The Heart of an Assassin (3 page)

On the balcony above, Fabio was screaming for
the guards.“Joey, Sammy, where are you?” he shouted.

Felicia had grabbed the gun by her bedside
and was heading downstairs when she heard a sound coming from the
living room area, to the right side of the stairs. Raising the
pistol, she leaned against the wall and waited. The second intruder
crept slowly in the darkness. He moved toward the light at the
bottom of the steps and then stopped. She heard a gunshot; it came
from outside, from where they had come in.

Felicia heard another gunshot outside and
moved down the stairs more quickly. As she approached the bottom of
the stairs, she stopped, facing the wall. Pressing up against it,
she reached for the light switch on the other side of the wall with
her left hand.

Suddenly, and before she could turn on the
lights, she heard a muzzled sound and felt a sting to her left
shoulder. Then she heard another muzzled sound and a thump. Falling
back onto the steps, she sat there with her gun aiming at the
entryway.

Nick had spotted the second intruder and
fired. Nick moved swiftly into the library on his left and
extracted what he came for and was out the door within fifteen
seconds. As he exited the house, he spotted another man dressed in
black clothes running from the house. Nick took aim and fired,
hitting him in the upper-right thigh, causing the man to scream in
pain. Within thirty seconds, Nick was on his way back to the
Hampton Inn.

Before returning the car to the exact spot
from where he had stolen it, Nick wiped it clean and restored the
wiring under the steering wheel to its original state. He returned
to the inn and slipped back in unnoticed, then treated the injury
on his shoulder. A couple of Band-Aids and rubbing alcohol, and he
was good to go.

Nick realized that he had made a real error
when he was at the mansion. He should have stayed hidden until he
was one hundred percent sure that he would not be seen. It was a
stupid move. Should have kept my eye on them. I was stupid.

The next day, dressed in a black trench coat,
white shirt, and dungarees, Nick took the LIRR back to New York
City.

July 7,
1964 (Long Island, New York 12:40 a.m.)

Fabio reached the bottom of the stairs where
Felicia lay holding her left shoulder; she had been shot. He peered
into the living room where he spotted someone lying on the floor.
Aiming his gun at the body, Fabio approached with caution, turning
on the light as he entered the room. The guy had been shot in the
head, and what remained of his life lay in a pool of blood like a
halo around what was left of his skull. Yeah, but this guy was no
angel. Who the fuck is that, Fabio thought.

Returning to his sister, he helped her up and
moved her away toward the kitchen, still trying to figure out what
the hell happened. Fabio wasn’t sure if they were safe and was
being very cautious. A minute ago, he heard a muffled scream coming
from outside the house but had not heard anything more since. The
house was dead quiet, like the bodies invading his home and
landscape. Fabio knew who ordered the hit. “But what the fuck, we
should all be dead now.”

Reaching for the phone, Fabio called Leo
Russo’s home half a mile away. “Leo, get over here fast. Some guys
tried to take us out, and I think they are still here,” he
whispered into the phone.

Leo immediately woke his sons, Jimmy and
Encino, and a couple of associates, and raced toward Fazio’s home.
As they approached the front of the estate, they spotted a man
limping away from the house. They pulled up behind him and jumped
out of the car. The individual turned and raised a gun. Leo fired,
hitting him in the shoulder. They all ran toward the assailant,
reaching him at the same time, and grabbed him before he could use
the gun.

“Bring him,” Leo ordered. Grabbing the
gunman, they jumped back into the car and drove up the driveway,
peering into the darkness for any other unwelcomed guests. The
group got out and ran for the house, dragging their bloody friend
with them. The perimeter of the house was secured while, with
extreme caution, Leo entered with his guns, moving from room to
room.

“Fabio, Felicia, where are you?” Leo
shouted.

“In the kitchen,” they heard Fabio shout.

“Where is Fazio?” asked Leo.

“He stayed in Brooklyn last night,” responded
Fabio.

“Jimmy, get a few guys out to Brooklyn. Call
ahead and tell them what happened,” Leo ordered.

Encino, Leo’s oldest son, remained outside to
check the grounds and reported that both guards, Sammy and Joey,
were dead. Additionally, there was another corpse out there whom he
didn’t know.

