Sins of the Father
A Mafia Thriller
Vincent B. Davis II
Copyright © 2019 by Vincent B. Davis II
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For the men and women who came before, those who built this country and paved the path for us.
Contents
Part I
Valachi Hearing
Alonzo
Alonzo
Alonzo
Sonny
Valachi Hearing
Alonzo
Rosa
Sonny
Alonzo
Alonzo
Sonny
Alonzo
Part II
Enzo
Vico
Valachi Hearing
Alonzo
Turridru
Sonny
Enzo
Vico
Sonny
Enzo
Alonzo
Alonzo
Enzo
Sonny
Sonny
Rachel
Alonzo
Rachel
Valachi Hearing
Sonny
Part III
Maria
Sonny
Vico
Valachi Hearing
Maria
Vico
Sonny
Maria
Buster
Enzo
Sonny
Maria
Vico
Sonny
Valachi Hearing
Sonny
Buster
Part IV
Turridru
Sonny
Vico
Gaetano “Tommy” Reina
Enzo
Patsy Manzelli
Sasa Parrino
Buster
Sonny
Millie
Sonny
Valachi Hearing
Part V
Sonny
Buster
Sonny
Vico
Enzo
Sonny
Note from the Author
Boss of Bosses
Valachi Hearing
Sonny
Also by Vincent B. Davis II
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Part I
HEARINGS BEFORE THE
PERMANENT SUBCOMMITTEE ON INVESTIGATIONS
OF THE
COMMITTEE ON GOVERNMENT OPERATIONS
UNITED STATES SENATE
EIGHTY-EIGHTH CONGRESS
FIRST SESSION
PURSUANT TO SENATE RESOLUTION 17
SEPTEMBER 27, 1963
Chairman: Do you recall spending much time with Vincente Consentino in the early nineteen thirties?
Mr. Valachi: Who now?
Chairman: I said Vincente Consentino, often called “Sonny.”
Mr. Valachi: Oh yeah, Sonny. Yeah, I spent some time with him.
Chairman: And was he involved in the war your organization found itself in?
Mr. Valachi: Yes, he was. He wasn’t part of my family, though.
Chairman: Mr. Consentino wasn’t part of your criminal organization?
Mr. Valachi: That’s correct.
Chairman: Did Mr. Consentino take part in any of the murders you’ve recollected for us?
Mr. Valachi: What now?
Chairman: Did Sonny Consentino ever take part in any murders, that you know of?
Mr. Valachi: I need a drink of water.
Chairman: Well, take a drink, then. I ask again, was Sonny Consentino present for any of the gangland killings you’ve described?
Mr. Valachi: I don’t remember.
Chairman: You don’t? You’ve said otherwise, previously, under oath.
(Mr. Valachi receives counsel from his attorney.)
Mr. Valachi: Yes, he was.
Chairman: Vincente “Sonny” Consentino was involved in gangland murders?
Mr. Valachi: Yes.
Chairman: And how many murders do you believe him to have been a part of, to the best of your recollection?
Mr. Valachi: I never bothered to count them.
Chairman: You never what?
Mr. Valachi: I never bothered. To count them, I mean. There were several, I think.
Chairman: Was he involved in other criminal activity, like bootlegging?
Mr. Valachi: Not really. He didn’t seem to care much about all that.
Chairman: He didn’t care much about what?
Mr. Valachi: Bootlegging, making money and everything. Sonny wasn’t like the rest of us.
Chairman: How do you mean?
Mr. Valachi: He didn’t go out with us much. He didn’t have a girl. He’d rather go to bed early so’s he could be at the earliest service of Mass. He’d rather watch the New York Stock Exchange than the horse races. He stayed to himself most of the time.
Chairman: And what would Mr. Consentino do with his time?
Mr. Valachi: One time I visited him and he was cleaning his piece.
Chairman: He was cleaning a gun?
Mr. Valachi: Yeah. He was cleaning his pistol and helping another guy load rounds into a tommy-gun drum.
Chairman: Do you know what Mr. Consentino’s purpose was in doing this?
Mr. Valachi: Not really. But back then, we were at war. And Sonny took it all very personally. He had one objective, and anybody who got in the way was gonna wind up in a Chicago overcoat.
Chairman: If they got in the way they would wind up in what? Explain for the court what that term means.
Mr. Valachi: A Chicago Overcoat is what we called a coffin. Sonny and his crew put a lot of their enemies in coffins.
Chairman: I think this is a good place to recess until 1:30.
