A private investigator from Chicago, Mack's grown up on the mean streets of cities right from birth. His mother was a whore, and his father, well, Mack doesn't know if he's dead in a gutter or living in some steel-money mansion, and that's one mystery he won't ever try to solve. He picked up the trade of Investigations right out of boyhood, despite never truly taking a name for his job. After all, the way he saw it, his only talent was talking to people and making them want to talk right back. Not his fault most of what they wound up talking about after a few brews turned into valuable information.
After getting paid for a few of these hidden gems, he took the time to educate himself in the finer arts of stealing information, the old fashioned way. Sneaking into buildings, staking out houses, and amateur photography became the name of the game. Wasn't long before he got to be fairly well known for taking whatever job kept his daughter fed and roof (mostly) free of leaks. Wasn't long before part of that turned into carrying a 1911 tucked into his coat, either.
Eventually, of course, the job got too hot. Mack wasn't asked for much, just the time and place that a certain individual could reliably be at a reliable time. The pay was too good to be true, however, and the client... well, let's just say that it didn't take an investigation to figure out that there was more to the story. Problem is, that $60 paycheck should have brought on more questions than it did. Likely would have too, if the client wasn't a leggy dame with smokey emerald eyes and cherry red lipstick that oh-so-perfectly matched her dress.
Turns out, the mark was a made man, and the job? Turns out, certain people didn't want him to be so 'made' anymore, and Mack was the guy meant to figure out where it would all go down. Shouldn't have been a problem, except if he got caught. Thing is, he got caught. He tried to get out of the city, and while he was setting up his plans, he made sure he was a real sonofabitch to find. They never found him, either, but his daughter wasn't so lucky. Came home one day to find her gutted, laying in a pool of her own blood.
One day, Mack is gonna come for revenge. However, that day is not today. Today is the day that he gets off of the Mile High Club zeppelin and his shoes press down against New Haven soil for the first time. His trusty 1911 is still tucked into his jacket, just in front of his heart, and there's one last dollar tucked into his wallet and a packed of smokes paired with a box of matches from a crummy hotel. Today is the first day of Machiavelli Lewis' new life.