by Askari
Big Angolo, dressed in a tailor-made, soft-gray Brioni suit, was larger than life. A diamond ring the size of a walnut glistened on his right pinky, and a diamond encrusted Rolex was wrapped around his left wrist. His rich, olive complexion was smooth without blemish and his slicked back salt and pepper hair was barbered to perfection. To the American government, he was a blood-sucking vampire who preyed on the innocent, but to Tony Bruno, he was a stand-up guy, a man of respect, a fucking legend.
In the center of the oak wood table, lined up in a row, were the three elements that represented La Cosa Nostra, a pocket knife, a .45 semi-automatic handgun, and a prayer card of Saint Peter. The pocket knife was a symbol of the mafia’s cutthroat tactics. The .45 represented their willingness to shed blood for the sake of the family. And the prayer card was a reminder that their souls would burn in hell for all of eternity if they ever betrayed their family and friends.
As Little Angolo locked the basement door and positioned himself on the don’s right hand side, Marco The Wop began the ceremony. Looking Tony square in the eyes, he slowly recited The Oath of Omerta (The Oath of Silence) in the Italian language, and Tony repeated its every word.
“Io, Anthony Bruno, voglio entrare in quest organizzazione per proteggere la mia famiglia e proteggere i miei amici.” (I, Anthony Bruno, want to enter into this organization to protect my family and to protect all of my friends.)
Tony further conceded that death was the only way he could leave this sacred fraternity, and he promised Big Angolo that under no circumstances, would he ever betray the Gervino Borgata. Satisfied with Tony’s promise, Big Angolo ordered him to cup his hands together and hold them over the table. He then picked up the pocketknife and said, “Show me your trigger finger.”
Tony wiggled his right index finger and Big Angolo pricked his skin with the tip of the blade. Tony’s warm blood dripped from the tip of his finger and dotted the prayer card of Saint Peter. Big Angolo laid the knife on the table and picked up the prayer card. After setting the card ablaze, he placed it in the palms of Tony’s hands. The card coiled and burned, but Tony didn’t flinch. On the contrary, he stuck out his chest and held his head up high. He now walked among the elite. He was a “made” man, a certified member of The Gervino Crime Family.
Back To December 2014
“Hmmm,” Tony sighed as he sat there dealing with his nostalgic memories of the mafia’s glory days. Things were different now. The standards that once applied had been long forgotten. The new generation of La Cosa Nostra was so “Americanized’ that they didn’t even speak the Italian language. No longer was honor and respect the backbone of their “thing”. Nowadays, it was all about self-gratification and greed.
“It’s a friggin’ shame,” Tony said aloud as he sat there shaking his head.
The screen door on the row home opened up wide and Little Angolo appeared in the threshold. His brown Berluti lamb-skin jacket was zipped all the way up, and a beige Gucci scarf was wrapped around his neck. He closed the front door behind him and descended the concrete steps. Halfway down, he noticed a weird movement in the ally across the street from his house. He stopped walking and leaned forward to get a better look. “Goddamnit,” he mumbled to himself, surprised to see a masked gunman running towards him with a black assault rifle clutched in his hands.
Brrrrroc. Brrrrroc. Brrrrroc.
“What the fuck?” Tony shouted, completely caught off guard by the sounds of gunfire and bright muzzle flashes. He crouched down in the driver’s seat and looked at the row home just in time to see the first round of bullets twisting Little Angolo in different directions. A bullet blazed through the old man’s right shoulder and made him do a one hundred eighty degree spin. Another bullet crashed into the back of his left leg, separating his knee cap from his shin bone. He slumped against the railing, but refused to go down. His adrenaline was in overdrive and his will to survive was unbending. Defiantly, he crawled up the steps and reached out for the front door.
Boc.
A .223 slug ripped through the back of his skull and splattered his dome like a smashed pumpkin.
Tony Bruno was terrified. Attempting to flee the scene, he threw the transmission in gear and mashed down on the gas pedal.
Vrooooom.
The engine roared like a caged tiger, but the Caddy didn’t move. Everything was happening so fast that he didn’t realize the transmission was stuck in neutral.
Vrooooom.
