into two main categories:
With weapons, or bare-knuckle.
Setting aside weapons for now, when you look at bare-knuckle fighting, boxing techniques make up the bulk of the action.
It comes down to who can throw a simple punch or hook faster and harder.
Who can take a beating and stay on their feet?
In other words, these fights were less about trained techniques and more about practical, instinct-driven combat—raw and improvisational.
Italian immigrants here might traditionally favor stiletto knives, but the Irish have always preferred to use their fists.
Kale, known on the streets as "the Jackal," was no exception.
He tried to channel all his ambition to become the boss of the Marginals into his fists, determined to seize his dream.
But—
Crack.
All that ambition was shattered in an instant by a single kick from Nox.
Thud.
He collapsed to the ground like a felled log, dust billowing up to cover his body.
The whole place was stunned.
Everyone stared, mouths agape, as Kale flailed on the ground in a daze.
Patrick, acting as referee, was the first to come back to his senses.
He walked over to Kale, pressed his fingers to his nose, then jerked his chin toward one side.
At his signal, five men rushed in; they lifted Kale up, helped support him, and carried him off.
Patrick's gaze, after scanning the arena, slowly settled on the last remaining candidate.
"Step up, Brian."
"······."
Brian, wiping his forehead, was clearly daunted.
But he didn't run away.
No, there was no need for that.
What if he managed to land even a single punch?
That would put him ahead of Kale and Oliver, wouldn't it?
Why had he rushed to take part in the succession fight today?
It was a desperate attempt just to make his presence known.
Brian had adjusted his sights from Boss down to Underboss.
Boss?
He didn't need that.
Just making himself stand out would be enough.
Once he made up his mind, it was strange—suddenly, the weight pressing down on his shoulders disappeared.
His heart felt lighter, and so did his body.
Brian bounced on his feet right where he stood, feeling more nimble and energetic than ever.
'I'll show them why I'm hailed as the master of hit-and-run.'
Facing Nox, Brian began to move.
Those steps—once praised as promising at the boxing gym—came back to him as naturally as breathing.
Brian bounced lightly on his feet, kicking up a bit of dust as he waited for an opening in Nox's defense.
He looked full of holes, but it was all just a trick to bait an attack.
'Does he really think I'm going to fall for something like that?'
He kept dancing on his feet, breathing heavily, when Nox finally made his move.
'Here he comes!'
Nox closed the distance in an instant and swung a heavy punch.
Brian, anticipating this, leaned his upper body back to dodge the punch.
Like a spring, he snapped right back into position, ready to launch an uppercut with his right hand, drawing power from his legs.
But—
Whish.
Still off-balance from missing the punch, Nox's shoulder and back crashed right into Brian's body.
His posture broke, and his whole body reeled backward.
Just as Brian managed to regain his balance, Nox's elbow crashed into his temple.
Thud.
Patrick, looking unfazed by now, brought his fingers up to his nose—his signal to 'take him away.'
At once, five guys rushed in again, and Brian was carried off like the others.
The crowd was silent.
No one seemed surprised or shocked—no one had really believed Brian would win.
Instead, every pair of eyes, filled with admiration and wonder, was fixed on Nox.
He hadn't been hit once while taking down all three opponents. Was that even possible?
No one thought it was just luck.
Nox fought as if his entire body were a weapon, using an impressive variety of attacks.
While everyone silently replayed the fight in their minds, Tanner finally spoke up.
"Nox, from this moment on, you're the boss of the Marginals."
On the west side of the Hudson River, at Pier 51 in Hell's Kitchen, the Marginals had a peaceful transfer of power. It was the day their new history began.
Between the stacks of crates at the dockside, the former boss and the new boss met in private.
Tanner Smith and I.
"Did you see their faces? Honestly, I don't think anyone realized just how big the gap was going to be. Even I was caught off guard."
No one at the scene had objected to the result.
I had gone up against all three guys who wanted to be boss, one after the other—if anyone complained about that, they'd have to be out of their mind.
Still, just because no one openly protested didn't mean I believed they were all truly behind me.
Unexpected victories always bring aftershocks.
On the way back, even they probably didn't know how their feelings might change.
I wanted to make that absolutely clear.
— For the next week, if you can't accept me as boss, leave the Marginals. If you stay just to stir up trouble, there will be consequences.
And also—
— Once you leave the Marginals, I expect you to keep your memories to yourself. Don't ever repeat anything you've heard or seen up to now.
If you think this warning is arrogant, then leave.
If you've got a problem with my age, race, or background, then leave.
