I Was A Mafia Child

By Mike Romano

"He kills people," Gianna said when asked what her father did for a living. "I Was A Mafia Child",is a true story about a young girl who was subjected to some of the most violent and trecherous ways of the mafia. From a unique perspective, she tells of the inner workings of the most secretive gangland in history. Armed only with her internal strength and a faith in God,she managed to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Romano
• Release date: Mar 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301277186

Mike Romano

Mike Romano was born in Cleveland, Ohio where after two years moved to California, where he met his wife, and completed his education with a bachelor of science degree. Always with the dream of becoming a writer, Mike jumped from one job to another until he enrolled in a writing class. After a self published book, "Murder In Palm Springs," which recieved many positeve reviews, and an article he wrote which appeared in Palm Springs Life Magazine, he met Gianna, who had a fascinating life story to tell about her life with the mafia. Several years of diligent work resulted in "I Was A Mafia Child." Mike now resides in Palm Springs with his wife where he continues his writing career.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Six-year-old Gianna sits in the front seat of her father’s 1942 Packard, playing with her Raggedy Ann Doll. Her curly blonde hair flowed gently down to her shoulders. Staring straight ahead, Joseph ignores her. He pulls the car in front of The Meat Packing Company and turns the engine off.

With a harsh Italian accented voice, he says. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back. Keep the windows closed and the doors locked. Do you understand what I say?

With sad eyes, Gianna looks up at her father and says in a meek voice, Yes Father.

Joseph enters the Meat Packing Company where carcasses of pigs and cows hang from large hooks on conveyor belts. The sounds of grinding machines and knives slicing into fresh slabs of meat fill the air. A burly man wearing a blood soaked apron nods at Joseph and motions down the line in the direction of another man. Joseph nods back and walks towards the worker. The man sees Joseph coming, scowls and turns away.

With a loud voice, Joseph yells, I hear you don’t want to join the union, Frank. What is the problem?

I don’t need your god-damned union. I give my money to no one.

Joseph approaches Frank and puts his arm around his shoulders. Won’t you reconsider, Frank? It’s important that all comply.

Frank tries to pull Joseph’s arm from around him. This is America. Here we are free to do what we want.

Joseph draws a large knife from his belt and repeatedly stabs Frank in the stomach. Moaning, he slumps into Joseph’s arms. Joseph carries Frank’s limp body over to a grinding machine and dumps him into the vat. A few men see this and quickly look away.

Joseph walks to the washroom, where he cleans the blood from his knife and hands and then returns to the car. Noticing Gianna playing with the radio, he says. What did I tell you about not touching anything? You could push the wrong button and hurt yourself.

Gianna hugs her Raggedy Ann. Sorry, Father.

The next day in the paper, the headlines read, MAN ACCIDENTALLY FALLS INTO MEAT GRINDER.

From then on the union had a 100% enrollment.

CHAPTER 1

A cool fall breeze brushed across my face as I hurried up the slight incline on Mayfield road. Clasping my third grade reader in my arms, I needed to get home to help mother prepare a spaghetti dinner before father arrived. He often returned home drunk and slapped her if it wasn’t ready. Stopping in my tracks, I looked up in time to see several neighborhood bullies blocking my way, two of them often picked on me.

Hey, little girl? Where’re you going in such a hurry? One boy shouted.

Leave me alone, I pleaded. I have to get home.

He laughed. How sweet, she has to get home.

Another boy separated from the pack and walked towards me. My knees buckled. What was he going to do? He turned to the others. Shut up, he commanded.

To my surprise, they stopped. With deep brown eyes, he looked at me and smiled.

How are you today, Gianna? Did you have a nice day at school? His kind words soothed me.

Tilting my head, I asked, How do you know my name? I don’t know you.

My name is Franco. I see you all the time.

You do?

He pushed his black curly hair from his forehead. I know your father, Joseph. We go to meetings together.

What did he mean?

Someday when you grow up to your teens, you’re going to be a beautiful girl.

What are teens?

You will be a teen when you get older like me.

Why, you’re an old man.

He laughed. I’m only six years older than you.

We stood looking at each other. Why are you talking to me when nobody on the Hill speaks to me, because my hair is light, unlike theirs?

He shook his head. It’s not just that, you can be friendly with only so many people on the Hill. Your father is ‘top dog’ and the neighbors are afraid to be friendly with you. He paused. Your father does bad things.

I hung my head. He’s mean to my mother.

It’s more than that, Gianna. Someday you will learn.

I have to go. Mother will be waiting for me.