The masked gunman turned his attention to Tony Bruno. Swiftly, he ejected the spent magazine and replenished his weapon with a fully loaded banana-clip. After cocking a bullet into the chamber, he aimed the barrel at the Cadillac and peppered the driver’s side door.
Brrrrroc. Brrrrroc. Brrrrroc.
Empty shell casings bounced off of the pavement and tumbled in the air before rolling into the gutter. The masked gunman was in the zone. He aimed at the driver’s side window and let off a single round.
Boc.
Instantly, the window splintered like a jigsaw puzzle, with hundreds of pieces of broken glass shattered in place. A lemon-sized bullet hole decorated the center, and thin strands of gun smoke drifted from the surface.
The driver’s side door popped open and Tony Bruno stumbled from the car with a black .9mm clutched in his right hand. His gray overcoat was drenched in blood, and his coke-bottle granny glasses hung from his face at an obtuse angle. His black hairpiece was cocked to the side like a Yankees fitted hat, and his still-smoldering cigar was dangling from the left side of his mouth. His chubby body slammed against the back fender and a deep guttural sound escaped his lips. Exasperated, he dropped the pistol and looked up at the dark, starless sky. The Angel of Death was upon him. His soul was required in hell.
Brrrrroc.
The old man twisted, turned, spun around, and bounced off of the back fender before melting to the ground.
A black, 2015 Navigator pulled up beside the masked gunman and stopped abruptly. He snatched open the passenger’s side door and climbed inside. After removing his ski-mask and breaking down the AR-15, he looked into the back seat where Jorge Dominguez, a Sinaloa captain, was seated in silence. A burning Marlboro was wedged in between his right index and middle fingers, and his dark eyes were tucked behind his Ray Ban sunglasses.
Jorge nodded at the Mexican hitman and said, “You did good, Diablo, very good.”
“Who’s next?” Diablo asked.
Jorge glanced at his white-gold Maurice Lacroix wristwatch, and then returned his gaze to Diablo. “I spoke to Chatchi a couple of minutes ago, and he told us to keep an eye on Carmine. He’s got twenty-four hours to give us a list of names. And if he doesn’t, then you’ll do what you have to do.”
Up the block, sitting behind the tinted windows of a purple Dodge Challenger, Murder and Malice were staring at one another in disbelief. Gangsta had given them specific orders to put Little Angolo out of his misery. But when they pulled up on the block a couple of seconds ago, they quickly realized that someone else had beaten them to the punch. The muzzle flashes of the AR-15 reminded them of the Fourth of July in Las Vegas. They didn’t know the shooter’s identity, but whoever he was, they knew he was a force to be reckoned with. His stealthy attack had the military written all over it. But who the fuck was he working for? That was the billion dollar question.
“Fuck it,” Malice said aloud as she shrugged her shoulders and started the ignition. “At de end of de day, de job is done and we didn’t even break a fingernail. I’m cool wit’ dat.”
Murder chuckled. She reached inside of her BCBG clutch-purse and pulled out her cell phone. After dialing Gangsta’s number, she sat the phone on the center console and settled back in her seat.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Holla at me,” Gangsta’s voice boomed from the speaker.
“Poppy, we’re here, but somebody else got to him first,” Murder informed him. “Little Angolo and Tony Bruno, de both of dem are dead.”
“Was it Sonny’s people?�
�
“I don’t think so, Poppy. De mutherfucker who killed dem hopped in a black Navigator wit’ Texas license plates.”
“Did you get the numbers from the license plate?” Gangsta asked.
“No, we didn’t. We couldn’t. When we pulled up on de block, de mutha’fucka was already shooting, so we pulled over and watched. Den as soon as de shooting stopped, de black Navigator drove right by us and stopped in front of de house. De shooter hopped inside, den dey drove away,” she explained.
“All right, just get back to La Casa Moreno and wait for me.”
Click.
Murder looked at Malice and gestured for her to pull off. As they slowly approached the crime scene, they heard the loud wails of oncoming police sirens, and seemingly out of nowhere, red and blue lights illuminated the dark block.
