This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (28 page)

A
LONG WITH
J
OHN
, on that Christmas Eve, four others were to be inducted. One of the others was Michael DiLeonardo, a man John had met in the life and had become very close to.

This induction was an entrance into a new world. It was a commencement exercise, and on that Christmas Eve, my brother was as proud as he had ever been. According to him, he was joining the world of our father, a brotherhood more than a century old.

John believed that the other men involved were not hypocrites like the politicians who accepted money, favors, and influence from organized crime throughout history, yet publicly denounced the mob as enemies of the public. It is a historical fact that organized crime helped John F. Kennedy get elected president. Only afterward, did his brother Bobby, as attorney general, became a crusader against the mob.

John also believed members of the life were not hypocrites like those in law enforcement who lied, stole, and even murdered while wearing a badge. A glance through old newspapers or the Internet will confirm this. I firmly believe this, too.

They were not hypocrites like those few men of the cloth who spoke against sin while molesting little boys.

According to my brother, they in the Family were criminals, yes. But he believed they were also men of honor. They were men who lived by their own code. Notice my brother’s use of the past tense here.

John went on to tell me, “I am not speaking of all of us, unfortunately, and we have had our share of hypocrites, also some of them hypocrites in the extreme. But in time, all institutions decay, all principles become covered with dirt and dust. Yet there are those who shine through time, dirt, and dust, and remain true to their origins.”

My father was such a man.

“He might have been flashy when Mafia tradition dictated otherwise, but it was not his style to lay low. He might have gambled to excess, but there are many instances of his financial generosity to the poor and to strangers. He was a man born out of his time, the last of his kind. The last of the old-time Mafiosi,” John told me.

M
Y FATHER WAS
not in attendance at my brother John’s induction, to avoid an overtone of nepotism to the proceedings and to avoid possible bad luck. The underboss of the Family at the time, Salvatore Gravano, presided over the ceremony. John later told me he had been proposed for induction by the Family Consigliere, Frank “Frankie Loc” Locascio. Others who were present were James “Jimmy Brown” Failla, Joseph Arcuri, “Frankie Dap” Dapalito, and Joseph “Joe Butch” Corrao. These names resound in mob history.

John was the youngest member at the time to be inducted, and with that, of course, would come the jealousy of his peers and backdoor unfavorable commentary. Already the plotting would begin. But on that particular day he enjoyed the elation of his formal entry into La Famigila, the Family—the life.

This was one of the most important days in his life, a moment bigger than he could have imagined.

But it wasn’t the first time he had been asked if he wanted to be “made.” One year earlier, in 1987, John was approached by our uncles to be inducted. It was shortly after my father’s acquittal on racketeering and murder charges.

They walked down 101st Avenue in Ozone Park, and my uncle told my brother that my father had intentions that he join, that he get “straightened out,” and asked John how he felt about this.

Back then, he was stunned. As far as he was concerned, the men in the life were larger than life. Was he even worthy to be one
of them? So he answered my uncle honestly. “I don’t know,” he said. “Let me think about it.”

It wasn’t the answer my uncle was looking for. “You want me to let you think about it?” my uncle asked incredulously, then he walked away.

Several months later, another uncle approached him, again with the offer to become inducted. He carried a similar message as before: “If you want this life now, it’s time. You won’t be asked again.”

This time John’s answer was different. He nodded his head yes. “I’m ready.” That was all he said.

D
URING THE INITIATION
, my brother told me he was reminded that he entered this world on his feet but he could only leave in a coffin. He was told, “This is your new family; we come first before your blood family. If we call you, you come in when we call you. Even if you have to kill your own brother, this is what it is.”

That was part of the ritual line. But rituals are not always correct, despite their being part of an accepted tradition. Vows are broken, traditions upturned. Friendships are betrayed.

B
UT
J
OHN WAS
blissfully ignorant of the future on that Christmas Eve of 1988. Instead, John A. Gotti was the happiest man alive. He left the apartment after the ceremony took place and walked the short distance to the Ravenite Social Club in Little Italy.

It was the place where my father held court, and after my brother was instructed to walk directly into the back room, he embraced the man who on that day was the proudest father on the planet. He had given him life, and then brought him into the life. What kind of father would bring his son into this life? What son would want it? Perhaps a father who sensed yet another trial, his
third in as many years, coming up again—and the fear of Gotti Senior losing control of a family, a position he’d put before his own life in those days.

“I’ve shared hundreds of meals with John Junior. We might have even had a martini or two together on occasion.” So said Adam Mandelbaum, one of my brother John’s attorneys, continuing, “When talk of his father comes up, he admits freely that he idolized his father. ‘To me,’ John said, ‘he wasn’t a father, he was a god, back then.’ ”

Further, he said, “John would wax eloquent about his father’s ramrod straight posture, his immaculate appearance, his swagger, his charisma, and his toughness. Hell, the media ate it up by the shovelful, why wouldn’t the eldest son?” Mandelbaum and John had this conversation the day John was released from jail.

Also, who wouldn’t want the good part of the life? The money, the freedom from nine to five, the food, the broads—and the power?

Of course, there is that other part. Stuff about jail and getting killed. Losing all of your assets to government forfeitures. Things like that could ruin your appetite after an induction ceremony.

But on Christmas 1988, John Angelo Gotti, son of John Joseph Gotti, who was the head of the Gambino Crime Family, wasn’t thinking of anything but his having achieved being a made man. He sat at a huge round table with about ten other men of honor. John later told me, “I swear, I did think about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I was that impressed.”

The club was packed that night. The Christmas Eve gathering at the Ravenite was a tradition started by Aniello “Neil” Dellacroce, the man who had brought my father into the life. Now my father maintained the tradition.

