The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  Mastrangelo went to visit his niece every two or three months, but that Sunday was special. In the garden behind the institute, Mastrangelo approached the girl as she sat on a blue canvas chair.

  Ben and Aldo were able to observe the scene from behind the massive wall.

  “There,” Aldo whispered, watching Mastrangelo bend down to give his niece a kiss on the cheek. “That’s his weak point.”

  Chapter 47

  A week after Aurora’s twenty-first birthday, Jack Mastrangelo went out early one morning to meet with Saro. As usual, he stopped at the nearby Italian cafe to have breakfast and read the sports pages while sipping a cup of espresso.

  As he was reading the New York Daily Mirror, Roy Boccia came in and sat down at his table. Mastrangelo lowered the newspaper and recognized the Bontade family’s henchman. With great control, he raised the paper again.

  “Boccia, you got the wrong table,” he said, pretending to go on reading.

  “You’re just the man I was looking for, pal.”

  This time Mastrangelo folded the paper. “Are you tired of those Bontade clowns?”

  “I came to offer you a deal.”

  “I don’t do business with people like you.” Mastrangelo took a sip of espresso, while the waitress poured coffee into Roy’s cup.

  Boccia waited until she had walked away. “This time I bet you’ll make an exception. We need your help.”

  “What the hell are you thinking? All of New York knows who I’m working with. What do you want from me? I hate melodramatic gangsters.”

  “We want you to come over to our side.”

  Mastrangelo didn’t bat an eye. He remained unfazed and continued speaking quietly. “You see, you ugly son of a bitch, the difference between you and me is that sewer rats of your kind run after cheese, no matter what kind it is, even if it stinks. I choose my cheese, and it has to be top quality.”

  “Too bad for you, pal, but this time you’ll have to swallow whatever cheese we feed you, or else.”

  “Or else what?” Mastrangelo mocked.

  With his usual twisted smile, Roy Boccia slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a white card that he slid across the table, placing it under Jack’s saucer.

  Mastrangelo stared at it and had a terrible feeling. It was the back of a photograph. He reached out and turned it over.

  The photo showed his niece, Aurora, in a setting that was certainly not the elegant establishment where she was supposed to be. Aurora had been photographed in a cellar, sitting on a chair. Behind her was a man, with an idiotic grin, caressing her thighs with both hands.

  “It took a lot of effort for us to find her, but in the end it was worth it, don’t you think? The boys can’t wait to have a little fun. It’s a rare experience, fucking a halfwit.”

  Mastrangelo slammed down his espresso cup, shattering it in his rage. He would have liked to crush Boccia’s skull with his bare hands. “Bastard,” he hissed. “You have no honor. No one has ever laid a finger on one of our women. If you so much as touch a hair on her head, I won’t rest until you beg me to kill you. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  “Easy, Jack. We know you care about your niece. That’s why no one will hurt her. But it all depends on you.”

  “What do you want?” Mastrangelo roared.

  “Nothing impossible. You just have to bring Ferdinando Licata and Saro Ragusa to us at a place we’ll tell you.”

  “When?”

  “All in good time, Jack. But meanwhile, you mustn’t let them find out. Otherwise your little niece—what’s her name, Aurora? Well, Aurora might suffer some physical injury.”

  “Boccia, I’m telling you again, you better not touch her.”

  “Or what?” the mobster challenged.

  Mastrangelo strode out of the place, leaving Roy Boccia to ponder the hazards of going up against someone like him.

  Tom Bontade now had Licata and Saro Ragusa in his grip. Together with Roy Boccia, Jack Mastrangelo devised a plan that he carried out a few days later.

  Mastrangelo would inform Prince Licata of the arrival of a large quantity of plasma and medical supplies earmarked for the war in Europe. The containers of plasma for transfusions were at one of the docks in Red Hook, Brooklyn, in warehouse 82, waiting to be shipped out on the next Liberty ship departing for Great Britain. If they acted quickly, the goods could be diverted to a different destination. Saro would have to deal directly with the chief cargo agent, who would personally see to replacing the containers with a shipment of unfinished leather that had been left in the warehouse for over two months. A mix-up of consignments was more than plausible, and when the hospital staffs went to open the containers expecting to find plasma, they would have the unpleasant surprise of discovering tons of smelly skins. It would be impossible to trace the original shipment, particularly since the agent would make sure that the bill of lading disappeared.