“Fuck,” Malice shouted in frustration as she mashed down on the brake pedal, bringing the Challenger to a stop. Surrounded by cop cars, she looked at Murder and shook her head slowly. She didn’t have to speak, her road dog was already cocking the lever on her Mack 11. They were wanted for murders in ten different states, but dying in prison wasn’t a part of the plan. It was time to hold court in the streets.
***
When Carmine and Fat Petey arrived at the intersection of 6th and Wolf, they couldn’t believe what was happening. His grandfather’s street was blocked off and the PPD was everywhere. A purple Dodge Challenger was parked in the middle of the block, and the cops had the car surrounded.
“Get out of the car,” they heard the officers shouting in unison.
As they hopped out of Carmine’s Infinity and attempted to get closer to the drama, a middle-aged black man ordered for them to keep it moving.
“Who the fuck are you?” Carmine asked with a screwed up face.
The black man pulled out a badge and shoved it in Carmine’s grill. “My name’s Detective Ronald Sullivan, and this is a murder investigation. Now, the two of you need to back up. It’s either that, or go to jail.”
Carmine grabbed his crotch and looked at Detective Sullivan with a smug expression. He was about to say something slick, but looked over Sullivan’s shoulder and saw another detective that he knew from the neighborhood, Detective James McFarland.
“Hey, yo, Jimmy,” he called out to the red-headed Irish man. “What the hell is goin’ on ova here? Is my grandfather okay?”
The detective looked at Carmine and sighed. He approached Detective Sullivan and whispered something in his ear. Carmine couldn’t hear what was being said, but Detective Sullivan was looking at him with a raised eye brow. He nodded his head a couple of times, and then whispered something back to Detective McFarland.
“I’ll take care of it, you have my word,” Detective McFarland said as Detective Sullivan was walking away.
“Jimmy, what the hell is goin’ on?” Carmine repeated.
“It’s your grandfather, Carmy. Him and Tony Bruno were just murdered,” he stated in a compassionate voice. “I’m sorry.”
Carmine pounded his fist against his hand and then looked at Fat Petey. “Damn it, Petey. I fuckin’ knew it.”
Fat Petey just stared at him and shook his head from side to side. There was absolutely nothing he could do or say.
“Well, who’s in the car?” Carmine asked as he pointed down the block.
“The murder suspects,” Detective McFarland informed him. “We received an anonymous tip from one of the neighbors. Apparently, the neighbor became suspicious when they saw the two women sitting in the car. I believe it was mentioned that one of the women had a gun. We tried to get here as fast as we could, but unfortunately, we didn’t make it.”
“Fuck.” Carmine snapped. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Hey, ah, Carmy,” Detective McFarland whispered and then looked around to see if anyone was listening. “They wanna question you about the shit that happened in North Philly earlier. So just get lost for now, and I’ll keep you posted.
Carmine nodded his understanding and shook the detective’s hand. “All right, Jimmy, thanks.” After jumping back in his car, he activated his Bluetooth and said, “Call Joey.”
Malice cocked back the lever on her Mack 11 and took a deep breath. Looking over at Murder, she asked, “Mommy, you ready?”
Murder cocked her shit back and looked her sister square in the eyes. “Let’s get it.”
The officer who was standing at the driver’s side door was locked and loaded. His Glock 19 was aimed at the tinted window and his trigger finger was itching. He was more than ready to earn his paycheck.
“Driver,” the officer shouted. “This is your last warning. If you don’t open the door, I’m gonna…”
Bdddddoc.
The tinted window exploded in his face as a succession of hollow-tips blew his cerebrum out the top of his melon. He dropped to his knees and slumped against the driver’s side door, face first. It happened so fast that his fellow officers were stuck in the moment, and before they had a chance to react, Murder was already out of the car with a Mack 11 in both hands.
Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc.
The police returned fire.
Boc. Boc. Boc.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Malice attempted to climb out of the Challenger, but a hail of gunfire blazed through the left side of her face, killing her instantly.
Murder was in the zone. Bullets were ravaging her body, but she refused to go down. Her trigger fingers were .squeezing relentlessly, and even as she stumbled from side to side, she did everything in her power to make the police feel her pain.
Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc.