Franco stepped aside. His friends parted and let me through. Be careful going home.

Franco seemed like a nice boy, but his words confused me. What did he mean my father was top dog? And what meetings did they go to? In a hurry to get home, I picked up my pace, ran up the side steps leading to my kitchen, and looked around.

Mother, are you here?

Figuring she was still at church, I went to the pantry to get a cookie, when voices coming from the living room caught my attention. I peeked through the opened door. Sitting in a circle, close to my father, were three other men. My father was not a big man, unlike two of his friends. One I knew as Sonny, a large man with a big belly and several chins. He had a large scar on his lip, jagged teeth, and smelled like he hadn’t taken a bath in weeks. The second man, a stranger to me, was almost as big as Sonny. He leaned forward, exposing a gun and holster. Did my father also have a gun? The third man, smaller than the others, was Little Anthony DiNardo. With his pencil thin mustache and slicked down black hair, he sat on the edge of his seat listening to my father’s words.

The Tommy-guns are buried, but if needed we can dig them up. We put the wall there with a purpose - to keep the niggers out of our neighborhood. If this is not enough, we’ll kill the sons-of-bitches, regardless of age, put their feet in cement, and bury them in Lake Erie. capeesh?"

Feeling sick to my stomach at Father’s words, I jumped back from the door.

The men nodded.

I didn’t stay up all night sitting behind that wall with my gun for nothing, my father continued. The police better keep their mouths shut if they want their money. We’ll bring in guns from Dayton if we need to.

My father ended the conversation by saying fallo, which meant, do it, no questions asked. I remained undetected as the men left through the front door. With a grin, my father sat back in his chair just as mother entered the kitchen.

Running to her, I told her what Father had said.

Why does he say such things, Mother?

She took my hand and led me outside.

You mustn’t talk about things like that. You must never repeat your father’s words. He provides for us, and you must remember, the family always comes first and should always be respected, no matter what.

I pulled my arm from her grasp. I think he’s a son-of-a-bitch.

Mother’s eyes widened, Where did you get words like that?

He says them all the time. You want to hear more?

She gently shook me. No! I don’t ever want you to say those words again. Her expression turned from anger to concern. Her voice softened. Gianna, a mafia’s daughter is most deserving of pity. You are a saint within yourself, but you have a dangerous independent spirit in you and I worry that someday it will cause you problems.

The word mafia was not foreign to me. My father’s words gave meaning to what Franco had told me, never again mentioning what I had heard that day. That night I wrote in my diary. A boy talked to me today. I don’t know if I like boys. I hate my father.

My parents were as different as the distance that once separated them. Mother, Rosemary Russo, came from Sorrento, a rural area near Naples, where her father owned a winery. My father, Joseph Conti, came from Caltanissetta, a small town in Sicily. Mother was only fourteen when they married by proxy; a prearranged marriage that united their vineyards. After they married, they first moved to New York, and then to Cleveland.

Standing a mere five feet to my father’s five-nine, my mother had red hair, green eyes and light skin. Having inherited her fair complexion, my honey blonde hair and blue eyes made me an outcast in my own neighborhood, where others had olive skin and dark hair.

Living in a veil of isolation placed by the community, I read a lot and spent most of my time in the kitchen, helping mother prepare dinners, grinding sausage, or baking bread. I was a skinny child and seldom ate. Often sick to my stomach, I threw-up a lot. Mother gave me a cup of olive oil to drink every day. She said, You will have beautiful skin when you grow up,

My diary became a safe place for me to express my feelings. Franco made me feel good, but these feelings were foreign to me. My father never showed any affection to mother, never kissing her or even touching her except in a mean way. I wrote; Mother is an angel, so kind and sweet. She never says a bad word about anybody, not even father. She often said to me, We must pray for your father’s soul.

Stomping my feet, I insisted, I will never pray for him.

I hated to leave my mother’s side, and I would never have gone to school if it weren’t for Franco waiting to greet me. Those bullies in the neighborhood never picked on me again.

Each day, I watched for Franco and felt bad if he wasn’t there, yet, he always seemed to be waiting for me when I needed him. Riding my bike in the park one day, my tire blew a flat, causing me to fly over my handle-bars, and landing hard on the cement, crying. Moments later Franco came, picked me up, put me in his father’s car, and drove me home. He walked me to my front door and told my mother what had happened. She thanked him, and just as quickly, he left.

We lived just east of Cleveland, in a small ethnic community known as the Murray Hill District, which encompassed an area less than a square mile, population of about 2,500 foreign born Sicilians, and was appropriately known as Little Italy. We called it the Hill.

