This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (23 page)

I heard the rumors of my brother John wanting to be a part of the life. I remember the anger and confusion I felt. I was mad at my father for allowing something he’d sworn he had promised he would
never
allow, “no matter what.” I was confused in the end about why my father did in fact allow this to happen, especially given his dreams of having his sons grow up to be legitimate later on in their lives. I wasn’t the only one upset, either.

I remember an argument between my mother and father one night over John. My mother was deeply disturbed that he opted not to go to college and was quite fearful that he would find his way into the lifestyle she had come to loathe. It was one thing to be forced to sit back and “mind your business” when it came to what her husband did for a living, but it was a different story when it came to her own son. She wanted better for him.

It was bad enough that she lived in fear each time my father walked out the door, not knowing if he would come home that night, either because he was arrested or worse, killed. But being forced to sit back and watch her oldest son put himself in harm’s way after already losing a son was devastating. That night my father had tried his best to alleviate her fears and concerns and ended the argument with the promise to my mother that my brother “would always be safe.” Needless to say, Dad’s promise did little to calm her. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so easy to bullshit. I loved my father and all of his redeeming qualities—but I hated his lifestyle and everything associated with the life and what it had to offer. I was tired of worrying about whether or not my father could go back to jail or worse, be killed. I was tired of keeping my anger and resentment bottled up inside. Most of all, I was tired of sitting back and watching history repeat itself. I was determined to talk some sense into my brother. But, after countless discussions, it was obvious his mind was made up. John really believed it was expected of him to follow in Dad’s footsteps. Dad was a complex man to begin with, and after Frankie’s death, he became even harder to understand. He grew colder and more distant. There was little any of us could do to reach him. Unfortunately, John found a way.

I
T WAS NOT
all bad news for my family in the early eighties. We were getting ready for the first Gotti wedding, Angel’s. My sister
and I behaved like two schoolgirls; shopping for a wedding gown, the perfect invites, and bridal party favors. We were always close growing up. Sharing a bedroom always made us closer. I was happy for my sister. No one deserved to be happier than her. But I was also scared. I didn’t want my own room—I didn’t want to be left behind. I set aside my unhappiness though, and watched my sister shine. It was a lavish event at La Mer in Brooklyn. There were nearly six-hundred guests; Dad never did anything on a small scale in those days. Generally the hall was large enough to host three weddings at a time. But Dad rented all three floors, so Angel’s wedding was the only affair that day. She and Louis Albano were married on a sunny day in September 1983. I was the maid of honor. Unlike my wedding plans, Angel had a full male and female bridal party. Because we had three floors of guests, the bride and groom as well as the bridal party had to be announced on all three floors. Angel was exhausted after dancing the first dance three times!

It was the first important Gotti gathering since Frankie’s death, and it was a real tearjerker. Every time a sad song played we all cried. When a special toast was made in memory of my brother Frankie, my sister and I ran to the bathroom in tears. Mom was also inconsolable, while Dad wore his best poker face and tried hard to be an affable and charming host. Yet another sign of Dad’s rise in the life was the obvious ass-kicking going on during the wedding. Men, hundreds at a time, would line up to pay homage to Dad—maybe even get a word or two with him. A lot of these men viewed weddings as a forum for any special needs they might have—like settling “a beef” or some financial wrongdoing. I remember, when I was younger, all the chaos that always went on whenever Dad attended a wedding or a funeral. There was always a line of men and women hoping to see him. Some would even gather around his table waiting for him to get up so they could grab his ear. The night of my sister’s wedding was no different. I felt so
many emotions when Angel got married. I knew it was supposed to be a happy occasion, but I couldn’t get past my own fears. Angel and I used to confide in each other, late at night, before bed. We had thousands of conversations about life—our life. Mostly, we talked about Dad—about how scared we both were because he was in the mob. With Angel leaving, I had no one to confide in, no one to tell me things would be fine. Sure, there was always the telephone, but it wasn’t the same. My sister was moving out and moving on and I was terrified. But I was too embarrassed to tell her or anyone else how I felt. Instead, I smiled and pretended to be happy.

