In addition to his bandaged face, Ferdinando Licata’s torso was in a cast due to the blow he’d received from the shock wave, which had hurled him onto the pavement. Ginevra’s little body, absorbing the brunt of the explosion’s force, had saved his life. The prince had sustained no internal injuries.
Four weeks later, he was able to speak and was permitted to receive visitors. One of the first to go and see him was Nico, Betty’s husband. With a heavy heart, he told him about Ginevra. The little girl had been killed instantly, and the coroner, perhaps to lessen the pain of Nico’s grief, had told him that she could not have been aware of anything. Ferdinando asked about Betty. Nico bowed his head. He found it difficult to speak. He told him at once that physically she was all right, she had not been injured. Her wounds lay elsewhere; the child’s violent death had shattered her.
Ferdinando turned his head toward the window, so Nico couldn’t see him. He knew his niece and her strong-willed nature. Betty didn’t want to see her uncle. He had carried a curse from Sicily, an infection that doesn’t spare anyone and mows down women, children, husbands, brothers, and fathers alike.
* * *
In the days following the attack, Jack Mastrangelo, acting on Licata’s behalf, began moving into what had been the Stokers’ territory, enlisting several Sicilians of proven loyalty. The prince had wanted them preferably from the Salemi area.
Mastrangelo spoke to the police commissioner conducting the investigation and got him to agree to place Ferdinando Licata under protection, since those who had planned the attack would surely try again to kill him. To reassure the public, the commissioner agreed to have Licata’s hospital room placed under armed guard. Four policemen were assigned to protect the prince’s life, each working six-hour shifts.
Ferdinando Licata’s renown as a just and generous man skyrocketed. The tragedy that had struck his family earned him the compassion of the entire population of Little Italy and that of all Sicilians in America.
As soon as the prince was able to speak, Jack Mastrangelo went to Bellevue Hospital almost every day for new instructions from u patri. One afternoon, he was pleased to be able to bring the prince some good news.
Mastrangelo sat down beside the bed. “I carried out all of your orders, Patri. We’re in command of the territory. No one put up the slightest resistance. The guys are on the ball and happy to work for you. They’re impatient for some action.”
“Well done, Jack, you did a good job.” Ferdinando Licata spoke slowly to make himself understood, since his jaw was still partially obstructed by the bandage.
“Think about getting better, patri. Everything is under control out there.”
Licata moved his hand on the sheet and touched Mastrangelo’s arm.
“I want Saro. It’s time to talk to him.”
“Okay. I’ll bring him here as soon as possible.”
* * *
In the weeks following the attack, the New York police department called all its available police officers back to duty. Leaves, vacations, medical visits, and business travel were suspended indefinitely. Surveillance in the district doubled, and numerous monitoring operations and searches were set in motion. There were weeks of intensive activity, with a constant flow of cars and vans carrying suspects and dubious characters to various police stations. But despite the extraordinary deployment of police officers, investigators were unable to identify the perpetrators and masterminds responsible for the Saint Ciro massacre.
The intense police activity was paralyzing the economic dealings of New York’s crime families. Each day that passed meant countless dollars of lost revenue, while expenses continued to mount. Sante Genovese was furious with Tom Bontade. “Without saying a word to me, he goes and plans that fucking screwup!” he raged to anyone who went to see him. “If it weren’t for my uncle who protects him, I would already have had him bumped off,” he kept ranting. “An idiot like that will ruin us!”
Sante Genovese was afraid war would break out again between the old and new families, as it had in the twenties. Lucky Luciano’s orders had been unconditional: any conflict between the families had to be evaluated and ruled upon by the top-ranking Cosa Nostra bosses; solutions adopted unilaterally were prohibited.
Sante knew that nobody would be able to stop Prince Ferdinando Licata. Sooner or later he would avenge the killing of his grandniece and his own attempted murder.
Tom Bontade’s days were numbered, but how long would the blood feud last?