  Saro and his men were supposed to show up at the dock the following night with no less than $12,000. The batch of plasma was worth at least ten times that. Licata consented to the deal, and on the night set for the exchange, Saro Ragusa went to the designated dock.

  He was accompanied by Jack Mastrangelo and Carmine Mannino. Saro would get there first to verify the goods, then Ferdinando Licata would come with the money. This way, they would avoid any surprises.

  The warehouse was shrouded in darkness. With extreme caution, Saro, Mastrangelo, and Mannino entered and started walking toward the center. Mountains of jute bales and wooden crates were piled up along the walls. Lit by a ray of moonlight, they saw someone in the middle of the warehouse, waiting for them. It wasn’t a familiar face. Hidden among the bales were Roy Boccia, Vito Pizzuto, and three of their men: Angelo Bivona, Fabio Zummo, and Salvatore Di Giovanni.

  Saro went up to Ben Eleazar, while Jack Mastrangelo and Carmine Mannino stayed a few steps behind.

  “You’re empty-handed,” said the man who’d been waiting for them.

  “I have to check that everything is okay. My boss is nearby. When I give him the signal, he’ll arrive with the dough. If everything is okay, you have nothing to worry about. Are the others hiding?” Saro asked, looking around.

  “If you’ve complied with the terms, you have nothing to fear,” Ben told him.

  “Okay. Where’s the merchandise?”

  “Follow me.” Ben went to a stack of pallets loaded with cartons. “Drugs and Plasma” was written on all the boxes in large letters. He turned to Saro.

  “Here are the fifty pallets. Which one do you want to check?”

  Saro pointed at random to a half-hidden container. Ben pulled down the carton Saro had chosen and pushed it toward his feet. Saro broke open the box and verified that the bottles of straw-colored liquid were inside. The labels plainly indicated that it was plasma.

  Saro signaled to Mastrangelo that everything was in order. Mastrangelo left the warehouse and lit a windproof match, waving it over his head.

  “Now you can bring your friends out,” Saro said.

  “All in good time. First we see the money.” Ben Eleazar knew he was convincing in bargaining talks; that’s why Tom Bontade had chosen him to conduct this delicate negotiation.

  The imposing figure of Prince Ferdinando Licata appeared, silhouetted against the warehouse’s sliding door. He had a leather bag in his hand, similar to a doctor’s bag.

  “Don’t move, patri!” Saro yelled. Then he turned to Eleazar. “Okay, friend. Either you bring out your gorillas, or this meeting ends here.”

  “Easy, everything’s okay! We just wanted to be sure you hadn’t called in the cops. Okay, guys. You can come out.”

  As agreed, only Angelo Bivona and Fabio Zummo came out of their hiding places. Both appeared unarmed.

  Seemingly reassured, Prince Licata marched into the warehouse with long strides, heading toward Saro and Ben Eleazar.

  Mastrangelo and Mannino let the prince pass, remaining in their places a few yards away from th
e hangar’s sliding door.

  When the prince reached Saro and Eleazar, he handed them the bag, saying, “Here it is.” Ben grabbed the leather bag and stepped back.

  A voice resounded behind him. “We’re not here for the dough.”

  Vito Pizzuto emerged from a crate behind Ben. At the same instant, Roy Boccia and Salvatore Di Giovanni sprang out from behind some bales of jute, to the rear of the prince, pointing two Thompson guns at him. Angelo Bivona and Fabio Zummo grabbed the magnums from under their jackets and leveled them at Mastrangelo and Mannino. The two put their hands up, as did Saro Ragusa. Only Licata kept his hands down.

  “I’m sorry, Prince, but Tom Bontade sends word that one of you is one too many here in New York.”

  “Pizzuto, Pizzuto, you’ve been looking for trouble ever since I’ve known you,” the prince replied disinterestedly, as if the situation had nothing to do with him.

  “Licata, we’re not in the old country here, among peasants. You should adapt to the times.” Staring at Licata, Vito Pizzuto saw a cool, cunning look in his eyes. “These street sweepers replaced sawed-off shotguns years ago here.”

