Cosa Nostra: The Next Generation of Mafioso

By Patrick D'Andrea

Where the other gangster sagas end...

Three stand-up guys emerged from Brooklyn’s tough Canarsie neighborhood. Their infamous ascent through mafia’s ranks would change the face of the Italians’ secret society forever. Cosa Nostra “The Next Generation of Mafioso” is a fast paced thriller with spellbinding consequences.

Political assassination, government conspiracies and international societies are brought to life as Tommy, Sal and Carmine rise from New York’s underworld to restore power to the Italian mafia. These family men prove to be much more as they guide a bloody, unforgiving agenda across several continents. Layers of violence and corruption unfold throughout the story as rival gangs, law enforcement and governments fight for power.

…Cosa Nostra “The Next Generation of Mafioso” begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483419848

Book preview

COSA NOSTRA

THE NEXT GENERATION OF MAFIOSO

PATRICK D’ANDREA

Copyright © 2014 Patrick D’andrea.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1985-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1984-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 11/21/2014

CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

I

T he night was darker than usual; the absence of the moon behind a dark gray sky did nothing for visibility or nerves. The leafless trees spread a venial array of branches across the sky. It was late, and dew had begun to settle. A slight chill accompanied the evening, making being outside uncomfortable as well as eerie.

We pulled the collars on our coats up and closer to our ears to fight some of the chill. The shadows changed shapes as fast as our imaginations. Looking up and down the block, we could not see anything. At times, we would catch ourselves fixed on something, only to realize there was nothing there. We thought we saw something else move and then became fixated on nothing again.

With the exception of a very dim streetlight in the middle of the block, the shadows were our adversaries. Our imaginations were lurking in them. Moonless nights were perfect for doing business; with the exception of being creepy as hell, it made it hard for anyone to identify us.

Since the boss loved these nights, everyone got used to them. I always thought it made it harder for us to see, but that would be a comment best kept to myself. Mikey and I had been waiting outside for about ten minutes, and we were expecting the boss anytime. Among the many things we would do that night, one was being lookouts. It was our job to observe everything around us: who belongs, who doesn’t, and where the eyes are.

In this city, someone was always watching. Finding the busybodies and the eyes that went with them sometimes meant standing in the dark for hours. Not attracting attention to yourself was something we constantly reminded ourselves of. No moon, no loitering outside long enough to make the neighbors nervous, and no cell phones. If they cannot have cell phones in the White House, what in the hell makes you think the boss wants them around him.

We had been set up in the basement for two hours. While Mikey and I waited, we talked about the Yankees getting the crap kicked out of them by the Red Sox earlier in the evening. Of course, talk like that normally led to which player we would like to clip the most. Most often, it was a Red Sox player, but if the shoe fit, an occasional Yankee name would pop up.

Almost every other sentence in the conversation shifted from the game to neighborhood. It was like having two different discussions without missing a beat. Except for a few juvenile delinquents playing on Avenue L, everything was quiet.

Mikey got irritated with the kids playing outside at this hour; none of them looked old enough to be in junior high school. He would talk crazy about wanting to kick the crap out of their parents. He had four kids of his own, and no matter where or when we were doing a job, he always knew when there were kids around. He eyeballed every one of them like they were his own.

He cost us a cool hundred grand last year. He saw a kid inside a Queens jewelry store we were about to hit, and he decided to drive off rather than pulling off the job. The problem with driving off is that two of our crew had begun to get out of the car.

Frankie Lapino jumped back in, cursing and yelling. He didn’t know what was going on, and he thought Mikey had seen the cops.

Tommy D’Amico was not so lucky. He barely had one leg in the car when Mikey sped off, snapping the one outside like a toothpick.

We drove straight to the hospital, cursing and laughing the entire way.

Tommy passed out from the pain before he knew what had happened.

We went way back together; since our whole crew grew up in Canarsie, events like this were nothing new to us. We were always screwing around and costing each other money.