To the casual observer the Hill seemed like a quiet ethnic neighborhood, its streets lined with family-owned restaurants, delicatessens, and bars. Street venders set up along the sidewalks selling everything from fruits and poultry, to clothing. Little old ladies walked up and down the streets wearing flower print dresses, pulling two-wheel shopping carts, while the aroma of fresh sweet breads and pastries came from the corner bakery. Children played stickball in any one of the many vacant lots. The Hill was a place where shop owners greeted you as you passed by, calling you by name, and families went to mass at the Holy Rosary Church. Lattices laced with grape vines hung over nearly every driveway. Grandfathers used the fruit to make their own wine. Most of the men on the Hill worked hard as masons for long hours and little pay, in order to feed their families. Others became merchants or took up trades as tailors or shoemakers, men with good morals, who went to church every Sunday to honor the sacraments, and where many of our young boys left to fight the war in Europe. It was a community where women and children could safely walk the streets, except not the men who didn’t play by the rules.

Another, more sinister community existed, hidden within the family neighborhoods. In truth, there were two separate worlds functioning side by side, each ignoring the other, and where twenty-twenty eye sight, along with excellent hearing, did one no good. For no one spoke of the men whose families owned bars, and were oftentimes beaten in back allies for not playing by the rules. There might be bars used as fronts for illegal activities; or, there might be restaurants where men were shot down as they ate at their favorite foods, sometimes even shot down in family homes. These were men in heavy black coats, with hidden guns they kept tucked close to their hearts. In time I learned about the dark Little Italy, because my father was one of those men.

Our two-story brick house, consisted of a big kitchen in the back, where mother spent most of her time cooking and baking for my father, and the men he brought home. It had three bedrooms upstairs: my mother’s, and mine, and a smaller room where my father slept on a day bed.

Although my father could afford to buy a nicer home outside the neighborhood, he hid his wealth on the less assuming Hill. He bought a new 1944 Packard, but he never bought a Cadillac. He kept a tight rein on mother, giving her a limited amount of money for food, clothing, and certainly never enough to take the streetcar downtown to Cleveland.

We must live like others do, he said. Living wealthy wouldn’t be right. How could I explain it?

Mother, frail and often ill, had a sadness around her that I blamed on my father. When she cried it made me feel more lost, helpless and isolated. Still, we went to church every morning. Sometimes Father joined us on Sundays.

Joseph, do you realize some day you’re going to have to pay God for your crimes? she said.

I’m not worried. I’m paying to God right now, he growled. I give a lot of money to the church. Do not concern yourself with my business. You ought to be happy somebody married you, because you are so sickly. Then when they were alone he’d slap her.

The priest and nuns liked my father, because he gave them so much money. They knew where the money came from, but like others on the Hill, they also knew when not to ask questions.

My father came from a good Christian family, raised by kind loving parents, who raised two other sons, George and Thomas, who went on to work as a personal assistant to Pope Pius X11 in Rome. My Aunt Mary told me my grandfather made his own wine and that my father, from the age of six, drank from his father’s barrel until he got drunk. Drinking became a way of life for my father. Not that this was an excuse for his outrageous behavior, or for the fact that he held an allegiance to the wrong famiglia, a cruel reality I learned the hard way.

CHAPTER 2

Some of the happiest times for mother and me came when father went out of town on business. He told mother where he was going, like New York or Detroit, but never why. He did have a job at a meat packing company, but he seldom if ever worked. He once took me there and showed me the stripped carcasses of cows and pigs hanging from the conveyer belts, while showing me the different cuts of meat. I learned from an early age where my hamburgers came from.

Those were times I wished my father would never come back. All I wanted was to take care of Mother protect her and cook for her. I would clean the house for her and one time, when she left, not knowing any better, I polished the furniture with olive oil. But she never complained.

With Father out of town, peace flourished in the house, and we’d spend most of our time in the kitchen where Mother taught me how to cook.

She said, You cook better than me, Gianna. Your raviolis taste like little soft pillows. I beamed with pride.

Several years passed, when Father returned from one of his trips, bringing the darkness with him. While I was on the phone talking to Franco, he yelled at me, which set off a series of unforgettable events.

Gianna, get off the phone. How many times do I have to tell you not to tie up the lines? I’m expecting an important call.

Slamming down the receiver, I ran outside and climbed in the back seat of Father’s car. It was a cool spring evening, so I grabbed a blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around my legs. In a matter of minutes, Father and two of his friends came out of the house and walked towards the car. Quickly I fell to the floor, covering myself up with the blanket.