(Members present at time of recess: Senators McClellan, McIntyre, and Mundt. Whereupon, at 11:15 a.m., the committee recessed until 1:30 p.m. on the same day.)
Alonzo
Castellammare Del Golfo, Sicily—February 17, 1905
The sun warmed his face, and a gentle breeze carried the smell of salt in from the sea. Alonzo Consentino closed his eyes and lifted his head, savoring every second. With two toddlers at home, and another child due any day, he found it nearly impossible to make his regular after-dinner trip to the shore for some fresh air. He had made a habit of it since he was a child, but moments like these were simply fading away beneath the growing list of chores presented by his wife, and the need for attention from his twin boys.
He was exhausted. He plopped down on a grassy patch overlooking the beach, and delicately placed his straw hat over his eyes.
“Papà! Papà!” the voice belonged to one of his twins. In his weary mind, it was just his imagination. “Papà!” When Alonzo heard the voice of his eldest twin, Enzo, yet again, he pounced to his feet. He sensed distress in his boy’s voice, and adrenaline and fear surged through his limbs.
“What? I’m over here. What is wrong? Is it your mother?”
“No.” Enzo doubled over, making it known that he was struggling for air. “There is a boy here. He asks for you.”
“A boy?”
“Yes! A boy, bigger than me. And he’s hurt, Papà. He is bleeding everywhere.”
“Madonna mia,” Alonzo whispered beneath his breath. He swept Enzo in his arms and took off through the pastures to his home.
“Rosa!” Alonzo pushed through the screen door and ran toward the kitchen.
“We’re in here.” He sensed more irritation than fear in his wife’s voice. The
fear of finding someone dead in his home dissipated, and it was replaced by a far more terrifying fear: the aroused anger of his rotund pregnant wife.
“Piddu?” Alonzo asked as he rounded the corner, finding a young man lying on his dining room table, his wife Rosa hovering over him.
“Mr. Consentino, I am so sorry. I am so…sorry,” the boy sobbed.
“He bled all over my table cloth, Alonzo. And your little Vico used up half of our bedsheets trying to stop the bleeding.” Alonzo strategically neglected to respond to his wife. She threw up her arms in exasperation and left the room.
“Why have you come? What is wrong, Piddu?” Alonzo used the calmest voice he could muster, despite his irritation.
But the boy’s tears continued, and they grew more wretched as time passed. He blubbered. The boy must have been thirteen by now, Alonzo thought. What could possibly cause this much commotion?
“Let me see your wound? We can patch it up.” He noticed that the boy’s hand was wrapped in a cocoon of bedsheets and clutched tightly beneath his opposite arm. Without much opposition, he pried the boy’s hand free and unveiled the wound. Blood spurted up from empty stubs where the boy’s fingers once were. Only the thumb and pinkie remained.
The blood gushed out so violently and forcefully that Alonzo had to struggle to get the wound wrapped again.
Before he could finish, Piddu ripped his arm away from Alonzo.
“That’s not why I am here!” He sucked wind, and tried to tamp down his tears. “They killed my ma and pa! They killed them both.”
Alonzo’s knees nearly buckled. He had to prop himself up on the table. “Who did? Are you sure? Who killed your parents? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” The boy now wrapped up the wound himself, then sat up. He shook from the cold of blood loss. “It was some men. My pa called them the Armettas…or Arm…Are…”
“The Armettas? Why would they do something like this?”
“They said my father insulted them. They said he slighted them, so they killed them both while we ate dinner.” He brandished his mangled hand once again. “And they did this to me so I couldn’t kill them when I’m older.”
Alonzo’s eyes flickered cautiously toward the door. “Piddu, why did you come here? What do you expect me to do? The Armettas are associates of mine, just like your father was. You must have spent hours coming from Palermo. Was there no one back there who knows how to stop the bleeding?”
“No, we were visiting here. We were only here for the week, to see the festival of San Biagio down by the water. And they killed my parents, here in Castellammare del Golfo. I came to you because you are in charge here! And I beg for you to help me!”
Alonzo backed away from the boy, his eyes blinking in disbelief. The breath caught in his lungs.
“Well?” Piddu pleaded.
“I’ll see what I can do, but now you need to rest. And someone has to stop that bleeding.”
Piddu nodded. It took only moments for his adrenaline to subside. And when it did, he collapsed back onto the table, leaving Alonzo to patch up his wound and contemplate what he knew could cause far greater pain than the loss of a few digits.