  “Comparuzzo mio, my dear friend,” Licata addressed him in a tone dripping irony, “our ancestors taught us everything we need to know. You’ll see, old sawed-off shotguns are irreplaceable when it comes to certain jobs.”

  Meanwhile, Angelo Bivona and Fabio Zummo had moved close to Ben, keeping the men with their hands up in their sights.

  Vito Pizzuto ordered Ben, “Cuff them.”

  Ben handed the leather bag to Fabio Zummo, but at that instant Vito Pizzuto noticed the prince’s eyes flash.

  “Wait.” Pizzuto drew his Colt and worriedly said to Zummo: “Check that the money is in there.”

  Zummo fumbled with the bag’s clasp. Finally, he managed to release it.

  If Vito Pizzuto had been an attentive observer, and if the other men hadn’t spent too many years away from Sicily, they would have realized that a family boss would never personally carry a bag full of money. The fact that Prince Ferdinando Licata brought the cash for the deal could only mean two things: either there wasn’t so much as a dollar in the bag, or it was bait for a trap.

  As soon as Zummo snapped open the clasp to show his boss the bundles of money, a primer triggered a detonator that in turn exploded two sticks of dynamite.

  Licata, Saro, Mastrangelo, and Mannino dropped to the ground, shielding their heads with their arms. The blast blew away Fabio Zummo and Angelo Bivona, who was standing beside him. Ben Eleazar was saved from the burst of flame thanks to Bivona’s body, which shielded him, but the subsequent shock wave flung him against the sacks of jute, knocking him unconscious for several minutes.

  A moment after the explosion, the men Licata had stationed outside burst into the warehouse: Lando Farinella and Bobby Mascellino. They rushed in through the sliding door, through which the prince himself had entered. Meanwhile, Tommaso Sciacca and Alex Pagano came charging through the back door. The four men were armed with shotguns, Colts, and Berettas. They blasted away at Vito Pizzuto, Roy Boccia, and Salvatore Di Giovanni. The fire was so intense and they were so taken aback that Di Giovanni surrendered immediately, but one last shotgun blast hit him squarely in the chest after he’d already put up his hands. In the confusion, Roy Boccia was able to escape from the warehouse. Ben was lying next to the bale of jute, still unconscious, while Vito Pizzuto was hiding, crouched behind a pile of crates, where Alex and Tommy found him.

  Mastrangelo raced out to find Boccia. But after looking everywhere, he had to admit sadly that the man had managed to get away. Mastrangelo returned to the warehouse. Now his niece was really in danger. Their plan had only been half successful.

  Pizzuto was dragged before Licata. He knew he still had a few more cards to play and was disdainful. “You thought you were smart, right Mastrangelo? Now what are you going to tell your little Aurora? Aldo Martini specializes in sexual sadism.”

  “Tell me where you’ve got her!” Mastrangelo shouted.

  “You’ll have to torture me, but it will still be too late to get her back untouched.”

  Mastrangelo punched him repeatedly in the face, bloodying his nose. Licata motioned to Tommy to stop him. Then he ordered them to tie Vito Pizzuto to the chain of the cargo winch.

  Mastrangelo went over to Ben, who was still in shock following the explosion. “Where did you hide her?”

  Ben shook his head. “You should have thought of that before. Now it’s too late; you can’t save her.”

  Tommy and Alex made Vito Pizzuto hold out his arms and tied them to an iron pipe so that he couldn’t bend them anymore. Then they hooked the cargo winch’s chain to the ends of the cable and slowly hoisted the man until the tips of his shoes cleared the ground.

  Vito Pizzuto grew serious. “You don’t scare me, Licata. Bontade will give you a dose of your own medicine.”

  Licata paid no attention to him. He focused on Ben Eleazar, an individual whose calling was not to become a hero. The prince was counting on that. “It will all be over soon, Ben. But it depends on you.”

  “I won’t talk, you bastards!” Eleazar spat out as Tommy and Alex tied him up like Pizzuto.

  “You don’t have to talk right away—but in a little while. First you’ll see what we have in store for your friend. At least afterward, if you decide not to cooperate, you’ll know what to expect.”

  The two ends of the chains of the second lift were hooked to the pipe to which Ben had been tied. Tommy hoisted him just enough so that his feet came off the ground.

