Mafia Prince: Inside America's Most Violent Crime Family

by Phil Leonetti

  Since the day I got out of jail in 1992, I was living primarily in South Florida or Hilton Head or traveling the East Coast on the boat. After a while I got antsy, and both Maria and I wanted to settle down somewhere and make a home where we could stay for the rest of our lives.

  When we were in Arizona, Little Philip and I flew into Las Vegas a couple of times, and I really liked it because it reminded me of Atlantic City. I liked the action. On one of the trips, we stayed at the Bellagio, and right away, I fell in love with Vegas, but I knew we couldn’t stay there.

  Eventually, Maria and I headed a little further west and like we did on the boat back in 1995, we went up the coast looking for a nice quiet place to settle down.

  By June 2005, Philip Leonetti and Maria were living comfortably on the West Coast, a short distance from the Pacific Ocean, in a beautiful, secluded home.

  The first time we saw the place, I told Maria, “This is it, this is home,” and she agreed. After all these years of moving around, we were finally able to settle down.

  For the next four years, life for the Leonettis was peaceful and quiet and rather uneventful.

  And then in the fall of 2009, the FBI called.

  Again.

  Que Sera, Sera

  A LMOST 17 YEARS TO THE DAY THAT HE HAD BEEN RELEASED FROM PRISON, PHILIP LEONETTI RECEIVED A CALL FROM ONE OF HIS FORMER FBI HANDLERS, WHO WAS NOW RETIRED FROM THE BUREAU.

  The phone rang, and he said, “Philip, I got a call from one of the agents in Philadelphia on the Organized Crime Task Force, and he has reason to believe that your identity and location have been compromised and that you and your family are in imminent danger.”

  I remember getting a pit in my stomach because he sounded concerned, and he wasn’t an alarmist type of guy. I said, “Jesus Christ, where did this come from?” And he said, “We are still trying to piece it together and get confirmation. I am going to have the agent in Philadelphia call you and debrief you.” And then we hung up.

  Now I’m sitting there thinking to myself, “I’ve been out of jail for 17 years and out of La Cosa Nostra for 20 years and, all of the sudden, out of the blue, I get this call that me and my family are in danger?” It wasn’t adding up to me.

  Later that night, I got a call from the agent in Philadelphia and he was very firm with me on the phone. He said, “Philip, we have reason to believe that an attorney who has done work for several La Cosa Nostra members may know your name and current location, and if he does, you and your family are in danger and need to move.” I said, “With all due respect, I’m going to need a little more information than that before I consider moving myself and my family. We are established out here; we have a great life.” And the agent said, “That’s all the information I have at this time,” and I thanked him for the call.

  Now my mind is racing with all of the what-if scenarios, because in all of the years that I had been away from La Cosa Nostra, I had never gotten a call like this from the FBI. When I was in Atlantic City during the summer of 1996, I knew that I was putting myself in danger, but I had no choice. My grandmother was sick. But now 13 years later when I’m living 2,500 miles away and now I’m in danger? The whole thing had me confused.

  Leonetti learned that the attorney the FBI believed may know his new name and location was a 35-year-old, well-respected, Atlantic City–based criminal defense attorney named James Leonard Jr.

  The first person I called was another retired FBI agent who was now running a security consulting firm and working as a private investigator. He knew all of the players in Atlantic City and had already heard the news when I called him. He said to me, “Philip, I met this kid a couple of times and, from what I can tell, he’s straight paper. I can’t see him doing anything to cause you or your family any problems if this is true, which we still don’t know for certain, one way or the other.” I spoke to another agent, and he agreed.

  But the agent in Philadelphia was telling me that this lawyer had talked several times on the phone with my uncle, and that when my cousin Nicky got out of jail in 2005, my uncle sent him to see the lawyer so that they could form a relationship. He also told me that the lawyer had worked with Joey Merlino and had gone to visit him several times in prison.