Unfortunately, her attempts to bring the drama was cut short when a .40 caliber slug ripped through the right side of her head and knocked her eyeball out of the socket. As she dropped the Mack 11s and reached for her dangling eye, another bullet blazed through her left ear and sent her brains out the other side of her face.
“Hold your fire,” Detective Sullivan shouted, realizing the two women were no longer returning fire. “Goddamnit,” he continued shouting with his hands raised in the air. “Hold your fire.”
When the shooting stopped and strands of gun smoke hung in the air. A slew of police officers rushed to the side of their fallen comrade, and Detective Sullivan just stood there shaking his head. He never imagined that such violence could permeate a single city in one day. Philadelphia was falling apart by its seams and he knew that he had to do something to stop it.
Chapter Five
La Casa Moreno
Stepping inside of his home office, Grip removed his trench coat, hung it in the closet, and then loosened his necktie. His return to the United States had proved to be more beneficial than he’d ever anticipated. The Gervino Crime Family was on the brink of extinction, and he was months away from solely inheriting his father’s seat as a chairman of The Conglomerate. The only thing he had to do now was keep Sonny in check. The younger Moreno was the glue that held everything together, and as the new boss of the family, Grip had a peace of mind knowing that his empire and legacy was in good hands.
“Damn, I’m good,” he patted himself on the back, referring to the role he played in the ambush at Easy’s funeral. He poured himself a double shot of Hennessey, and then plopped down in the leather swivel-chair behind his desk. The tide was finally turning in his favor. After two years of bad blood between him and Sonny, he relished in the fact that he had his grandson exactly where he wanted him, gassed up and propped on his lap like a ventriloquist puppet.
A soft knock sounded from the door. It slowly opened up wide as Muhammad appeared in the threshold. “Mr. Moreno, your nephew, Joey’s here. Do you want me to send him up?”
Grip nodded his head in the affirmative. “Yes, Muhammad, send him up.”
Joseph ‘Skinny Joey’ Gervino was Little Angolo’s only son. A true gangster in every sense of the word, he was once considered to be South Philly’s equivalent to John Gotti. He was flashy and flamboya
nt, heartless and calculating, but the thing about him that stood out the most was his charismatic nature.
In the mid to late nineties, Joey was arguably La Cosa Nostra’s brightest star. He ran a crew of bank robbers that were known as ‘The Young Turks’, and with a disciplined precision, they ransacked every bank vault from South Philly to Bucks County. There wasn’t a federal agent in the eastern region who didn’t know that Joey and The Young Turks were behind the brazen chain of bank robberies, but they moved so tight that building a case against them was nearly impossible. And just to piss off the feds, Joey became a true to life Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. Often, he would invite the local media to his charity events, forcing the authorities to stand by and watch as he selflessly gave away money and gifts. On Thanksgiving, he would hand out turkeys, and every Christmas he would dress up like Santa Clause and hand out gifts as the impoverished citizens of Philadelphia crowded around chanting his name. “Joey. Joey. Joey.”
It was during one of these charity events that he met a young hustler named T. Hill. In more ways than one, the young hustler reminded Joey of himself. He publicly took T. Hill under his wing, making him the conduit between himself and North Philadelphia’s lucrative drug trade. The Gangster and the Gangsta, that was the caption used by the local media whenever they covered one of Joey’s and T. Hill’s events. The mob bosses in New York and South Jersey didn’t approve of their relationship, and would often tell Joey that blacks were not to be trusted. “Be careful, Joey. That moulie of yours, he’s gettin’ too close.” Unfortunately, Joey didn’t listen and it cost him dearly.
In 2001, an indictment came down, and T. Hill did the unthinkable. He cooperated with the federal government, and as a result of his testimony, Joey received a twelve year sentence. And just like that, the mafia’s brightest star was labeled an embarrassment, and quickly found himself at the bottom of the food chain. To make matters worse, when it was time for Little Angolo to select the family’s next boss, he bypassed Joey and gave the position to Carmine. Joey was livid, and when he came home from the feds a couple of months ago, he was determined to settle the score. He linked up with Grip and they devised a plan that would devastate and ultimately dismantle The Gervino Crime Family.