Sante Genovese had to put a stop to it at all costs. He had to reconcile them, no question. He had to get them to sit down at the negotiating table. Tom Bontade had to give Licata something to settle the score, and then everything could be resolved with a handshake.
If Bontade wouldn’t agree to a truce with Licata, then Sante would threaten to tell Lucky Luciano everything, since he still held the power of life or death over the Cosa Nostra families, even though he’d been locked up for some years in a maximum security prison.
* * *
Jack Mastrangelo, as promised, brought Saro to the prince’s bedside. Struggling to speak, u patri told Saro what he wanted from him. He knew he was a good kid and that he’d worked hard in America, though without much luck. He wanted to give him the chance he’d been missing until then. Saro would become the right-hand man to Mastrangelo, who would now become Licata’s consigliori.
Mastrangelo was more astonished than Saro. He wasn’t expecting that investiture from the prince. Him, consigliori! He didn’t think he was worthy of the honor.
“You’re the only person on earth whom I trust unreservedly,” Licata told him. “I’ve seen how you work, and I’ve come to know you, Mastrangelo—or, rather, Jack. You have a few years on you by now; you can’t keep being a maverick. It’s time you settled down.”
Mastrangelo didn’t know what to say. The scars on his face trembled with emotion. Essentially that was what he’d always dreamed of: to be the consigliori of a big boss. He didn’t know if he should kiss the prince’s hand in gratitude. He’d never done that in his life, and he didn’t want to start now.
Licata seemed to read his mind and closed the subject: “It’s all right, I understand.” Then he turned back to Saro.
“As for you, I know there’s a dark hole in your life.”
Saro looked up and met the prince’s eyes behind the bandages. Was it possible he knew about the Blue Lemon?
“Don’t worry, you’re among friends. We’ll never betray you. Instead, you should thank Jack Mastrangelo for getting you out of trouble.”
“What trouble?” Saro asked innocently.
“Poor girl. You went off like a maniac,” Mastrangelo remarked.
So they knew everything, Saro thought, bowing his head.
“You battered them mercilessly,” Mastrangelo went on undeterred.
“I don’t remember anything about that night,” the young man mumbled, trying to justify his actions.
“You were filled to the gills with alcohol.”
“What happened?” asked Saro hesitantly.
“I was going to see one of Marta’s coworkers; she has a room on the same floor. I heard the scuffle—or, rather, the bloodbath—the door was open. You were like a lioness who’s had her cubs taken away. You wouldn’t stop! Then you collapsed on the bed, nearly comatose. Marta was on the floor, and so was her client. So I picked you up, loaded you in the car, and dumped you far away from there.”
“I can’t thank you enough—”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to pay off your debt. You’re one of us now; you heard what u patri said, right?”
“It’s an honor for me.”
“Okay, enough of these compliments; let’s get to work,” said the prince. “I’ve had word from Sante Genovese that Tom Bontade wants to talk to me.”
* * *
To avert another war between the families, Sante Genovese had persuaded Tom Bontade, with arguments he could not ignore, to apologize to Ferdinando Licat
a for what had happened and to compensate him and his family for the loss of the child by giving him total control of the slot machine business.
At first Bontade refused to submit to Sante’s insistent urging, but as soon as Genovese threatened to get Luciano involved, he quickly became more reasonable. He agreed to offer Licata an apology, but, he objected to handing over the slots, which seemed an excessively harsh punishment for his family.
They reached a compromise: Bontade would renounce his interests for two full years, and then he would be allowed back in, for a percentage to be decided with Licata.
Bontade had no choice but to accept the terms.
Sante Genovese told him that he would get in touch with Licata and establish the details of the peace offering. Genovese stressed that the interests of the families had to be upheld above all other considerations. “That fucking attack,” he repeated again, “was a bad idea. It stirred up the police and paralyzed our business. And all for what?”
The reproach stung Tom Bontade more than the failure of the Saint Ciro attempt. Nevertheless, he had to agree to be completely amenable to anything that the Cupola, the top-ranking circle of Cosa Nostra bosses, might order him to do.