Alonzo
Atlantic Ocean—September 16, 1907
After spending the first thirty years of his life on the Sicilian coast, Alonzo Consentino considered himself quite the seafarer. By the time he neared Ellis Island, this was disproven.
Night and day, he fought back the urge to vomit, and once or twice, he snuck away from his wife and three boys, pretending to take a smoke in private, and only then would he empty the contents of his stomach into the Atlantic. His nausea was alleviated temporarily when he remained in the family’s lodgings with the other immigrants, but pellagra and malaria were rampant, so he kept himself and the rest of the Consentino clan on the deck of the steamboat as often as he was able.
Once they had arrived at the port, and were safely out of the Armettas’ dangerous grasp, Alonzo had taken as much time as possible to discuss with others what they should expect in America. He was surprised to find himself nervous, but he had never left Sicily before. The Americans could have all been ten feet tall, for all he knew.
Several travelers who had already been to America and were now returning with enough money to establish themselves in their native country told Alonzo all he needed to know about his entrance to America. Very little of it was encouraging. At first, he was unsure if he should believe the nightmarish stories they told him. All the papers said it was the land of freedom, hope, and boundless opportunity. But these men all shared stories of inhumane living conditions, violent prejudice, and limited job opportunities.
Something wasn’t adding up, but eventually, Alonzo began to believe the travelers, although he was determined that his story was going to be different.
The most important thing they had told him was that he needed to claim that he had a job prepared for him once he arrived at Ellis Island—or risk being rejected. They also said he would have to contact a “padrone,” one of the wealthy Sicilian immigrants who could help them find a place to live and a job…for a fee. Alonzo balked at the idea of having to approach, hat in hand, some two-bit immigrant for provision in the States. Then he remembered he was going to be nothing but a two-bit immigrant the moment he stepped on the boat. Regardless, he intended to stay as far away from important Sicilians as possible, for obvious reasons.
For all Alonzo’s preparation, there was nothing he could have done to prepare for the seasickness. Looking around at the diseased wretches in the living quarters beneath the deck, he was forced to at least be relieved that his plights weren’t as bad as theirs, but comparisons didn’t hold much weight when his guts felt twisted up in knots and he couldn’t keep his stale bread down.
He couldn’t let the boys see, though. He made sure to smile and talk about how majestic America would be. The twins, Enzo and Vico, couldn’t have been more delighted to make the move. For them, it was all one big adventure. For little Sonny, things had been more difficult. He wasn’t so sure about this nation so far away from Sicily’s coast.
The travelers, packed in like sardines on the deck, began to cry out in awe as land was spotted in the distance.
“America!” Some of them shouted. Alonzo only exhaled in relief. He was beginning to think he would never see the promised land.
He bounced Sonny, who was latched on to him tightly, and pointed into the distance.
“Look, we are here!” Alonzo said with feigned excitement. “Isn’t it lovely?” Sonny turned his face away and lowered his eyes. Alonzo craned to look at him. He was pouting like a child, but there was something about Sonny’s demeanor that was adult-like, informed, wise.
“Mamma doesn’t want to go to America,” Sonny said, his voice barely audible. He was quite right. Rosa had never said it aloud, but she had made it known that this voyage to America was not her choice. She was a dutiful wife and mother, though, and when Alonzo said that they had no other options, she packed their bags as instructed, and they left as soon as they could.
But that didn’t stop her from drinking.
Alonzo could hear it in her voice, and he could smell it on her breath when she infrequently came close enough to Alonzo for him to notice. The twins weren’t very perceptive, and if they had picked up on their mother’s discontent, they didn’t care. Sonny, only four, had read his mother like a book.
“Yes, she does, Sonny, she will just miss Sicily. Look here.” He eased Sonny to the floor and fumbled through the pockets in his tweed jacket for a flyer he’d received from an orphan boy at the docks before their departure. “I bet we will see this in just a few moments.”
“It’s a lady. A statue of a lady.” Alonzo’s heart warmed with his son’s spirits. He knelt to Sonny’s level so they could both scan the horizon from the same vantage point.
“That’s right! The Statua Liberta, and she represents everything this country stands for.” Alonzo smiled until Sonny followed
his example, then pinched his cheek.
“Like what?”
“Like what? Like what!” Alonzo picked Sonny up again in mock anger and swung him around. “Well, fresh starts!”
“And what else?”
“And…well, liberty, of course!”
“Uh-huh.”
“And opportunity! Opportunities we wouldn’t have had back home.” He paused and watched as Sonny’s face lit up.
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