This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (26 page)

Despite mob politics, Dellacroce believed Dad should not be forced into a position of walking away from his closest men. Dellacroce was overheard asking my father, “You want me to tell Paul to go fuck himself, I will. But then we need to be ready for war. Does anybody really want this?”

The answer, of course, was no.

In the end, a decision was made—one that utterly broke my father’s heart. Angelo’s and Genie’s lives would be spared, but Dad had to “distance” himself from them—the two people he was
closest with. It was not something my father wanted to do, but he was a man of his word and who really believed in that life and followed the rules by the book.

Setting aside his two close confidants was not easy for my father. His moods became more volatile. There were additional rumors on the streets—Paul was not content in just letting sleeping dogs lie; he wanted more. With his mentor, Neil Dellacroce, gravely ill and his closest confidante, Angelo, now “distanced,” Dad was left in a vulnerable position. He walked around in a constant state of unease. For the first time in his life, Dad was forced to look over his shoulder—and suspicious of anyone he came in contact with.

To compound matters, Uncle Angelo was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was deemed advanced and terminal, at stage four. Even though Dad had distanced himself from his childhood pal, he felt the grief of losing someone so important to him. Angelo’s condition rapidly deteriorated. He was hospitalized a short time later and his only request was to see Dad. My father fought many demons in his decision-making process. If he followed his heart and went to see Angelo, the Commission would soon find out. Dad didn’t care about being reminded about the earlier deal he’d made to spare Angelo’s life. Dad was mostly concerned about how other men in the street would perceive him as possibly weak and easy if he went against his own words, his own rules. He was expected to set an example. In the end Dad did not go. When Uncle Angelo died, the last words on his lips were “Tell Johnny I love him.”

When Dad was told, he bowed his head solemnly and went into a deep, dark place in private. He stayed home for the next three days, locked in his bedroom. He didn’t answer calls and wouldn’t see any visitors. The wake lasted two days—Angelo’s body was in repose at Stephen’s Funeral Home, a few blocks from the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club. It came as no surprise to me when one of the funeral directors told me that Dad was seen leaving the funeral
home at 10:45 PM on the second night of the wake. He’d slipped in and out of a side entrance, well after the crowd of mourners had left. I knew there was no way my father would let Uncle Angelo exit this world without saying good-bye. After all, the two were closer than brothers.

It didn’t help matters that not too long after that, Dad got the phone call that Neil had died. He went peacefully in his sleep on December 2, 1985. His funeral was befitting a Mafia boss, and Dad had his mentor entombed in a crypt in St. John’s Cemetery, not more than a few feet from Frankie Boy’s crypt. But the last insult from Paul came when he deliberately avoided Neil’s wake. This was the greatest slight imaginable in the life.

While this turmoil was going on, other members of other families were expressing their disdain and dislike of Paul Castellano. Behind Paul’s back, many men grumbled, even those in high positions in that life. Heads of other families, captains of important and influential crews, and many soldiers supported a mutiny against “Big Paul” Castellano.

More meetings were arranged by the Commission to discuss the topic of Paul’s leadership and why every crew was “now starving.” Many men showed up for these secret meetings, unhappy with the newly anointed boss—a man put in his position because of marriage and family ties. In the months that followed, most of the leaders or capos under Paul let their frustrations be known. During numerous secret meetings these men shared their gripes with the Family’s underboss, Dellacroce, before his death. They claimed Paul was taking more money from them than ever before. They also claimed that Paul was a hypocrite—that he was involved with known drug dealers, members of the Bonnano Family, despite the staunch “no drugs” policy the Gambino Family adhered to. These men were said to be kicking up some of their profits to Paul in exchange for favors and good placement in the Commission. Castellano was also
involved with the ruthless gang the Westies. Paul often handed these gang members work he needed done, much to the resentment of his own men. It didn’t help matters much that Paul was recently arrested for what later became called “the Commission Case,” and was facing a lengthy jail sentence. If convicted, the future of the Family seemed grave to his loyal underlings—especially since Paul intended to hand over control of the Family to his inexperienced driver, Thomas Bilotti. This bit of news was the last straw as far as some members of the Commission were concerned. Now, with Dellacroce dead, there was no one who would go to bat for these loyal men when it came to Big Paul. Most of them, as well as my father, knew Paul wanted John Gotti and some of his crew members out of the way. Without Neil, they were moving targets. One of these disgruntled men was Sammy Gravano. At one such meeting he was complaining to the other members about how Paul was dividing the Family in two—those who supported Dellacroce and those who supported Paul. The Gambino Family was supposed to be
one
Family—strong and loyal—and Gravano’s gripes were heard loud and clear by other members of the Commission.