Chapter 44
Mike Genna, Sante Genovese’s consigliori, was charged with setting up the meeting between representatives of the two families.
Since Ferdinando Licata was confined to bed, he would be represented by Jack Mastrangelo and Saro Ragusa. In keeping with Mafia rules, Tom Bontade, as a family boss, could negotiate only with someone of his own rank; therefore he would send Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna to the meeting.
All week long, Genna ran back and forth from family to family, attempting to mediate and trying to pin down the fine points of the agreement. He had arranged for the meeting to be held in a restaurant in Greenwich Village, but at the last minute, Mastrangelo had it moved to La Tonnara, the trattoria owned by the parents of little Ginevra, who had been sacrificed by Bontade’s senseless fury. It was a gesture of respect that the Bontades owed the Licata family.
Vanni reluctantly agreed to the demand, but he insisted that before entering, his men be allowed to search the place for any hidden guns.
When the evening chosen for the meeting arrived, Bontade’s men, under the watchful eye of Mike Genna himself and members of Licata’s team, began searching the trattoria.
Barret and Joe Cooper, who were Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna’s bodyguards, entered the place and carefully checked for possible hidden weapons, even searching the sole waiter.
After a good half hour of thorough probing, they agreed that the place was clean.
It was okay for Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna to enter. They were frisked in turn by the two soldiers sent to protect Mastrangelo and Saro Ragusa: Lando Farinella and Bobby Mascellino.
Mike Genna invited the two groups to sit at a table that had been specially set for them. He took his place at the head of the table, while Jack Mastrangelo and Saro sat down to his right. To his left were Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna, who, despite the others’ dark faces, kept up a cheerful patter.
“So, what are we eating tonight?” Ciancianna began in an attempt to break the mood of uneasiness and suspicion, as he settled his impressive bulk in a chair.
The bodyguards stationed themselves behind the families’ respective representatives.
Genna, taking the role of moderator seriously, began by saying, “Our thanks to our hosts this evening, Prince Licata’s niece Betty and her husband Nico.”
Mastrangelo interrupted to point out the woman’s state of mind. “The signora has not gotten over the death of her daughter. Nevertheless, she’s provided us with a cook and a waiter, so we would have everything we need.”
“I remind you that the purpose of our meeting here is to resolve all the differences that may still divide your two families. I represent the Genoveses and thus indirectly Mr. Luciano. Please keep the tone within proper bounds,” Genna advised patiently.
“And now let’s eat,” the jovial Ciancianna concluded with a hearty laugh.
Nico had prepared typical southern Italian dishes that could easily be reheated. The menu included lasagna, eggplant parmigiana, zucchini frittata with potatoes and prawns, and, finally, ricotta and spinach calzones. All accompanied by catarratto, a white wine with a bouquet of orange and prickly pear that recalled Sicily’s beautiful lands.
The waiter brought the wine first. Mike Genna tasted it and then nodded for him to serve the others as well. Next came the lasagna, at which point Carmelo Vanni started unburdening himself.
“Tom Bontade sends word,” he began, cutting a steaming wedge of lasagna, “that he is sincerely sorry for what happened at the feast of Saint Ciro.”
Mastrangelo replied, “Prince Licata accepts Bontade’s apology.”
The script had to be performed through to the final lines. Everyone knew what he had to say and how the others would respond. Mike Genna had spent the previous week shuttling back and forth from one family to the other to calibrate the apology and pardon word for word. Nonetheless, the rules required the one who had done wrong to express his regret in a ritual that had been repeated almost identically for decades.
“Unfortunately, there was a mishap—a variable that was impossible to foresee,” Carmelo Vanni went on. “We never would have thought that the prince would use his niece as a shield.”
“Let me clarify,” Mastrangelo broke in, his patience wearing thin already, “Prince Licata did not use his niece as a shield.” Then addressing Mike Genna directly: “I would point out, Mr. Genna, that this was not supposed to be the spirit of this meeting. Is Vanni now insinuating that the prince is a coward and that he hid behind a little child? If those are his intentions, we won’t listen to any more of it.”
