Sins of the Father Read online

  “Thank him when we make it out alive,” Bonanno said. All three laughed, but Sonny’s smile quickly faded.

  They arrived in Morningside Heights just before sunset. Their meeting location was to be a private home that was owned by a respected but mutual party. Maranzano instructed Bonanno and Sonny on how he expected them to behave when they were inside. They were to sit down at a table with Masseria’s bodyguards and pretend they were indifferent to the conversation, not even listening.

  Bonanno and Maranzano placed their revolvers in the glove box before they exited the vehicle. Sonny would have done the same if he had a piece on him.

  A burly enforcer patted them down at the doorway, and once they were cleared, they were instructed to enter.

  The home was darker even than the gray sky outside, with only a few candles to illuminate the room. Two tables were set up, and Sonny and Bonanno were led to the smaller one in the corner, where two other men were already seated.

  They both gave Sonny a curt nod, attempting to be amiable. They had a look of understanding in their eyes.

  After a few moments of deafening silence, Masseria entered. His footsteps were forceful and seemed to shake the wood floor beneath them. Sonny attempted to follow Maranzano’s instructions, but kept the fat boss in his peripheral as he entered.

  The Hook Hand entered behind him. It was no wonder he had been able to evade their detection for so long. He looked nothing like he had before. He was now clean shaven, and his hair was now closely cropped and oiled back. What hadn’t changed was his eyes. Alert and piercing, the skin around them unmoving as if he were dead.

  “Paisano,” Masseria extended his arms to embrace Maranzano, giving him a kiss on either cheek. Morello offered the same gesture but was far more reserved.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Maranzano said. Sonny was surprised that even in a room with two of New York’s most powerful men, Maranzano’s presence still commanded respect.

  “Please, take a seat.” Masseria gestured, and all three men did so, showing no notice of the others in the room. “These are difficult times, aren’t they?” He now spoke in Sicilian. Even to Sonny’s untrained ears, it was a harsh rendering of a beautiful dialect.

  “They are. But we’re all still alive, and we all still prosper.”

  A man came to Sonny’s table and handed them each a demitasse cup of espresso, the steam billowing out to mix with the acrid cigar smoke. Maranzano never smoked, and Sonny assumed he had to be uncomfortable as he inhaled Masseria’s fat cigar, and all the hot air of congeniality he was blowing out.

  “Let me be direct with you, paisano,” Masseria began, leaning across the table forcefully and pointing at Maranzano with his cigar. “Your friend Gaspar Milazzo is dead. There is nothing that can bring him back. But you have so many other friends. So many. You can keep them all alive and well.”

  “How can I do this?”

  “For one, you can persuade your associate Magaddino to come to New York and speak with me as a man. If he doesn’t, he is as good as dead. The same applies to Aiello in Chicago, who has offended me before.”

  “How do you expect me to persuade Magaddino?” Maranzano asked, taking a sip of his espresso.

  “Do not insult my intelligence.” Masseria smiled and looked at Morello. “We hear that you are leading the family now. And who better to do so? Milazzo is dead, Cola Shiro has disappeared, and Magaddino’s days are numbered. But Salvatore Maranzano is alive and well, and thriving in his various enterprises. If he wishes to continue to do so, we must be friends.”

  Masseria leaned back in his chair, pleased with his words. He was wearing a suit as expensive as the rest of theirs combined, but it didn’t flatter him. He looked like a pig with a bow tie, his shirt wrinkled and sloppy, his fat gut rolling out from under a half-buttoned vest.

  “I will let Don Morello speak for me,” Masseria said, crossing his arms and puffing happily on his cigar.

  “Thank you, Mr. Joe.” Morello nodded at Masseria, who smiled like a proud child. “First of all, I want to congratulate you on your success in America.” Morello’s voice was guttural, gruff. His words carefully selected and precisely spoken.

  “Thank you, Don Morello. You’ve done well for yourself,” Maranzano said pleasantly, but Sonny could ascertain from across the room that tensions were rising.

  He couldn’t resist the temptation to look up. His eyes locked on Morello’s stone face, and his stomach turned. He knew that this deformed, lifeless killer was the last thing his father had seen.