The issues with Paul were discussed and the Commission cast their vote. All the men who were in leadership positions agreed—all except one man, Vincent “the Chin” Gigante, from the Genovese Family. But the majority ruled and Paul’s fate was decided.

It was a typical December afternoon in 1985, cold, gray, and windy outside. I remember thinking it was going to snow. I was five months’ pregnant with my second child and was following doctor’s orders to stay in bed for most of the day, getting up only if necessary and drinking lots of fluids. My second pregnancy was not an easy one, but I was determined to give birth to a healthy baby. So I took to complete bed rest from my fifth month onward. My sister, Angel, had delivered the first Gotti grandchild in June of ’85. He
was appropriately named Frank. Now it was my turn, and I was determined to add a healthy baby to the burgeoning Gotti brood.

It was Christmastime, the most joyous season in New York City. Castellano was heading to a business dinner with his trusted bodyguard and constant companion, Thomas Bilotti. The dinner was planned at a usual spot for Paul, Spark’s Steakhouse on Forty-sixth Street in Midtown. According to witnesses, as his car pulled to the curb and he and Bilotti got out, a group of men dressed in long overcoats and furry Russian hats approached and opened fire, killing Castellano and Billoti instantly.

I remember watching the news and seeing the breaking story. My heart skipped a beat. It was a time of uncertainty for the mob. There were reports in the newspapers almost daily about mob wars and threats on certain men. One such report stated that there was to be an attempt on my father’s life—a report, though false, had all of us especially worried. It was the always present fear that accompanied the lifestyle and kept our family members on guard.

When I first heard of the double murder, the announcer said only one victim’s name had been released, Paul Castellano. The other victim was not yet identified. I froze, thinking it was my father. I tried to call my mother—it was a constant busy signal, and I must have pressed redial ten times. So against doctor’s orders, I grabbed my car keys and headed to Queens to my parents’ home to find out what was going on.

When I arrived, everyone in the house was standing around the television, watching for the latest news report. Just like me, they thought my father might have been the other victim. Then the phone rang. A part of me didn’t want to pick it up for fear of horrible news; the other part of me desperately wanted to grab the phone in the hopes it would be my father—it was. I was so relieved, I started crying. This angered Dad. He shouted into the receiver,
“Are you crazy? Has everyone gone crazy?” He said he was at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club in Ozone Park and ended the conversation with “Tell Mama I’ll be home in a few hours.” Then he hung up. It was forty minutes after the shooting. Later that night I ended up in the emergency room. Once again, I had started bleeding midtrimester, and the doctors believed the unexpected stress was the cause. They kept me overnight for observation.

Within a few days the reporters were in full swing. Everyone had my father tapped as Paul’s executioner. The fact that there were news reports showing lots of well-dressed men arriving at the Ravenite Social Club in Little Italy to pay homage to my father gave even further evidence he was involved in the murders. It was later learned that the very same Commission that had voted Paul Castellano be “removed” had also decided that my father take his place. A boss cannot be killed without the votes of the Commission, so reports that the hit was planned primarily by my father were in no way accurate. Shortly after the Castellano murder, there was more heat. As with any major uprising within the ranks, there were those who were not happy with the change. One such person decided to take matters into his own hands and let the world, especially members in the life, know of his discontent. He did this in an explosive manner.