  Ben Eleazar and Vito Pizzuto now swayed side by side in the middle of the warehouse, both with arms outstretched, looking like two men sentenced to be crucified.

  Licata asked Farinella, “Lando, did you bring the box?” Then he went over to Pizzuto. “I want to see the terror in your eyes. It will remind me of all your pathetic crimes.”

  Farinella soon returned with a cardboard box. Licata pulled a pair of leather gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on, deliberately taking his time.

  Ben looked from Licata to Vito Pizzuto to the mysterious box and was genuinely worried.

  Licata rose on tiptoe and whispered something in Pizzuto’s ear. The man then began struggling and kicking, swinging the chains that held him suspended. Tommy and Alex held his legs still.

  Licata opened the cardboard box. Meanwhile, Saro came back with some duct tape. He cut off one piece to gag Ben Eleazar. Then he got another piece ready for Pizzuto.

  Ferdinando Licata put his hand in the box and caught one of two rats that were madly scrambling for a way out.

  Vito Pizzuto, terrified by what the prince had whispered in his ear, began screaming. Licata took advantage of his open mouth and stuffed the rat down his throat. Pizzuto’s scream turned into a grunt. Three of them couldn’t hold him still. Tommy and Alex pinned down his legs, while Saro began binding his mouth with the duct tape. Pizzuto snorted, his eyes bulging with the effort to eject the animal writhing in his mouth. Blood began trickling from his nose. The rat’s long tail hung out below the tape, whipping the air frantically. Ben Eleazar was more horrified than his pal who was being tortured.

  “Take a good look,” the prince said to Eleazar. “In a little while, it will be your turn.” Vito Pizzuto was making sounds that had nothing human about them. He thrashed about as if he were having convulsions. Licata ordered the men to let go of him. The body jerked as if struck by a lightning bolt. The unfortunate victim continued writhing like a man possessed, then they all watched with horror as the tail disappeared into the mouth and the neck swelled as the animal passed through the windpipe and on down to the stomach. Blood flowed from Pizzuto’s ears, eyeballs, and even the lower parts of his body, soiling his pants. Several more very long minutes of agony went by until he finally died.

  Saro stepped up to Ben Eleazar who was about to faint and removed the duct tape from his mouth. All he had the strength to gasp was, “She’s in a safe house in Greenpoint
. On Nassau Avenue. It’s the truth, I swear.”

  As they were untying him, police sirens could be heard in the distance. Something they hadn’t expected.

  Mastrangelo took off with Carmine Mannino and Alex Pagano, dragging Ben Eleazar along with them.

  Ferdinando Licata took another way out with Tommy Sciacca, Lando Farinella, and Bobby Mascellino. Saro, meanwhile, took care of planting dynamite in the car that Vito Pizzuto had driven in to come to the meeting. He wanted to leave evidence for the police that the explosions at the port and on the Liberty ships were the Mafia’s doing—in particular the Bontade family, and not the work of subversive pro-Nazi cells.

  Saro just had time to close the trunk of the car and sprint away from the warehouse, heading for Commerce Street. But police cars coming down Van Brunt Street spotted him and cut him off, pointing a wall of guns at him. Saro put his hands up, with the expression of a peeping Tom who’s been caught ogling the girls in a public bathroom.

  Fortunately for him, he was many blocks away from the warehouse where Pizzuto’s tortured corpse was later found.

  No one would be able to incriminate him, except for Roy Boccia and Ben Eleazar. But neither Boccia nor Eleazar would ever testify against him because they knew that sooner or later they would wind up in the Hudson River with their feet stuck in a bucket of cement.

  Ferdinando Licata’s savagery and extreme brutality, concealed beneath his refined, magnanimous ways, became legend—not only among New York’s families but also along the East Coast.

  Chapter 48

  Once he’d realized that they had fallen into a trap, Roy Boccia had taken advantage of the confusion to beat it out the back door of the warehouse. He had to reach Aldo Martini right away, to tell him to get the girl out of Greenpoint; it was no longer a safe hideaway. But first he had to inform Tom Bontade.

  Roy Boccia knew that Aurora was his life insurance. As long as she was their prisoner, Mastrangelo and the other family members would never risk putting her in jeopardy by attempting anything reckless.