Genna stepped in, trying to tone things down: “Of course not, Mastrangelo, I’m sure they weren’t Vanni’s intentions. He just meant that there was an unforeseen circumstance, represented by his niece.” Having said that, he spoke directly to Vanni: “Let’s not digress. Say only what there is to say.”
“I felt it was important to point out, though, that, if a mistake was made, it wasn’t our fault,” Vanni insisted.
Vincenzo Ciancianna looked up from his plate. Vanni’s attitude was clearly confrontational.
“Carmelo Vanni, do I have to go on listening to your bullshit?” Mastrangelo set his fork down on the table, imitated by Saro.
Genna promptly intervened. “Gentlemen, let’s calm down. Let’s enjoy this fine meal, and let’s stick to the subject. Go on, Vanni.”
“Tom Bontade is sorry about the accident,” Vanni continued solemnly.
Vincenzo Ciancianna relaxed and started in on his second portion of lasagna.
“He calls it an accident, does he?” Mastrangelo muttered sarcastically. “Let’s call it what it was: murder. Let’s say that Tom Bontade is sorry for killing a little seven-year-old girl!”
“That’s it, enough! Stop it! We can’t continue like this,” Genna said heatedly, rising to his feet. “Let’s go back to the reason why we’re gathered here. I promised Sante Genovese I’d get you to make peace, and I’ll do it even if I have to blow your goddamn brains out.” The antagonists finally fell silent. Genna sat down again. “Let’s go, Vanni. For the last time, let’s hear Bontade’s apology and his proposal.”
“You got it,” Vanni said quickly. “Bontade, as a testament to his good will and to put this accident behind us for good—”
“No way!” Mastrangelo exploded, turning to Mike Genna. “He’s still fucking with us!”
With those words, his hand smacked the glass of wine, which went tumbling to the floor. It was the agreed-upon signal. Mastrangelo’s guard Lando Farinella dashed to the wall where a fishing rope hung, grabbed it and yanked. Barret and Joe Cooper, Bontade’s bodyguards, were focused on the glass, which cost them dearly. The large fishing net plunged from the ceiling, falling heavily over the table companions
.
Saro and Mastrangelo had quickly sprung away from the table to avoid the trap. Mike Genna, Ciancianna, and Vanni, however, were caught by surprise. In the blink of an eye, Saro seized a harpoon from the wall, used for catching swordfish, and Mastrangelo grabbed an oar, while Barret and Joe Cooper were still trying to disentangle themselves from the net’s heavy mesh.
Vincenzo Ciancianna instinctively leaned back, but the legs of his chair gave way, and he crashed to the floor.
Bobby Mascellino, Mastrangelo’s other bodyguard, snatched a second harpoon from the wall, while Mastrangelo swung the oar and with its full force struck Carmelo Vanni’s skull. Cooper, who by now had managed to free himself from the net, lunged at Mastrangelo with his bare hands. Saro raised the harpoon, ready to strike Cooper, who noticed it and swerved at the last moment. But Saro aimed again, hurling the barbed spear right through him. Without loosening his grip on the rope, Saro pulled on the harpoon to have it rip through the man’s guts, but Cooper lunged sideways, seizing the spear with both hands, and knocking Saro to the floor.
Mastrangelo was quick to raise the oar and bring it down on Barret, who was still struggling under the net, and struck him with the sharp edge of the blade, smashing his skull and spattering the walls and floor with blood. Joe Cooper was still on his feet, trying hideously to pull the spear out of his chest, though obviously it was hopeless. He kept on with a strength born of desperation, releasing bits of gut along with blood. Saro, still on the ground, watched in horror.
Mike Genna had finally managed to disentangle himself from the net, beneath which only the moans of Vincenzo Ciancianna could be heard. Bobby Mascellino did not hesitate. Despite the fat man’s innocuous nature, he threw the harpoon, aiming straight for the heart. A second later, Ciancianna lay still under the fishing net.
The Prince Page 38