My father and one of the men sat in the front seat, while the other unknowingly slid into the seat next to me. I heard the car start, as it rolled down the driveway. Father mentioned something about going to the Flats. I dared not move, for fear of being discovered.

The Flats were located about ten miles away, in the center of downtown Cleveland underneath the freeway, nestled along the Cuyahoga River. It was a workman’s section of town with low-income housing projects and lots of bars. Its main feature was the U. S. Steel factory, with its towering smoke stacks blowing plumes of polluting black smoke into the air. Feeling the bumps of the road, I had more to worry about than pollution.

The men spoke in Italian, but I was able to make out that they were to meet a man at a bar. I lay very still, afraid to breathe, while the car seemed to go on forever. It finally came to a stop, but the engine remained running. The rancid smell of sulfur and burning ore confirmed my suspicion that we had stopped in the Flats.

A man, my father called Vincent, got into the car on my side, with his feet landing on me. "Chi ne chissu? meaning What is this?"

I sheepishly peeked out from the blanket. Father swiveled in his seat and pointed at me with the glare of the devil.

What are you doing here? he yelled. As if stumbling for words, he said. I’ll deal with you later. Stay under that blanket and keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. Don’t mention this to anyone, not even your mother. You could get us both killed.

Shaking with fear, I ducked back under the blanket as the car drove off, before coming to an abrupt stop. The sound of men’s voices, and doors opening and closing filled the air. Something was pushing down on me to the point where I couldn’t breathe. Father drove a little further until they let Vincent out of the car. The weight of what was pressing down on me caused me to hyperventilate.

Pushing myself up in an attempt to get air, I noticed a gun under the seat. My heart raced as I clutched it in my hand. If he hurts Mother, I’ll kill him, I whispered.

The car moved on down the road before it came to a stop. The doors opened and closed as he let his men out.

We’ll settle up later, he told them. We’ll have to count them before delivery.

As soon as we got home, Father grabbed me, dragged me out of the car, and into the house, screaming the whole way.

You little bitch! he said, shaking me until I almost threw up. If they kill me, I’ll make sure they kill you too. He continued to shake me until I threw up all over myself, and the floor. Hearing the commotion, Mother came running and slapped him, something she had never done.

She screamed at him. If anyone is going to get killed, it will be you.

As he raised his hand to her, I pointed the gun at him.

He stopped. Clean her up, he said. He turned and walked out of the house.

Mother took me upstairs, gave me a bath, and put me to bed. Unable to fall asleep, I stared at the wall. Like a dark veil being removed from my eyes, I realized the world I lived in was not a normal world; it was one I had to pretend didn’t exist. Forget what you saw, Gianna. You’re not supposed to say that, Gianna. Don’t tell anyone, Gianna. See no evil - hear no evil - speak no evil. Crying myself to sleep, I learned only later that my father and his friends had stolen a truckload of expensive furs that day.

Avoiding my father’s sinister world didn’t always solve my problems, for sometimes his world came to me. Not long after that incident, I was upstairs getting ready for bed, when the sounds of a bang and glass shattering froze me in my tracks. My room darkened and shards of glass cascaded down on me as several more shots rang out. Something hit my neck as I dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed. Reaching up on the bed, I grabbed my Raggedy Ann doll and held her close.

Minutes after the shooting stopped, Mother came running into my room, screaming. Gianna, are you alright? If it weren’t for your father and his business, this mayhem would never happen. I curse the day he was born.

She coaxed me out from under the bed and held me tight. Several bullets had ripped through my room, breaking two windows and a beautiful Tiffany lamp. Tears rolled down my cheeks, as blood ran down my shoulder. Mother took a pair of tweezers and plucked a piece of glass from my neck and washed off the blood. After she swept the floor we went downstairs and she warmed a glass of milk for me. Still clutching my Raggedy Ann, we knelt down and said a rosary, thanking God I wasn’t killed.

That night I lay in my father’s room, unable to fall asleep. When he came home, Mother got out of bed and went downstairs. Immediately they started arguing.

She screamed. Do you know what happened?

Father claimed he didn’t know about the gunshots, but that was hard to believe. The Hill was too small, and he had too many connections not to know. He went down in the basement and brought up a stack of orange crates and piled them in front of the broken window, before coming into my room. Without saying a word, he reached down and brushed back the hair from my forehead. That was the first time he had ever touched me in a nice way. I fell asleep with my arms tightly wrapped around my Raggedy Ann wondering why this happened to me. What had I done wrong?