Tommy was crazy, and he was going to be majorly pissed off. Mikey was his kid brother, and he didn’t even catch a beating for that stunt. If anyone else had done that to Tommy, we would have driven a dead body to the docks.

Mikey stopped complaining about the kids when he noticed headlights of a large SUV coming slowly down the street toward us. We took our place in the shadows of the alley and waited to see if they were turning in. We reached inside our jackets and gripped our pistols. In our business, we needed to watch out for setups. It was a shitty feeling, but in this business setups come from those closest to you.

The car crept closer, turned into the alley, and dimmed its lights.

Mikey held his hand to his head like he was talking on a phone and motioned like he was tossing it in a garbage can. He was making sure I did not have my phone on me.

I just nodded and gave a small wave.

Better to be safe than dead, he said with a hideous laugh.

In the alley, there were barely a couple feet on either side of the vehicle. The first door to open was the passenger side. It was Salvatore Sally Genaro, the boss’s bodyguard. He reached back to open the rear door and Tommy Luciano stepped out.

Carmine—the driver and other lifelong goombah—joined them. Like a frequently practiced military maneuver, each man took a place around the car and placed his hand inside his jacket.

Tommy looked around as he exited the vehicle and then moved to greet Mikey and Jerry. Mr. Luciano loved talking with Mikey about family. It made Mikey feel good that the boss could remember each of his kid’s names and his wife’s birthday and anniversary.

Is everything ready? he asked.

Yes, boss, I replied.

He rubbed his hand on my cheek and gave me a parental tap. Great. Let’s finish this tonight.

As I began to guide him toward the metal doors that led to the cellar, Sal stopped us.

Jerry, who is downstairs?

That crazy bastard was always looking for a reason to accidentally kill someone. Only Gino and the boss’s package, I replied.

Was the package cleaned before it got here? Sal asked.

Yes, Mr. Genaro. If I said the place was clean and any recording devices or bugs were found, I would be a dead man. It would be considered a security violation.

As the boss was talking with Mikey, he kept a curious ear on the exchange between Sal and Jerry. He never hurried any process. He was very careful and expected everyone around him to do the same.

With a nod, Sal motioned for Carmine to check the basement before the boss went down.

Carmine went down, and after a few minutes, he came back up and motioned for everyone to go down. Very few words were spoken, which was how the boss preferred it, especially when we were outside. Those boys at the National Security Agency are so good they can record our thoughts. Let’s not make things easy on them, he would say.

As we went down, Carmine came up to stay outside with the car.

I went first, followed by the boss, Mikey, and then Sal. I whispered for them to watch their footing going down the stairs. There was no light, and the cement steps were cracked in several places. The walls were cold, and the air felt damp. The stagnant, poorly ventilated cellar gave off a pungent odor capable of provoking anyone’s gag reflex.

At the bottom of the steps, a light shone from under a door to our left. I briefly paused and then motioned the boss toward the door. I reached the door first and opened it, but I did not enter until the boss motioned me through.

The tension in the room was thick. No one knew what to say or who to say it to. The package the boss was looking for was bound and gagged in a chair across the room.

Joey Massio was a tough guy from Bay Ridge and been in the family quite some time. A boss turned rat, this was a disgrace that made waves clear across the Atlantic. The commission sanctioned it. The Italians oversees were watching, but it was personal for Tommy. An infamous Bonanno boss, his betrayal further weakened the once powerful crime syndicate the mafia was infamous for being.

Joey deserved no honor, and Tommy wanted him to know his actions would ripple through the family. He thought he was untouchable and frequently disregarded commission orders. The commission had already placed a contract on him for being involved in an international drug bust with the Russians and Afghanis. This brought unwanted attention on several continents, and Massio was right in the middle. The FBI and Interpol wasted no time in turning rats. When he was seen near Federal Plaza, the commission ordered his contract expedited.

Two years earlier, each of the five bosses told their families to stay away from Federal Plaza and any of the tunnels and exits that could be accessed by the building. This was the commission’s way of not making it so easy on rats and moles. Any violation of this new order would be punishable by death.