  The story I had gotten was that a friend of Little Philip’s knew a friend of a friend of the lawyer’s and had told him that he knew where we were living and what our names were. The story was that the information was then passed on to the lawyer, and the theory was IF he knew my name and location, that he could have told my uncle, my cousin, Joey Merlino, or one of his other mob clients, and that we could all be in danger as a result.

  This was a very serious concern for me if it were true. But nothing was concrete, nothing was solid regarding whether the lawyer actually knew my identity and where I was living—and if he did, whether he had told anyone about it.

  As 2009 turned into 2010, Philip Leonetti was still in the dark about whether this threat was real or just perceived.

  The agent that I was talking to was just doing his job and his job is to always err on the side of caution, to look out for us. So his philosophy was, “Why take a chance?” The problem was, we were well established where we were living. The last thing I wanted to do was pick up and move again, especially if we didn’t have to.

  So I decided that I was going to go back to Atlantic City and see the lawyer myself and find out what the real story was, to try and get a read on him before I made a decision about whether or not to move again. I told Maria what was going on and she was scared, but she agreed that we needed to know for sure one way or the other.

  I decided not to tell anyone in the FBI that I was coming back to Atlantic City, because I wasn’t sure how things were going to go and I knew how they would react.

  In early February 2010, Philip Leonetti boarded a commercial flight and flew into Philadelphia with one thing on his mind: to find attorney James Leonard Jr. and get some answers.

  I hadn’t been in Philadelphia since I testified in Bobby Simone’s trial in 1992. There was a lot of things that I missed about South Philadelphia, but I wasn’t there to go sightseeing. I rented a car at the airport and drove over the Walt Whitman Bridge and got on the Atlantic City Expressway and headed straight to Atlantic City, which was an hour away from Philadelphia. After all of these years I was still banned from going into any of the Atlantic City casinos, so I checked into a non-casino hotel and got freshened up.

  I had arranged for someone I know, who also knew the lawyer, to schedule a meeting for the two of them at a restaurant in Atlantic City called the Knife and Fork Inn. They were going to meet for drinks at 6:00 p.m., and my plan was to get to the Knife and Fork around 5:00, have some dinner upstairs, and have my friend call the lawyer and tell him that he was running late. Once I knew the lawyer was at the bar, I would come downstairs and talk to him. My friend called me at 6:00 on the dot and said, “He’s there,” and I paid for my dinner and walked downstairs to the bar, which was on the first floor.

  I knew what the lawyer looked like and I spotted him at the far end of the bar with his back to Pacific Avenue, doing something on his phone, maybe texting or e-mailing. He was by himself. I got about 10 feet away when he looked up at me and immediately recognized me, and I could tell from the look on his face that he was startled. I put my hands up to indicate that I was approaching him in a nonthreatening manner and I said to him, “Relax, I just want to talk to you,” and I sat down on the stool next to him, which was angled so we were basically looking at one another. I said, “You obviously know who I am; do you know why I am here?” And he said, “I’m guessin’ it’s not for the tuna tartare,” which made me smile and broke the ice a little bit. I said to him, “I’ve heard a lot of things about you,” and he replied, “I’ve heard a few things about you, too, but I don’t believe everything I hear.” And I said, “That’s good. But what I’m hearing concerns not only me, but my family as well.”

  At this point, the bartender came over and
I ordered myself a drink, and the lawyer said, “I’ll have what he’s having,” and the bartender brought us each a glass of Cutty Sark and a glass of water. I reached into my wallet and took out money and put it on the bar, and when I did, I said, “I want to show you something,” and I took out a picture and I handed it to him. As he was looking at it, I said, “Do you know who that is in the picture?” And he shook his head no, and I said, “James, that’s my wife, my son, and my grandson,” and this time he shook his head up and down, like he understood what I was saying. I said, “I was told by the FBI,” and I pointed to the picture, “that they might have a problem and that’s why I am here.” He handed me the picture back and looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t know what the FBI told you, but I will tell you this: I don’t know and don’t want to know what your name is or where you live—that’s none of my business and none of my concern.”