“What... who... show me the fuckin’ bastard.
He’s probably lucky he is dead,” Fabio said.

They all went outside to examine the guy.
“Looks like he was shot twice,” Leo stated. “Encino, hurry and get
all of these bodies out of here, just in case anyone heard the
gunshots and called the police. Find the car they came in and dump
them in it, then drive it to the Costellino’s. Let the family find
it and think about whether they should be kissing their asses
good-bye,” Leo ordered.

“I’ll take care of it, boss,” Encino
replied.

They all went back into the house to check on
how Felicia was doing. They found her sitting in the library,
sipping a glass of wine as one of the men tended to her shoulder.
Fabio described the scene outside to her.

“So who shot all these bastards?” asked
Felicia.

“I thought you did, little sister!” said
Fabio.

“No, not me. I never got off a shot, before
getting hit,” she replied.

“Who then?” asked Leo.

“Maybe Sammy, or Joey got off a few shots
before they got hit,” interjected Fabio.

“Don’t think it was possible. They were found
pretty far from the house,” responded Leo.

“Why don’t we ask our friend here,” Leo
suggested, pointing to the thug they brought in from outside. It
turned out his name was Joseph Ricci, and he was in from
Chicago.

Felicia stood up and looked down at Joseph
Ricci, who was lying on the floor. Felicia could tell he was
nervous, probably an amateur at this. “Now, you listen up. I can
tell you are Italian, and I don’t believe in shooting our own
people. So here is what we are going to do. We are going to tell
everyone that you ran from the scene like a coward. Let’s see how
they greet you in Chicago,” Felicia told him. “Of course, if you
give us all the information we want we’ll let you go and you fend
for yourself. Anyone asks, we simply say we killed all three of
you. So how about it” Felicia asked him.

“How do I know you aren’t lying to me?” he
asked her.

“You don’t,” Felicia responded. “But we
haven’t got anything to lose. Think about it.” She responded.

Joe knew a no-brainer when he heard one. He
would be dead within a week if they found out he ran. “Okay, okay.
. . I’ll tell you everything. But, but you got to get me out of the
state,” he said. If the Costellinos caught him, death would be the
least of his problems.

Felicia, looking him straight in the eye,
said, “No, you get the fuck out of the state on your own. We’ll
provide you with a car, and where you go, I really don’t care. But
you do as we ask and then you disappear. You understand?”

“Sure, sure, I understand,” responded
Joe.

“Leo, go and see if you can catch up with
Encino. Tell him to bring that car to the front of the house,”
Felicia said.

“Yes, Ms. Giordano,” he responded. Joe could
see that she had a lot of power and that she must really be the
head of the family.

Felicia had him call Bolnaldo Costellino,
pretending to be one of the other hit men, and told him that the
job had been done, and that not only was both Felicia and Fabio
dead, but they also got John De Luca.

“Pick him up,” she ordered.

They picked up Ricci and carried him toward
the car now sitting in front of the house. He turned to Felicia and
said, “Thank you.”

Felicia raised a gun, which Leo had handed
her, put a bullet in Joseph Ricci’s head and responded, “You’re
welcome.”

“Encino, on second thought, forget about
dumping the car where they can find it. We want it dumped in some
secluded spot, like Jersey. We don’t want anyone finding the car
for a long time, and nobody in Jersey gives a fuck if there’s
nothing in it for them,” Leo told him.

Encino drove away with all three bodies
stuffed in the trunk of the car, followed by one of Leo’s sons in
another car.

Going back into the house, they discussed
what had happened and what their next move should be.

They sat there quietly thinking about what
had occurred when the phone rang. Leo picked it up. “Hello, who is
this?” he said into the phone. “What ? When? We’ll be right there!”
Leo shouted. Hanging up the phone, he looked to Felicia and then to
Fabio. “Your father has been shot. He’s. . . he’s dead,” he said as
tears welled up in his eyes, as they slowly filled with hatred and
revenge.

Fabio was already moving with thoughts of
Costellino blood paving the streets of Manhattan. Felicia stood
transfixed, eyes hardening into a deadly stare. Death would be a
prayer that would be answered slowly and sweetly.