Angel and Louis had a peaceful and relaxing honeymoon in Aruba, and less than four months later, my sister announced she was pregnant. Dad was ecstatic!

I
t was a sunny and unseasonably warm Sunday on December 9, 1984, when I married Carmine Agnello. I had always wanted a Christmas wedding, with the few girls in the wedding party (my matron of honor and two flower girls) to be outfitted in classic red ball gowns, while the all-male or “King’s Wedding” party wore black tuxes and tails, trimmed with red cummerbunds and bow ties.

As with any couple getting ready to tie the knot and going through a year of preparations and planning, the two of us did our fair share of arguing. In the months before the wedding it seemed as if we fought daily. The littlest thing would set off the bickering and fighting. My soon-to-be mother-in-law had gone way over her allotted number of invited guests. My gown was too big. And we
couldn’t even agree on a honeymoon destination, let alone a place to live after we got married. In the end we found a perfect “starter home” in Atlantic Beach, Long Island. It was surrounded by the most incredible views of the bay and the Atlantic Ocean.

The day of my wedding, my father, my sister, Angel, and I rode to Saint Mary Gate of Heaven Church in Ozone Park in a vintage white Bentley. We rode the entire way in silence, all very much deep in thought that day, especially my father and me. It’s no secret that he was convinced I was making a mistake, probably the “biggest mistake of my life.” He used those exact words. To this day I believe he was still plotting in the car on the way to church, how to get the ceremony called off. I was filled with a twisted and mixed-up bundle of emotions ranging from nervousness to anxiety to uncertainty to plain old cold feet.

When we arrived there were people everywhere, lining the steps of the church and standing down 101st Avenue as far as the eye could see. My body was wracked with nervous energy and my mind was racing with thoughts of fleeing. I felt uncomfortable sitting in such an extravagant car dressed in a ridiculously expensive wedding gown, being stared at by thousands of onlookers while flashbulbs popped.

It was twenty minutes past noon and the ceremony was scheduled to begin promptly at twelve-thirty, but the groom and his family had not yet arrived. I remember my father’s face—his expression was as stiff as stone, his eyes glaring. Even I was scared. He always believed in being on time for everything and today was no exception.
Especially today!
He checked his Rolex repeatedly before turning to me and saying, “I’m giving Carmine five more minutes. Then I’m calling off the wedding and hunting him down like a wild animal. Who does he think he’s playing with?”

Tears welled in my eyes as I realized things were going terribly wrong. I was in an absolute state of panic. I had little time or even
room inside of me to even consider the second thoughts I’d been having all morning. I sat and prayed in silence for some sign from God. Just a few minutes later, a dirty old tow truck pulled up to the church with Carmine in the passenger side and his brother Mike at the wheel. Behind the tow truck was Marie Agnello in her Chevy Nova, with her daughter and two of her sisters. The fleet of limos sent to pick up my fiancé and his family had never arrived. When they realized it was getting really late, they had the sense to jump in their own cars and make their own way to the church.

My father adjusted his bow tie and the lapels to his custom-made tuxedo then turned to me and said, “Too bad. I was just coming to terms with the notion this wedding wasn’t to be. I was really enjoying the images of what I was going to do to Carmine when I caught him.”

My father exited the Bentley, and had a few words with one of his friends, Tony Moscatello, about how he had screwed up the limo situation. I got out of the car and nearly made it to the church steps and then disaster number two occurred. My expensive designer gown split down the back! The teeth on both sides of the zipper broke. Angel shoved me back in the car and dried my tears with a Kleenex. Meanwhile, Dad sent one of his men to find a seamstress—fast! Luckily, Uncle Angelo’s mother, Grandma Emma, as we called her, was one of the best seamstresses around. She always carried a travel-sized sewing kit with her and was able to sew the zipper back together. In less than five minutes, I was ready to go, but, not before Grandma Emma issued me a stern warning: “Whatever you do, don’t try to unzip this dress. If you need to go to the bathroom or take it off, do so over your head.” I was so grateful she’d fixed my dress, I cried tears of joy.