  My whole life, whether it was in La Cosa Nostra, or when I was dealing with the government, or when I was in prison, or when I got out, one thing about me was I was always good at reading people right away. My uncle was always good at this, too. I had just met this kid and in less than five minutes I knew he was telling me the truth, he wasn’t fuckin’ around. He seemed exactly as the agent described him—straight paper—and while I startled him by suddenly appearing, he didn’t seem scared or intimidated, which told me that he had nothing to hide and was telling the truth.

  I finished my drink and I said to him, “James, it was a pleasure meeting you, maybe I’ll see you around,” and he said, “I sure hope not,” and we both laughed. I shook his hand as I stood up to go. He said, “For a guy walking around with a $500,000 bounty on his head, you seem extremely relaxed,” and I said, “Que sera, sera,” and he look confused because he didn’t know what it meant, and I said, “Look it up on your phone,” and I walked away and that was it.

  Que sera, sera means, “whatever will be, will be.” It’s an old song from an Alfred Hitchcock movie, which is basically how I see my life when I think back on everything. Both in the sense of resembling a Hitchcock movie and that line—“Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be”—pretty much sums up my philosophy. If someone comes after me or wants to try and find me so they can kill me, there is nothing I can do about it except be ready and do whatever I need to do to make sure that doesn’t happen and I get them first. So going to see this lawyer was both my wanting to assess and see if the threat truly existed, and if it did, to let him know: I can find you just as easy as you might be able to find me.

  Now that I was satisfied that neither myself nor my family was in any imminent danger, I went back to the hotel in Atlantic City and checked out and decided to drive to Philadelphia and stay there because my flight back home was early the next morning. On the way back I stopped at the Saloon, which is a restaurant and bar in South Philadelphia, and I had a drink. I used to go there all the time with my uncle, or with Salvie, or with Chuckie when my uncle was in jail. I sat right at the bar, and no one recognized me. I ordered a Cutty and water and sat there and enjoyed a nice quiet drink all by myself.

  I had just left Atlantic City, and here I was in South Philadelphia, but at this point in my life, I couldn’t wait to get home. I checked into a hotel out by the airport and by 7:00 a.m. the next day I was in the air and headed west.

  I landed a few hours later and I drove straight home. My black Lab, Bubba, was waiting at the door for me, and I told Maria about my meeting with the lawyer and that everything was fine, and I could tell that she was relieved, and so was I.

  Life went back to normal, well, our normal. I was always careful with everything I did, even when I was with my uncle. I always watched my mirrors and took different routes wherever I went—in case someone was following me, whether it was the law or someone else. I’d get to places early. I’d always have my antenna up and be ready at all times for whatever was out there. Nobody was ever going to get the jump on me.

  In March 2010, almost a month after his trip to Atlantic City and his impromptu sit-down with attorney James Leonard Jr., Philip Leonetti turned 57 years old.

  Leonetti immediately settled back into what had become his daily routine.

  Every morning, I am up at 5:00 a.m. and sit outside on our back patio, which has the most amazing view, and I watch the sun come up. It is so peaceful out there at that time of day. I drink a cup of coffee with Maria, and I go on my iPad and I read the morning news.

  Around 6:30 a.m. or so, I head to the gym and I run five miles and do my workout, and then I sit in the sauna or the steam room for 15 or 20 minutes, just relaxing. I take a shower and then I head home around 8:00 or so, and on most days I’m at work by 9:00.

  As I got older, I got away from the contracting business, and I got myself involved in a totally different field. I work outside, and my new career keeps me fit. I love what I’m doing. Physically I feel like I’m 35 years old. Maria and I have a nice group of friends, but nobody we know, know who we really are. They don’t know us as Philip and Maria, and they have no idea where we come from.

  This is my life now, and I’ve never been happier.

  EPILOGUE

  January 2012, Atlantic City, New Jersey

  THE BEGINNING OF THE END TO PHILIP LEONETTI’S STORY TAKES PLACE PRECISELY WHERE IT ALL BEGAN–ON GEORGIA AVENUE IN ATLANTIC CITY.