Most of what I said right after becoming boss basically came down to: leave.
I didn't care if the Marginals dropped to half their current numbers. What I wanted was a tight-knit group bound by strict discipline—people who would follow my orders to the letter.
"In return, the sweet fruit will be shared so everyone can have their fill. I liked that part at the end."
"I thought about it for a few days."
"No wasted words, but depending on how they heard it, some people probably thought you were full of yourself."
"Those types would think so no matter how politely I spoke."
"That's true."
Tanner nodded in agreement as he continued.
"After a week, we'll only have to worry about whoever's left. But are you planning to keep the gang name as is?"
"There's no reason to change it."
The gang's name doesn't matter much. The more complicated the organization looks from the outside, the better it is for a criminal group.
You want to avoid a situation where, if someone grabs one thread, the whole thing unravels like pulling up a sweet potato vine.
That's why splitting into Marginals, Union, and as many other gangs as necessary is fine. Everything except the core can operate as satellite outfits.
Once we finished talking about gang structure, Tanner brought up the smoke grenade massacre.
"When I read the papers, I honestly thought the German Army had landed. Why set off smoke grenades and carry out a massacre right in the middle of the city?"
"Did you think it was me?"
"If not you, then who else would pull something like that? Anyway, why did you do it?"
"I needed a Dealer."
Tanner's jaw dropped.
"…That's not the only reason, right? You didn't lose your mind to that extent, did you?"
I didn't need to justify it to Tanner, but there was no reason to hide it either I gave a rough explanation of the situation.
"So, it really all started because of that Dealer."
"Were you even listening? Those bastards took the Dealer's family hostage and were extorting protection money from my mother's company."
"Yikes, I guess they had it coming. Anyway, did you know things have changed among the Italians because of this?"
A tip from my Brooklyn informant.
The information came through 'Three-Fingered' Jack Dalton, who sells knives in Red Hook.
After the massacre at the Red Hook weapons smuggling warehouse, the Neapolitan gangs had been on a relentless campaign of 'bloody revenge' against the Sicilians.
But after the casino smoke grenade massacre, the atmosphere shifted. They realized they were being used.
"Recently, the Neapolitan gangs in Brooklyn held a meeting at a coffee shop."
The Navy Street Gang.
The Coney Island Gang.
Both gangs' top leaders were all behind bars. The newly appointed bosses made an unexpected decision at the meeting.
"They've decided to push for a truce with the Sicilians. Can you guess why?"
Because they want to end the war of attrition and focus on catching me. It means they won't let themselves be taken advantage of anymore.
However, I didn't think the chances of a truce were high.
"Sicily hasn't really suffered any major losses. Meanwhile, Naples's foundations are shaking."
"So, you're saying a truce is impossible?"
"From Sicily's perspective, there's no reason to buy time for Naples. Even if they do agree to a truce, it won't last long."
How many times have they betrayed each other by now?
A ceasefire or alliance in a relationship with zero trust is no stronger than the fizz in a soda.
"They'll be at each other's throats again soon enough. Still, it never hurts to be careful."
There's plenty I have to take care of for the time being.
The same goes for Tanner.
"Now that I've handed everything over to you, I'll focus on the Coney Island bar. It's in the final stages of construction."
"Let me know when it opens."
After my private talk with Tanner, I met with the three who had fought over the boss position.
It wasn't my idea—they had requested this meeting.
Oliver, Kale, Brian. They acted like bosses yet were essentially splitting up the Marginals' territory among themselves.
If there's going to be a traitor, it'll be one of these guys.
Judging by their faces, they were clearly feeling uneasy.
"I gave you a week. Did you call me here just to show me that look?"
"…I want to ask you something."
"Make it quick."
Oliver grit his teeth and asked.
"I want to hear the concrete plan. What are you actually going to do with the Marginals?"
"If you want to hear my vision, I'll put it simply. Ultimately, I plan to move away from being a gang."
"What?"
"A gang that's… going to stop being a gang?!"
Oliver shouted in agitation.
Kale looked at me with a defeated expression.
Brian just scratched his head, clearly not understanding, glancing around nervously.
After taking in all three of their reactions, I continued.
"What I want isn't a gang that runs on brute force, but an organization."
"An organization?"
What's the difference between a gang and an organization?
A gang runs on loyalty and talk, but if it's got strict structure, it's an organization.
That's how I see it.
"I'm planning to create an organization that has rules, a structured hierarchy, and focuses on business."
"And then what?"
"We'll take things over, one by one."
"How far do you plan to go?"
