The glorification of the mafia on social media
From omertà to TikTok: how the mafia is being glamourised online
(Image: A young person browsing a social feed on a smartphone. Photo by Pavel Danilyuk / Pexels)
On TikTok, a clip shows two young men in expensive black suits walking slowly away from their luxury Porsches. A vintage Tuscan-style swimming pool faces a grand villa with wisteria growing up the side. Men gather around with a glass in hand. The video is hash-tagged #motivation, #mafia, #wealth. In the comments, there are fire and saluting face emojis. The video appears to glorify the mafia. Not once does the video mention violence, trafficking, or extortion. Instead, the mafia appear as respected and aspirational.
My attention towards this glamorisation of the mafia began when my flatmate in my first year of university said, ‘It would be cool to be part of the mafia.’ Particularly with Gen Z, there seems to be this idealisation of organised Italian crime.
This shift is subtle, but significant. Across social media platforms like TikTok and Instagram, mafia-inspired content is proliferating. When you search ‘mafia’ on TikTok, the suggested next word is ‘aesthetic’ or ‘mob wife style’. What was once framed as dangerous is now being stylised today; the mafia feels aspirational rather than alarming and is now being repackaged as entertainment for younger audiences.
There has always seemed to be a romanticisation revolving around the mafia. Old mafia films like The Godfather and television shows like The Sopranos appear to make this glamorisation of organised crime acceptable.
However, in parts of Italy, organised crime is undergoing a quiet transformation. For much of its history, the mafia depended on violence and secrecy. Being known was a risky business, and consequently many mobsters were influenced by omertà – a strict, unwritten code of silence developed in southern Italy as a result of historical distrust of rulers. This culture of silence became a survival mechanism for mafia groups like the Cosa Nostra.
Yet, this no longer applies in the same way today. A recent study from the Fondazione Magna Grecia suggests that platforms like TikTok have allowed mafia-linked figures to be publicly visible in ways that would have been far too dangerous fifty years ago. It appears as if the mafia are moving closer to an influencer culture rather than the traditional image of the mob. Reputation is now being built on likes and comments, not in the back rooms.
Long-established mafia networks appear to be actively experimenting with their social media presence online as part of a wider strategy to reinforce their brand publicly.
Social media platforms are designed to reward content that is visually appealing and has a strong emotional connection behind it, and the glorified mafia lifestyle fits into that. It signals wealth, control, and rebellion within seconds, and this sort of content seems to do very well in an attention economy.
Media researchers warn that this is particularly alarming for younger users as this idea of power and success can be misunderstood with repeated exposure to a stylised depiction of crime. This isn’t accidental. Reporting has shown that mafia groups are increasingly aware of how digital platforms operate and are changing their behaviour accordingly.
They create the impression that no one can get hurt or is at risk. For people living in areas affected by organised crime in Italy, this disconnect can be frustrating.
‘It’s strange seeing people treat the mafia like a fashion trend,’ a university student from Naples said. ‘Growing up, everyone knew which streets to sort of avoid. That fear doesn’t disappear just because it looks stylish on TikTok.’
Marco, a third year student from the University of Naples who asked for his surname not to be mentioned said, ‘I think people my age don’t take it seriously because they only see it through social media. If you live here, you understand it’s not something glamorous. It’s something people are still scared of.’
So what motivates this new wave of so-called ‘mobfluencers?’ Professor Federio Varese, an organised crime expert at the University of Oxford, describes this as the newest form of mafia brand-building.
He told the Financial Times, ‘The mafia has always been in the business of brand building, and here the medium has changed, but the aims have not . . . Powerful criminal brands reduce the need to use violence, as if you borrow money from me and know I am in the mafia, you already know I am serious. This reputation helps me avoid violence, which attracts attention, so building it is a very rational investment.’
Historically, to have been part of the mafia, it was particularly controlled – dependent on family ties and neighbourhood connections. Social media doesn’t replace these structures; it facilitates and supplements them.
Dr Anna Sergi, a criminologist at the University of Essex, argues that social media allows mafia groups to project their values in much the same way major companies promote their public image online.
She explains that mafia identity does not always align neatly with the crimes the organisations commit. For many members, belonging to a clan is understood as a way of life, one they believe contains positive values. From a criminological standpoint, she suggests, it is unsurprising that people feel compelled to protect and justify that identity – particularly when it is under sustained pressure from the state.
These arguments are convincing, but it’s less clear how well they apply to Italy’s growing mafia-linked trap music scene on YouTube. That tension became visible last year when Domenico Bellocco – reported by Italian media to have family links to the Bellocco clan in Calabria – released his debut track, Numeri Uno, under the stage name Glock 21.
Shot in Rosarno, a town known to be economically disadvantaged, the video leans heavily on familiar symbols of success: luxury cars, weapons, and expensive jewellery. Bellocco boasts of dominance and status throughout the track, presenting himself as an untouchable figure.
The video features several individuals connected to prominent ’Ndrangheta figures, including a woman whose brother was reportedly a fugitive at the time of the song’s release. Bellocco has denied any criminal involvement, insisting that his work should be understood purely as artistic expression.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, his follow-up track appeared to play directly into the controversy. Titled Chiamami Boss (‘Call Me Boss’), it doubles down on imagery of wealth and overt sexual imagery.
Italian prosecutors have warned that organised crime groups are becoming more aware of how important their online presence can be. It can attract interest from young people who feel excluded or alienated from society. They promise money and belonging, something that young people affected by unemployment and who are struggling financially, would find tempting.
There is no application process. No invitation. Just this image that lingers.
Mafia groups have always been associated with sharp commercial instincts, and this explains their shift to having an online presence. Sammy “The Bull” Gravano is a former enforcer for New York’s Gambino crime family who is now becoming increasingly popular on Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube.
Gravano has admitted that he has been involved in 19 killings, a figure that exceeds some of Britain’s most notorious serial offenders. He has since reinvented himself as a digital storyteller. He tends to post podcasts and videos where he discusses his criminal past, describing kidnappings, betrayals, and murders for an audience numbering in the millions. His YouTube content alone has attracted more than 10 million views, despite the fact that the crimes he discusses led to a prison sentence of roughly two decades.
Recognising the demand for mob-themed content online, Gravano has turned notoriety into revenue. His online following is monetised through advertising and branded merchandise, where he appears to be transforming a violent past into a profitable digital enterprise.
One reason why this strategy seems to work is that social media offers distance, and it can present the illusion that online visibility is safer. A video can always be deleted, for example, or an account can be made private.
The TikTok clip that opens this article ends as it began: with admiration. The suits, cars, and villas remain untouched by the realities they hide. What never appears are the threats behind closed doors, the businesses forced to pay, or the communities shaped by fear.
The mafia’s use of social media to attract attention – and potentially new recruits – is not a dramatic or a sudden takeover. Instead, it is a gradual and understated process, one that is easy to overlook and dismiss.
For younger audiences, the risk is not that they will all end up joining criminal groups, but that organised crime begins to feel more admirable and increasingly difficult to recognise for what it truly is.
The mafia no longer looks dangerous; It looks successful. What was once sustained by secrecy and intimidation is now filtered and algorithmically amplified as motivation or lifestyle TikTok content.