We finally made our way up the church steps and inside the back of the church, where we stood for a moment or two, waiting for the organ music to begin. It was a moment I will never forget
as long as I live. Dad turned to me and with a look of sincerity and eyes filled with tears, said, “Vicki, you
still
don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We could call the whole thing off and change the affair into an elaborate Christmas party. We could go home and you could change into something more appropriate and we could just have fun tonight.” Believe me, I was tempted—God knows there were many signs telling me to run—but we’d come this far and now with the entire church filled with people, I just bit the bullet and kissed my father on the cheek, told him I loved him, and we walked down the aisle.

H
ONESTLY
, I
WOULD
rather have been a guest at my own wedding. I hardly remember having five minutes to myself. There were so many guests, most of whom I didn’t know, and my father insisted on introducing me to each and every one of them. The procession line seemed never-ending.

Most guests were eager to trade an envelope stuffed with cash in exchange for a handshake, a thank you, even a word or two with my father. In 1984, my father was the man to watch as far as members of the life were concerned. By now, my father had caught the eye and personal attention of many high-ranking members of the Commission. The day I got married, mostly all of them were in attendance. The guests, the lavish affair, the celebrity performers—it was just like a scene right out of
The Godfather.

I hardly knew two hundred people out of the fifteen hundred guests in attendance. Greeting each guest was exhausting! Halfway through the affair, I decided to take a break. I felt a bit light-headed; my palms were sweaty and my heart was racing. I found it very difficult to breathe. Because of my recently diagnosed “bad heart,” I was put on cardiac medication. Sometimes, this medication made me feel worse than my heart did. I excused myself and
headed straight to the bride’s suite. The room was empty and I was happy for the privacy. I went to the vanity and splashed some cold water on my face, hoping it would calm my nerves.

I sat down on the velvet sofa and laid my head back and closed my eyes for a minute or two. While I was resting, there was a knock on the door. I heard the door open and standing in the doorway was one of the groomsmen—my brother John’s friend, Johnny Alite. He had come to tell me that my father was looking for me. I nodded. I had expected Dad to send someone to look for me.

“Please tell my father I’ll be right out.” He nodded, but instead of leaving he entered the room and stood just inches from me, as if he thought I might try to escape through an open window or something. I had to laugh. “Well, what more do you want? I told you I’d be right out.” I stood up and at that moment our eyes met. He was a good-looking man and it was easy to understand why he had a reputation as a womanizer. We stood face-to-face, eyes locking and both of us with our hands on our hips. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then I said, “What?” I wasn’t sure why he was standing and watching me so closely. But then, in one swoop, he grabbed me around my waist and pulled me closer to him and whispered, “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Maybe it was the champagne, or just feeling flattered, but all I could do was smile and say, “Thank you.” That’s when he reached down and did the unthinkable, the unexpected, and unimaginable. He kissed me, long and hard, on the mouth. I was stunned. I remember thinking,
On my wedding day? Is this guy crazy? Does he realize my new husband will break him in half? Not to mention my brother, or worse, my father?

I pushed him away and took a step back. It was clear he’d had a lot to drink. I convinced myself it was sheer drunken stupidity but I was still shocked.

The wedding went off without a further hitch and truly was
the
event of the season. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks to come. Meanwhile, Carmine and I spent our honeymoon in Acapulco and Las Vegas. We stayed at the beautiful and intimate Las Brisas Resort, a mountainside of villas so private each couple had their own pool just outside their villa.

We left on the seventh day and headed to Las Vegas. When we arrived at the MGM Grand, we were quickly ushered to a beautiful suite on the top floor. We stayed in the first night and then spent the next morning at the pool. The second night we went to dinner and to see Siegfried and Roy perform. At the end of every day, Dad would call the hotel to check in. He was pleased we were having a great time.