July 7,
1964 (New York)

From a distance, “Chapel of Love” played from
an open window of one of the six-story tenement buildings that
lined both sides of the street. It was a hot summer afternoon in
upper Manhattan, and it was the bottom of the ninth inning.
Eleven-year-old Charlie McNally was up. Charlie was their best
hitter, so Tyler moved back, going deep.

Charlie let the first pitch go by. “What’sa
matter, Charlie, you afraid of the ball?” shouted Jimmy Johnson
from the third base fire hydrant.

The Mustang parked on the right-hand side of
the street was first base and the hubcap in the center was second.
The Yankee Streeter’s were losing 4-3 to the Sidewalk Mets with two
outs and Rick Thompson on second.

This was the pitch, as ten-year-old Davie
Costanzo let the ball go. Charlie took a full swing but only nicked
the bottom of the ball, causing it to pop up high. Tyler looked up
and saw it heading his way. Everyone began to shout to Tyler to
move back.

This was it. He was going to be the hero.
Easy catch, easy out, thought Tyler as he moved back slightly and
extended his glove to meet the ball.

The ball started to descend toward Tyler’s
glove. Tyler extended as far as he could to meet the oncoming ball
when suddenly a hand stuck out in front of him and caught the ball
just above Tyler’s glove. “Hey! What the hell!” shouted Tyler.

He turned to see a tall stranger wearing a
black trench coat and dark glasses smiling down at him. “Sorry,
son, but it was going to hit me,” replied the stranger.

“Interference!” shouted Jimmy.

“No way,” answered Charlie.

“He was going to catch it,” remarked the
stranger.

“Do over!” shouted most of the other
kids.

The stranger handed the ball to Tyler,
stating that he would’ve caught the ball. “Yeah, whatever,” Tyler
replied. “I know I would’ve caught the ball. You should have
stepped aside and let me catch the ball, mister.”

“Sorry, kid. Really, I am sorry,” responded
the stranger.

Before the stranger moved on, he turned to
Tyler and asked if he knew where 224 St. Nicholas was. “Hey, that’s
my building,” replied Tyler as he pointed down the street. “Look
for a fat man sitting on the steps with a gray shirt.”

The stranger moved on down the block toward
his destination, smiling at the kids as he walked past them. “Hey,
guys, he would’ve caught the ball, honest,” he interjected.

“Yeah right,” replied Charlie.

After some time, the boys decided to let it
go and play another time. They moved down the block toward the
building next to Tyler’s, where they parked themselves on the
stoop, listening to the Beatles sing, “I Want To Hold Your Hand”
from a nearby opened window.

The eleven-year-olds were a true mix of New
York City’s melting pot. Jimmy Johnson and Rick Thompson were
black, Tyler Santiago and Adam Ruiz were Hispanic, Davie Costanzo
was Italian, and Charlie McNally was Irish. They all attended PS125
and had been friends for more than two years.

On the next stoop sat Fat Man, one of the
tenants occupying an apartment in the building where Tyler and his
mom lived. He was a six foot tall Italian, weighing 220 plus
pounds, who enjoyed sitting on the stoop, watching the folks go by
while listening to songs by Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Tony
Bennett on his portable radio.

Across the street was the ever-present Uncle
Ted sitting on his stoop at 223 St. Nicholas. Uncle Ted, who was
also Italian, was about five foot nine, weighing around 190 pounds.
No matter how hot it was, you could count on Uncle Ted to be
wearing a smart jacket over a collarless shirt with matching pants
and shoes. The kids liked him ’cause every once in a while he would
treat them to ice cream. Although he was, for the most part, an
introvert, he had a warm smile for everyone.

After a short time, the stranger appeared
with the super of Tyler’s building. It seemed as if he rented the
only apartment available, the one across from Tyler and his mom.
The stranger walked down the steps and turned right, heading up the
block and passing the kids.

“Hey, mister, you moving in?” asked
Jimmy.

“Maybe,” he replied.

They looked after the tall stranger as he
walked away. “Hey, he’s a cool-looking dude,” remarked Davie.

“Bet you he knows karate and kung fu,” Jimmy
added.

“Yeah, he’s probably an undercover cop and is
looking for you for trying to steal second base,” Charlie remarked
to Rick. They all laughed out loud.