The next morning the neighborhood buzzed with activity. Our yard filled with people, police, and some of my father’s friends. Father still claimed he knew nothing about the incident. Through the crowd, I saw Franco and ran to him, feeling safe in his presence; knowing he would tell me the truth. There was a connection between the fur heist and the shooting, he said. It was a warning to your father to stay out of the other gang’s territory. The rival gang mistook your room for his.

Besides Mother, my one salvation during my life on the Hill was my developing friendship with Franco, for he treated me like no one else ever had. He liked me as a person, and for the one thing other girls on the Hill didn’t have – my blonde hair.

Gianna, he said, you are a pretty girl, but I see sadness in your eyes. You are smart too, a girl who speaks slowly and thinks of her words before saying them.

Out of respect for me, Franco never touched me or tried to kiss me. He said, When you get older, I’m going to take you to a fine restaurant, but not on the Hill. Don’t ever forget what I say to you.

Not understanding my feeling for him, I often just stared at him, knowing it felt good to be with him. He seldom came to my house to make plans, but always seemed to know how to find me. We talked for hours as he told me about his childhood and growing up in Sicily.

Born Franco Salvatore Carpetelli in August 27, 1928 in Catania, Sicily, a beautiful sea coast city known for its fruits, Marsala wines, and crescent-shaped beaches.

The sun never sets in Catania, he said. And I believed him. Yet, beautiful as it sounded, Catania was also a breeding ground for the mafia.

Franco told his story about of how close he was to his mother, Ann Marie, who called him Sugar or Angel Face. He spent his youth playing baseball and loved to work in the garden growing vegetables, before his childhood came to an end when at nine years old his father, Bruno, took him aside and said, You must always be truthful and loyal to the family and the rest will come easy.

Bruno was talking about their mafia family, and Franco, at an early age, realized that he was being groomed for a high position in the underworld. His mother had no choice but to turn the raising of her beloved son over to his father.

Bruno, a tall, heavy man, had curly black hair and dark eyes, like Franco. But, unlike Franco, who had a classic Roman nose, Bruno had a small snub nose, which made him look unattractive. Already a made man in the mafia, with considerable power, Bruno began the arduous task of transferring his power over to Franco, who became a lonely boy while his father drilled into his head this mafia calling. Bruno taught him the art of pick pocketing, stealing food from outside markets, and running numbers, all before he was nine. Franco never worked in the garden again.

When Franco turned eleven, the mafia promoted Bruno and ordered him to move his family, including his two younger sisters, Francis and Ann Marie, to New York, where they stayed for a short time before moving to Philadelphia. Again promoted to enforcer, Bruno moved his family to Cleveland, and the Hill, in 1941. He told Franco that someday he would have to return to Sicily and claim his title of Godfather, and marry a girl worthy of his new position. This was Franco’s destiny and nothing could change it. At the time I didn’t realize how Franco’s destiny would affect my life.

In Cleveland, Franco rode the streetcar to a private all-boys school, located off the Hill. Every day Bruno met him at the streetcar stop and walked him up the hill, drilling him on the ways of the mob, teaching him the different facets of racketeering, such as, who to know, who to stay away from, and most important, how a percentage of the take always had to travel up the ranks to the Bosses.

Bruno warned, One must pay for the privileges of being a member of the organization. And above all, never steal from the mob.

Franco’s education continued late into the evening, when finally, Bruno took him to the back room of one of the local bars. Franco listened to the men talk about their daily activities, while they discussed how heists were planned and organized. Franco learned from the best gangsters, and it was here, he said, where he met my father.

All too soon, it was time for Franco to prove his worth to the mob. The perfect situation arose when Bruno got word that another gang planned to heist a truckload of tires in his marked territory. Although they worked for the same organization, separate gangs operated in well-defined areas, as I learned the hard way with my father‘s dealings. Any infringement into another gang’s territory was dealt with swiftly and efficiently, as a matter of respect.

One night after diligent planning, Bruno and his men cornered a rival gang and beat them with clubs. After nearly beating one to death, they honored Franco back at the restaurant where a ceremony was held, designating him a made man -- a permanent member of the Costa Nostra.

In a darkened room in back of the bar, the men sat in a circle around Franco. On a table in front of him were placed a gun and a knife. Bruno said, "Tonight you have

Reviews for I Was A Mafia Child

[Venus Lawagey · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful story. A good view about mafia life before. I wonder if mafia are still alive these days.