"Oliver, farther than you could imagine. We'll talk more once there's real trust between us. But next time we meet, don't make that sour face in front of me. It just makes me want to crush you."
"..."
I lowered my voice and glared openly at all three.
"If any of you decide to rebel, I'll welcome it with open arms. I'll make an example out of you, and use it as the foundation to strengthen the organization."
Oliver, Kale, and Brown are all information sources.
I'll see how they try to stir up their own factions inside the Marginals.
It's not as if we've got as many businesses as the Mafia might in the future, or a real organizational chart.
Succession of power in a petty gang just meant getting everyone to recognize and announce, "I'm the boss now."
There was no big ceremony, and the process wasn't complicated either.
So, the day after I took over the Marginals, nothing about my routine had changed.
Early that morning, I set out to track down the guy making counterfeit brassieres, heading to one of the hook suppliers.
By now, it's a well-known fact that it's better to go in numbers than alone for things like this.
Led by Cory, I brought eight Union members as we visited the metal manufacturing company.
"Besides FreeYourBody, where else have you supplied hooks?"
The boss, sweating bullets, told us that a clothing manufacturer on Eldridge Street had picked up a batch.
"I told you we're applying for a patent, so you shouldn't be selling to anyone else."
"Oh, I promise, I'll never supply them again."
I made him swear, then stepped back outside.
"So, what now? Should we go smash up the place?"
"If we start with that, it'll end badly."
I stopped by the Reich & Wellman Patent Attorney Office, where manage my patent.
Seeing so many people showing up so suddenly, Marvin Wellman nearly dropped his coffee cup in surprise.
"What—what's going on now?"
"If our patent application is being infringed on, what happens?"
"O-of course you'd still get legal protection. Why—someone copied you?"
After I explained the situation, Wellman sat down right there and drafted a formal notice regarding the patent infringement.
"Is that all we need?"
"Then, if they refuse, tell them we'll file a lawsuit right away."
A lawsuit?
What a waste of time and money that would be.
"I'll take care of the rest myself. By the way, the patents I asked about before—are they moving along smoothly?"
"Of course. I'm keeping a close eye on every step. Here, take a look."
The Y-peeler for peeling potatoes, the duffel bag used by soldiers, the casual backpack made from campus fabric, a wheeled carrier, and more.
I've already poured over five hundred dollars into patent fees alone.
That definitely makes me a VIP client.
Right after leaving the patent attorney's office, I headed straight to the clothing manufacturer in question.
It was a fairly large manufacturing operation that occupied the entire building.
"Wait here," I told the members, leaving them downstairs and heading up alone.
The door on the second floor was locked, but when I put my ear to it, I could hear sewing machines running inside.
No doubt the boss was locking everyone in and making them keep working.
I went up another flight of stairs.
Luckily, the door on the third floor was open
They were using quite a spacious area—half as a workshop, the other half as an office.
What immediately caught my eye were the items piled up in front of the third-floor exit. All of them were counterfeit brassieres.
I grabbed one and barged straight into the office.
Thunk.
The boss, seeing me, scowled hard from behind the desk. At the same time, four men on the sofa blocked my path.
"Who are you?"
I waved the counterfeit brassiere in one hand and held out the official notice with the other.
"I'm here from Bunny Underwear. You've infringed on the brassiere patent made by Free Your Body. This is the proof."
"What the hell are you babbling about, you idiot?"
"Patent? What patent?"
He snatched the notice out of my hand with a look of utter disbelief, then tore it up on the spot.
"Get lost, you bastard. Stop spouting nonsense about patents."
The boss dug in his ear with his finger and jerked his chin, signaling the men to get rid of me. They roughly shoved me out of the office.
"So you're really going to play it this way? I'll be pressing charges, just so you know."
"Oh, I'm so scared. Do whatever you want—sue us or not, I don't care. Get lost, asshole."
Instead of looking resentful as I turned away, I casually glanced around the third floor. Clearly used to situations like this, the employees didn't even spare me a glance.
So instead, I took in the surroundings.
Being on the third floor, the lighting was good. With windows on all sides, the ventilation was great too.
I figured the second floor probably had a similar layout.
When I came down to the first floor via the stairs, Cory approached me.
"From the look on your face, I'm guessing the talk went well."
"It wasn't bad."
"But what are you looking at?"
"The building."
Like a real estate agent, I sized up the place.
On the first floor, there were two clothing stores and a wide staircase in the middle.
As it happened, I'd been thinking about relocating the factory, and this was the perfect location and building.
Why are gangs called gangs.
I don't deny it.
For my first business move, I'll have to mobilize the Marginals.