  “Look…” Morello said, contemplating his words carefully. “Milazzo. His death was from our part. We cannot deny it. But, you see, Gaspar Milazzo and Joe Aiello were plotting to kill Mr. Joe. We hope that Milazzo is the only one who needs to die. But what are we to think? When Mr. Joe invites Stefano Magaddino to visit him in the city, offering to buy him dinner and treat him as a friend, and then he is refused…what can we ascertain? We must believe Stefano does not like Mr. Joe either.” Masseria nodded along stupidly as Morello spoke. Maranzano kept eye contact and listened carefully. “If Magaddino will only come pay his respects, and talk with his Sicilian paisano, then perhaps we can let the past go. If not, then out of protection, we must consider Joe Aiello and Magaddino threats.” Morello’s eyes began to narrow as he spoke. “And anyone else who supports them.”

  “What would you have me do?” Maranzano asked. His voice was softer now. Sonny assumed he was acting, but he played the part of capitulation well.

  “That you would put in a good word for Mr. Joe. That you’ll tell your friend in Buffalo how kindly Mr. Joe has treated you, and ask only that he will come to New York. We only want to clarify, that’s all.”

  “I will do what I can.” Maranzano gave no indication of how he truly felt. Even Sonny began to wonder if he was considering such a generous offer for peace. “But again, I am only a soldier, under the leadership of Cola Shiro.”

  “Your leader is gone and isn’t coming back,” Masseria said behind a cloud of smoke, “so try.”

  “Yes, do try, Mr. Maranzano. If something can’t be done, there will be bloodshed. Much bloodshed. And if that comes to pass, I hope that an intelligent man like yourself will do the right thing and remain neutral.” Morello shuttered at the thought of such a future.

  “We understand each other,” Maranzano said coolly.

  Morello smiled, the first time Sonny had ever seen him do so, and he reached out to shake Maranzano’s hand. As Maranzano attempted to release it, Morello squeezed harder, pulling him to the table.

  “If you are fooling us, your fight will be against me. Do we understand each other? You fought many men in Sicily, but you never fought against a man like Don Piddu.”

  Maranzano leaned closer to him. “And you have never fought against anyone like Don Maranzano.”

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—July 2, 1930

  Everything changed for Sonny and the rest of the crew after the meeting with Masseria and Morello. If Salvatore Maranzano hadn’t been prepared for war beforehand, he certainly was now. He had moved his wife and children from their home in Brooklyn to a safer location in Montreal, Canada. He went nowhere without Bonanno, Charlie Buffalo, Buster, or Sonny. Usually, he traveled with all four. He paid for his Cadillac to be modified with heavy metal plating and bulletproof windows. He installed a machine gun in the back seat that he placed between his legs whenever they would go for a ride. He purchased another Cadillac, with the same upgrades, to serve as his “lead vehicle” wherever he went.

  Some of the boys in the family said Maranzano had the screaming meemies and was going a bit mad, that he was all worried for nothing. But, as time went by, and the deadline for Magaddino’s visit passed, rumors began to spread. Masseria was outraged, petulant like a child at a dentist appointment.

  Masseria boasted, loud and wide, that he would hunt them all down, one by one.

  Maranzano said it was a matter of time before bodies started littering the streets. They
had to be prepared.

  Bonanno followed his instructions and separated temporarily from Fay. Buster told Maria he would be away on work for a few weeks, and gave her a number to reach him only in the event of an emergency. Reluctantly, Sonny had approached his mother and told her he wouldn’t be able to visit Little Italy for a while. She seemed to understand—or, at least, she didn’t protest. He kissed her head and told her he hoped that everything would calm down soon. He didn’t explain to Rosa anything about the conflict, or that he was trying to find out what happened to his father, but she seemed to have an idea. Her vision had dulled, but her mind was still sharp.