  On a cold, blustery day, we traveled with Philip back to the two buildings that encompass the former Scarfo compound at 26–28 North Georgia Avenue.

  Joining us were a photographer, who memorialized the day with a series of photographs—one of which is included in this book—and an armed, off-duty Atlantic City police officer who was friendly with Leonetti.

  This is it, this is where we lived.

  Philip Leonetti was showing us the former Scarf, Inc. office that doubled as the mob’s headquarters on the ground floor of 28 North Georgia Avenue. Taking us into the area that separates the two buildings, he pointed to a second-floor apartment in the building at 26 North Georgia Avenue.

  That’s where my uncle lived.

  He pointed to a ground-floor apartment below his uncle’s.

  That’s where my grandmother lived.

  He showed us the apartment where his mother lived—directly behind the office at 28 North Georgia Avenue—and the third-floor apartment where Lawrence Merlino used to live.

  That window right there that sticks out, that was Lawrence’s dining room.

  Philip gave us a walking tour of the back alleys that were used when he and his uncle had to sneak away from Georgia Avenue in the 1970s and ’80s while they were on bail restrictions or to avoid the constant surveillance they were under, and he showed us how he used the same alleys to sneak back into the compound during the summer of 1996, when his grandmother was sick.

  Being back here brings back a lot of memories, some good, but more bad than good.

  Philip pointed to a small alley that headed west toward Arctic Avenue.

  This is where my uncle wanted me to kill the Blade. The Blade lived right around the corner, not even a block from here.

  Leonetti walked us up Georgia Avenue toward Arctic and into the dining room of Angeloni’s, the neighborhood Italian restaurant where he and his uncle held court.

  This was our table, right here. Me, my uncle, Chuckie, Lawrence, the Blade, Saul Kane, Salvie, Bobby Simone—this is where we always sat. We lived in this place. The whole mob would be in here. My God, it seems like a lifetime ago, and looking back, it was. I was just a kid when we got started, and I was only 34 when we went to jail. God willing, I’ll be 59 next month.

  Nicholas “Nick the Blade” Virgilio died at the age of 67 in March 1995 in the Federal Medical Center in Springfield, Missouri, which was a prison hospital, suffering a fatal heart attack almost eight years into his 40-year sentence.

  New York mob boss John Gotti would die in the same facility of throat cancer in June 2002 at the age of 62, and his nemesis Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, the man Leonetti called �
�the last of the dons,” died in the same hospital in 2005 at the age of 77 after suffering from chronic heart disease, the same illness that took the life of Leonetti’s old pal Saul Kane, who died in 2000 at the age of 65 in a prison hospital outside of Lexington, Kentucky.

  Saul Kane was one of the best guys I ever knew. He was my very dear friend, and he and I had a lot of fun together. Saul knew how to make me laugh, which, if you knew me in the ’80s, wasn’t an easy thing to do. One day when I was in FCI Phoenix, I got a letter from Saul who was in another prison doing his 95-year sentence. I have no idea how he found me or how he got me the letter, but that was Saul. I wrote him back and we exchanged a couple of letters back and forth. Even being locked up all those years and knowing he was never getting out, Saul still had his sense of humor. When he died he listed me as his nephew in his obituary and referred to me as Philip “Flip” Kane. In the letters he wrote me he also called me “Flip,” which was a play on my first name and the fact that I went with the government and flipped. I miss Saul.

  Some of the other guys I miss are guys like Vince Sausto, Spike, and Teddy Khoury, all of whom have since died. You couldn’t find a more entertaining group then these guys. They weren’t mob guys, but they were always around. I stayed close to both Vince and Teddy and was able to reconnect with both of them when I got out of jail and I spent time with them both. Vince had a house not too far from where I was living in Florida and that summer of 1996 when I was back in Atlantic City, I had quite a few dinners and a lot of laughs with Teddy. The last I heard of Spike was that he left Florida and moved to Las Vegas and wound up back in Florida and ended up dying down there.