The message came in the form of a car bomb. In 1986, Frank DeCicco, then underboss for the Gambino Family, was killed as he approached his car. Pieces of him littered the Brooklyn street, in front of the Veterans and Friends Social Club—a known hangout of Sammy Gravano. DeCicco’s car was reduced to nothing but smoking shreds. The explosion had literally rocked the entire block. DeCicco was a longtime friend of my father’s as well as a close confidant of Castellano. Many believed he had betrayed Paul and had taken part in the plot to kill him.

Obviously, the murder of DeCicco brought fears of an all-out
war. Was this killing an isolated incident, a renegade event, or the opening salvo in a new gang war? Rumors spread that Vincent “the Chin” Gigante was sending a message of disdain over Paul’s death, while others speculated that the car bombing was not related to organized crime at all. Given the nature of the bomb—one with a handheld remote control and the sophisticated mechanism attached to it—whoever had orchestrated the hit had access to topof-the-line technology, such as the government. Some people insist the Feds planted the bomb in an effort to kill John Gotti (as Dad was rumored to have canceled a last-minute appointment with DeCicco that day) or perhaps to weaken the entire organization. At the moment, it didn’t matter. Panic hit the streets. The men in the life were up in arms, ready for war. If the bombing was meant to be a message that Gotti should watch his back, it didn’t work. Dad, standing tall, visited every social club and mob-gathering place throughout the metropolitan area, to rally his men and assure them that those responsible for the DeCicco killing would be found and appropriately dealt with.

He drove in his own car by himself to each location, demonstrating no fear and no retreat. As always, he led by example.

“We are the Gambino Family, and nobody, anywhere, anytime, is going to fuck with us” was the promise he made. All challengers would be answered; power and honor would be maintained. Those Family men, wary, nervous, who heard the chief’s message were reassured by his strength and by his words. They knew he would never ask any of them to do something that he himself had not already done and would do again.

Panic and fear went looking for a new address. It was back to business as usual.

I
n 1984, a minor incident by Gotti standards ended up splashed across the front page of every paper in New York. On the way home from a late-night card game, my father had his driver and friend, Bartholomew “Bobby” Borriello, drop him and another friend, Frank Colletta, off at the Cozy Corner Bar in Queens to make a phone call. The car was double-parked outside, blocking the street. While they were in the bar, a truck pulled up and began beeping incessantly. Colletta came out to see what the commotion was about and my father soon followed.

My father was not in a patient mood that day, as he told me and my family after the incident. The driver continued to lay on his horn. When he saw Dad and Colletta, he jumped from the truck and approached them, shouting.

The truck driver, Romual Piecyk, continued his rant against the double-parked car. Colletta pushed the man back and in the scuffle, the man’s pay for that week was ripped from his pocket. My father told him to “Get the fuck out of here.” Piecyk left, and went to the police and a few minutes later they were at the bar, arresting my father.

Dad was charged with felony assault and theft, but he was released on bail. He returned home later that night and went straight to bed. The next morning all the newspapers had stories about the incident and my father’s arrest. It was all anyone talked about that day, and even more so in the days to come, when Piecyk learned who my father was, he decided he had messed with the wrong guy. By the time the case went to trial, he wanted the charges dropped and claimed Gotti was the wrong guy. Piecyk claimed that by then the incident was so long ago that he didn’t remember who was involved in the scuffle. The headline in the
Daily News
the next day was priceless: “
I FORGOTTI
.”

When questioned later by reporters, Piecyk not only insisted he wanted the charges against my father dropped but also told them that the FBI had contacted him. He claimed the agents tried hard to convince him to press charges against my father, and if he didn’t, they made threats against Piecyk to press charges against him. Piecyk even wrote a letter to my mother and me stating, “They [FBI] did all they could to make me press charges against John.” The Queens DA’s office even considered perjury charges against Piecyk, but eventually decided against it. They had bigger issues to deal with.

The Piecyk incident was the first of four trials my father was about to endure. With that out of the way, my father had his next trial to worry about, which was scheduled to start just two weeks later on April 7, 1986. It was a RICO case, and anyone who knew anything about RICO knew that this would be a tough charge to
beat. To make matters even harder for Dad, the FBI as well as the Queens DA’s office wanted in; both wanted to be the first to get Gotti.