  Sonny really wasn’t ready to leave his apartment, though. He had begun to enjoy his little domicile in Williamsburg, and more than that, he delighted in the company of his neighbor Millie. He didn’t want to shut any doors. He felt that, on a bad day, when things weren’t going well in Maranzano’s war, he would like to return to their apartment and do nothing but look into Millie’s eyes and listen to her talk about the sweltering heat or the best vegetable vendors in Williamsburg.

  But that wasn’t an option. He couldn’t involve her. He was known as a Maranzano affiliate now. What if someone tried to come for him, and she was caught in the cross fire? What if he was arrested, and she was there to watch him being put in shackles? He couldn’t bear the thought.

  As he packed a few things, only the essentials, he decided he would have to say goodbye. Permanently. Maybe in a different life, he could sweep her up and tell her that he had fallen in love with her the moment they had met. But not in this life. She deserved someone better than him. Someone who could protect her without putting her in danger, provide for her without breaking the law to do so.

  He slipped the pistol Maranzano had given him for safety into the box, and closed the lid. It was surprising how little he needed, and how little he had.

  He left, locking the door on his way out. He started down the stairwell before he stopped. He walked to Millie’s door and knocked.

  Patrick answered and strained his eyes to make him out.

  “What?”

  “Is Millie here?”

  “She’s busy.”

  Just as well, Sonny thought.

  “I just wanted to say goodbye. I have to leave for a while.”

  Patrick measured him up, scowling while he did so.

  “Where ya going?”

  “I have to leave for work. I just wanted to tell her thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For all the meals…for talking with me all those—”

  “You should be thanking me. It was my money bought it. No respect. Go on now,” Patrick shooed him away like a fly.

  Sonny didn’t protest. He probably deserved it. Maybe in another life, he could have been a man worthy of a girl like Millie. But not in this one.

  Poughkeepsie, Dutchess County, New York—July 16, 1930

  The news had spread like a tenement block wildfire. It was in the headlines of every major newspaper: “Another Gangland Slaying.”

  It was Joe Bonanno who had called to tell Sonny. He was sobbing on the phone. “They got my cousin Vito. He’s dead.” He wasn’t the only one to be disturbed by the events. Maranzano himself was said to be very broken up about it. Vito Bonventre had been a friend of his in the old country, and they both shared a love for the traditional values of the onorata societa. He had tried to warn Bonventre that Masseria’s people would come after him first because of his wealth and ability to finance the war. Bonventre wouldn’t listen. “I am too old and too respected. No one would lift a finger to me,” he had told him. Seventy-two hours later, he was dead.

  Sonny didn’t know Bonventre well, but he had always respected the way the man had carried himself. More than anything, though, Sonny was afraid. If the old man could get clipped, who was safe? Who was next? Maranzano, Bonanno, Buffalo…Sonny himself?

  Maranzano had sent word. Every member of the Castellammare Borgata should travel to his hideout in Dutchess County. He didn’t care if they were old, sick, on a stretcher, or all three. Everyone was ordered to be there.

  “Masseria has condemned us all,” Maranzano said from the head of a long table. Men were crammed in all around it, the most important seated alongside him and the rest standing behind their respective leaders. “He says he wants to eat us like a sandwich.” The room let out a collective nervous laugh, except Maranzano. It was only funny because Masseria was probably fat enough to actually do so. “We met before to discuss this man. We talked, and talked, and talked, but it was followed by no action. Now what are we to do? One of our own is dead. One of our very finest men, in fact. What are we to do now?”

  Sonny analyzed the reaction of each man at the table, and concluded that opinions differed greatly.

  Maranzano seemed to notice too. “Some of you may be thinking that you can pacify this tyrant. You will find yourself unable to do so. Like his penchant for overeating, his bloodlust is insatiable. He will come after each one of us. You may avoid conflict with him for a time, but once the brave among us have fallen, he will come after the rest. He won’t rest until the Castellammarese have been eliminated entirely.”

  “He knows we are the only ones who will refuse to go down on bended knee,” Bonanno said from the seat directly beside Maranzano.

  “We are a stubborn people,” Maranzano said in Sicilian, and shrugged his shoulders. Men around the room smiled and nodded, pride inflating their chests.