John greeted the others who were in attendance, now not just as the son of the chief, but also a member of the brotherhood. Later
on my father, my uncle, John, and his best friend Bobby Borriello drove over to the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club in Ozone Park, where many others were waiting to welcome him into the life as well.

At 9
P.M
. John went home to a banquet prepared for Christmas Eve by my mother, who had created a cornucopia of fish dishes, pasta, and all the other Italian trimmings and treats of a traditional Christmas Eve meal. My father’s house was always open on the holidays for those friends who had no place to go. Dad always made sure that any of the men without wives or family were never forced to spend the holidays alone. He had a generous pocket and a big heart. He would invite those who would otherwise spend the holiday by themselves—and he made sure there were gifts under the tree for them as well.

My mother had no idea that my brother had just been granted formal entry into the Family—and neither did I.

I
n July 1989, I found out I was pregnant again—another boy. Frank Gotti Agnello was born April 12, 1990. I remember the doctor looking up at me just seconds after his birth and saying, “How do you feel about the phrase ‘my three sons’?” I was beyond excited! Dad was on hand for the delivery because of a warning from my doctor mid-trimester. The baby was RH-positive and I was RH-negative. To avoid another disaster, Dr. Stern prepared all of us in the event a blood transfusion was necessary. I matched Dad’s blood type and therefore, if needed, he could donate his blood to save the baby. Thankfully, it was not necessary. But it was priceless watching Dad pace the floor waiting to learn if he was needed. I remember that he arrived at the hospital smiling ear-to-ear. But as he neared the gurney he staggered a little. I later learned he was so
nervous about the birth and the fact he might have to give the baby a transfusion that he downed three martinis. But all his anxiousness disappeared the moment he first laid eyes on Frank. He was named after my deceased brother and had a head of thick, jet-black hair that was astounding! Dad immediately called him “Cochese.”

A
FTER MY BROTHER
John’s induction, he rose rapidly, becoming a capo in 1990. His first soldier was Bartholomew “Bobby” Borriello. He was also the best man at John’s wedding on April 21, 1990, to Kim Albanese, whom he had known since childhood. Kim was nearly seven months’ pregnant at the time. The pair was supposed to get married months earlier, just after Kim found out she was pregnant. But Dad wanted the wedding to be a well-planned and lavish affair.

In honor of the wedding, the Helmsley Palace had draped a twenty-foot Italian flag over the outside of the hotel. It made the papers, and infuriated those who did not wish members in the life well. Not all the photographers who sought to attend my brother’s wedding were hired—some were on government payrolls.

But Leona Helmsley was a stand-up woman. The law enforcement types who approached her and asked to infiltrate the wedding were told “no.” She was later prosecuted for tax evasion by the government in revenge. An elderly woman went to jail, because she refused to allow a Gotti family wedding to be violated by enemies. Helmsley may have been dubbed “The Queen of Mean” by the press, but I can honestly say I have never heard a bad thing about her from those who
really
knew her. All I saw was how generous she was to those in need around her; I also saw the woman do anything she could for anyone she liked—like my father. She is dead now, but my gratitude to her still lives.

We had our own security for the wedding. My father had hired
an advance guard, who was staying at the hotel to watch for who belonged and who didn’t. The law enforcement agents never got farther than the lobby of the hotel, thanks to the security efforts both amateur and professional. We had the main ballroom at our disposal, and a third-floor room for special guests.

There were hundreds of well-wishers. Each New York crime family had a table. The New Jersey boys were there too. All were in tuxes. My sister Angel and I noticed this right away. Unlike both of our weddings, John’s celebration was less intimate. There were considerably fewer guests in attendance than the previous Gotti weddings; 800 guests at Angel’s—1,500 at mine. Still, the affair seemed cold and very structured. Looking around the room, seeing many faces neither of us knew or recognized, was fitting. Dad was now in the highest position in the organization and John’s wedding definitely reflected this. It was, for lack of a better word, very political.

It was an Italian wedding so there was
food
. Tons of it! Caviar, lobster, shrimp, steak, you name it. Champagne flowed from the Cristal bottles, and the cognac that was served was Louis XIII. The dinner choices were beef Wellington, lobster, or veal. Despite all the food and drink, everybody behaved themselves. There were no drunks on the ballroom floor that night. Everybody was on his or her best behavior at John’s wedding.

Entertainment abounded. Besides the orchestra, Jimmy Roselli and Jay Black and the Americans sang, and for a laugh or two, comedian Lou “Baccala” Cary performed. It was definitely an affair to remember. Kim’s father was a carpet layer, and my father had made sure everything at his son’s wedding was strictly “red carpet.”

My father had rented several suites at the hotel for family and friends, especially those from out of town. My parents were in the Presidential Triplex suite, complete with a baby grand piano, butler’s quarters, a library, a terrace with a view of the city, and three fireplaces. My sister and I were to stay in our parents’ suite,
so Dad could be close to the grandkids. I had just given birth to my third son, Frankie Boy, just two weeks before John’s wedding and refused to leave the newborn with a sitter. So I bundled up the kids and the baby and settled them safely at the Helmsley Palace with a trustworthy family member. I would rather have stayed home and gotten ready for the wedding. But Dad had given all of us orders the night before and he expected each of us to abide by them. Because of the press intrusion, we were all forced to leave our homes early the morning of the wedding and meet up at the hotel. The press and the FBI had nearly every church in Ozone Park staked out in the hopes of getting a bird’s-eye view of the ceremony and all the guests in attendance. Reporters and agents also went knocking on doors, to nearly every hotel in Manhattan, hoping to get lucky. But Helmsley had warned each of her staff to stay mum about the festivities—and they did.