The FBI’s response to this news was deliberate harassment. They would pick up a wise guy and drop him off at Federal Plaza. Fear ran so rampant that a young soldier with the Genovese crew refused to drive his pregnant wife the most direct route to the hospital while she was giving birth. He would wind up watching her have the baby in the car. We heard she was so pissed off that she divorced him.

Last year, they picked up a young enforcer from the Lucchese family and dropped him off there. He was so scared that he stripped naked and walked down the middle of the street to show his boss he wasn’t hiding anything and making sure everyone saw him. He made the Internet and the evening news, but he was not arrested. The commission met on him as well. Luckily for him a contract was never ordered. They did, however, declare his street name to be Frankie the Foot.

Joey had been roughed up a bit. He knew what was going on and had not come willingly. He remained partially clothed so the boss could see he had been checked for bugs and wires.

The boss slid a chair in front of him, and they stared at each other. It probably wasn’t a minute, but it seemed like days for all of us.

Joey stared into a puddle on the floor. Fuck you, Tommy, and your high-flying attitude. He spat at Tommy’s feet in defiance.

"Omerta, Joey. These words mean nothing to you. As such, you and your family will mean nothing to us."

Joey knew the rules, but hearing them directed at him made him raise his head. His contorted, bruised face was beginning to show signs of fear. He did not want to hear any more of what Tommy had to say, Just do what youse got to do.

I am going to kill your wife and kids. And then, because you are one of those rat-fucks who can’t keep to one woman, I am going to kill your girlfriend and her family—just to make sure I get to someone you care about.

The room was silent. Both men stared at each other as there were nothing else to say.

A violation of Omerta was punishable by death. Not holding to this vow of silence ruined Cosa Nostra. Violating Omerta had always been punishable by death. Hell, the order now was they would kill your family, mother, neighbors, and friends. It was no longer a lunchtime decision for rats, and the FBI’s pool dried up.

Joey’s silence seemed more like a humiliated confession.

The boss slid his chair back, raised his hands over his face as if he were washing it, and paused with one hand on his chin. It was like he was staring through Joey. He slowly stood and briefly cut his eyes at Sal. He motioned for Mikey and me to turn our backs on him, which meant he was dead. He was nothing to the family.

Crack, crack.

We knew it was coming, but it still startled us. Sal had put two bullets in Joey’s head, and just like that, it was over. Joey slumped over.

Sal checked his pulse and put two more bullets in his heart. He looked at the boss and said, It’s done.

"This piece of shit violated Omerta. If I am the only one left in our family, we will have silence. Tommy paused. Without silence, we cannot exist."

We looked on without saying anything, waiting for our orders.

Crap. What the hell? Joey is gone? We had dinner last night with our wives and kids. The commission ordered this, and saying anything could get us in the same boat. I had to tell myself to let it go and never mention that it bothered me to anyone. If I were seen as weak, I would eventually get whacked because someone didn’t trust me.

After fixing a drink and telling us to do the same, the boss looked at Mikey and me. He said, Who is cleaning this up?

It will be Mikey and me, boss.

The boss gave us each a hug, turned, and slowly walked toward the door. Sally will give you your instructions. Follow them exactly.

We simultaneously responded, Yes, boss, and he walked out of the room.

Mikey and I knew what was coming, and cleaning up sucked.

Cut the bastards head and hands off. Take them to Leo at the Bronx Zoo. He is the night watchman. He knows you’re coming. Meet him at the Southern Boulevard Gate at 3:00 a.m.—not 2:59, not 3:01. Don’t screw this up.

Yes, Sal, I replied.

Sal looked at Mikey and said, "Cut his body in half and put it in that fifty-gallon drum over there. There is a box truck outside. Put gloves on before you touch anything on or near the truck. The keys are in it. You listening, kid? Drive the truck to Berth 17, off Distribution Street, on the Jersey side. Park it, leave the keys in the ignition, don’t lock it, and walk away. Got it. There are gloves, cell phones, and saws in the box under the table. Get