  “What should be done, then?” Joe Parrino asked, much like Cola Shiro had before. To Sonny, he seemed less disturbed that Joe the Boss had killed his brother than would be expected.

  “We go to war.” Maranzano stood and paced around the room with his hands clutched behind his back like a commanding general. “In the ancient days, when men of our tradition were embroiled in a war against our French overlords, they bound together. They lived together, ate together, sacrificed together. Nothing like this has ever happened in America. There has never been an event to call for it. But here we are, gentlemen”—heads around the room began to nod—“we are left with little option. We have not sought war. We have not sought a conflict with this tyrant. But we will return the violence that he has given. We will let the world know what happens when you try to fight a member of the Castellammare: you must fight all of them.”

  “Yes!” some of them said.

  “They will know,” others said.

  “Then we must elect a commander to lead our forces. Just as the Romans had their Caesar, we must have a war chief to organize and lead our efforts,” Maranzano said.

  Sonny was surprised to hear Maranzano say this. He had assumed that after Cola Shiro’s disappearance, and especially after Bonventre’s death, that Maranzano would be the de facto leader. But Maranzano wasn’t that kind of man, he concluded. Too sensitive to people’s judgments and concerned for the common good, Maranzano wanted to ensure that they were behind him. That they would follow him. Even after receiving Magaddino’s blessing when he’d traveled to Buffalo, he desired the Castellammare to elect him.

  A few names were put forth. Maranzano, Joe Parrino, and Angelo Caruso being a few. Unanimously, Maranzano was elected, even by Caruso himself.

  “It is settled, then. I will lead this family with honor and strength,” Maranzano said humbly. Everyone clapped. “We are also here for another reason. Make room at the table.” A few of the seated men stood and opened up a space at the center of the table.

  Maranzano turned and smiled at Sonny, whose heart began to race.

  “We are bringing in three new men to our ranks. They have been with me since the first day, and have shown that they are willing to sacrifice everything for this family. So, ‘boys of the first day,’ step forward. You know who you are.” Sonny kept his feet planted until Buster tapped him on the arm. Buster, Charlie Buffalo, and Sonny approached the opening at the table.

  Joe Bonanno stood and smiled at them like a proud parent.

  “Gentlemen,
this is Vincente Consentino, Sebastiano Domingo, and Calogero DiBennedeto.” He gestured to each one in turn.

  Bonanno approached them.

  “Show me the finger that you shoot with,” he said.

  “Gentlemen, this is your godfather. You will follow his every command. You will give your life to protect his, and he would sacrifice his to protect yours.” A .38 revolver and a knife were placed on the table in front of them, and Bonanno used the knife to prick their extended trigger fingers.

  Maranzano materialized three images of the Virgin Mary and slid them across the table.

  Bonanno instructed them each to let their blood drip onto the image placed in front of them.

  “Cup your hands,” Bonanno said, and then leaned in to Sonny. “And it all started with a life-insurance policy,” he said. Sonny found himself laughing along with him, and the geniality in the room was unlike anything he had experienced since his father’s death. It reminded him of Alonzo, and the way he had cherished tradition and rituals.

  Bonanno lit the bloody pictures on fire and placed one in each of their hands.

  Sonny watched, mesmerized as the image burned in his hands. As he rotated his hands back and forth to avoid the flames, he saw the Virgin’s face dissolve into ash. He wondered if he would go to hell for what he was doing, but he trusted his father. If Alonzo had done this, then Sonny knew it was an honorable thing he was doing.

  “Repeat after me: as this saint burns, may my soul burn in hell if I betray this thing of ours,” Maranzano said. The three of them chanted the words back in unison. “This family now means more to you than your own family. Or country. Or God.” Sonny’s stomach turned, but he didn’t look up.

  “These weapons”—Bonanno pointed to the .38 and dagger before them—“symbolize that you will live by the gun and by the knife, and you will die by the gun and by the knife.”

  “The blood you have spilt symbolizes that we are all now your blood. We are one,” Maranzano said, and finally Sonny looked up to him. He noticed the kind of loving glimmer in Maranzano’s eyes that reminded him once again of Alonzo.