Stefano looked at his brother Gene, then tilted his head to the ceiling. He was fidgeting. He sat back and stared at the men. A small crease of a smile showing. He put up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t want to start a war, especially if what you’re telling me is true about my guys. I won’t have the muscle. I thank you gentlemen for allowing me to ride off in the sunset. No man is more important than our thing. I believe that now. That’s why I refused to rat like so many other people we know. Just out of curiosity, who’s taking my spot?”
Gaspare Scalia had a smirk on his face. “Joey.”
“Suppa?” asked Stefano, surprised. “He’s a baby. He was jerking off to Farrah Fawcett when I was doing hits .”
“He’s smart, low-profile,” said Dominick Lamanna, “got his hands in legitimate business, things that don’t bring heat.”
“And he’s got support,” said Gaspare Scalia.
“Total support?” asked Stefano.
Again, Gaspare hit Stefano with a grin, a sort of a ‘Fuck you’. “Four of the Capos, the biggest crews in the family, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Jersey, Queens. Won’t take long for the others to get on board.”
Stefano let the information hang in the air. He nodded to himself as if answering his own question. He stood up and wiped the dust off his suite. “If there’s nothing else I have to get back.”
Stefano stood up, walked around the table to embrace the bosses. Gaspare leaned in, whispering in his ear, “I was hoping you would put up a fight.”
Stefano controlled his temper, only offering a smile back. As he walked out the door, flanked by Gene and his crew, he was stopped in his tracks by Gaspare’s words. “Good luck with that trial.”
Stefano turned to face his nemesis. His hands became balled fists. He took a second longer than he should have to stare down Gaspare before forcing a smile and heading out the door.
Outside, Gene’s ear was glued to his cell-phone. “You sure? All of them?” he said to the voice on the other line. “OK, I’ll let em’ know.” Gene hung up his phone. “It’s done,” he said to Stefano.
“All of ‘em?” asked Stefano.
Gene nodded. Stefano draped his arm around his brother out of ear shot from the Marshalls. “Are they in position?”
“Yeah,” said Gene.
“After I leave, wait ten seconds, make the call. Understand?”
“Of course,” said Gene.
Stefano gave his brother a kiss on the cheek.
Gene watched as the Marshalls took his brother away, the blue sedan disappearing out of view. He dialed seven digits on his cell phone. “We’re ready for you.”
Inside the warehouse, Dominick Lamanna, Lewis Mormando, and Gaspare Scalia were sitting at the table, having their post-meeting without the infamous Stefano Ruggerio.
“What do you think?” said Dominick Lamanna.
Lewis Mormando took a sip from a water bottle. “Son of a bitch is stubborn but he’s smart. He knows he’s got no back up. He’s out of his fuckin’ mind if he thinks he’s gettin’ off. Retrial or not.”
Gaspare Scalia said, “He’s a fuckin’ ego-maniac, always has been. You forgettin’ his cockiness almost destroyed us? Prick thinks he’s fuckin’ Al Capone. He’s no good to us.”
“Are we in agreement?” asked Dominick Lamanna.
They all nodded.
Gaspare Scalia spoke up. “I took care of it. Some black guys, so it won’t get traced back to us. It’ll happen when he’s in the holding cell.”
Gaspare took out a cigar, intent on enjoying a victory smoke. Fuckin’ bastard. Finally met your expiration date.
Before Gaspare lit his cigar, a dozen men stormed the warehouse, dressed in black, guns drawn.
“Shit,” said Gaspare, but it was too late. The warehouse echoed with gunshots as the four bosses and their bodyguards were filled with bullets. One of the gunmen checked the bodies, making sure all were dead. “We’re good,” he said.
In a dimly lit apartment basement in New York’s Little Italy section, Stefano stood around a table, draped with a red table cloth. A bottle of wine, a nine millimeter and three holy cards depicting The Virgin Mary, were on top of the table. Men dressed in tailored suites engulfed the room. They were silent. Stefano turned his attention to the three men standing to his right. All eyes stuck on them. Tonight, their lives would change forever. They were about to be inducted as made members into La Cosa Nostra, Italian for ‘This Thing of Ours.’
Stefano looked each of the three men in the eyes before speaking. “You knows why you’re here. This is a brotherhood, a thing of honor. This thing comes before anything, your mother, girlfriend, kids.”
Stefano ordered each man to approach. One by one they came up. Stefano placed a card of the Virgin Mary in each men’s hand. He lit the card on fire, then pricked the men’s trigger finger with a needle. The blood dripped on the card as Stefano said, “Tonight you’re born again into a new life, La Cosa Nostra, and if you violate, tell what you know about this life, betray your brothers, your soul will burn in hell just like this Saint is burning in your hand. Do you accept?”
The men said yes. The room erupted in applause. At the conclusion of the ceremony, Stefano hugged each of the men, before they made their way around the room accepting congratulations and kisses on the cheeks.
“OK, pipe down,” said, Stefano, “I got something to say. Since we’re all men here, I’m gonna give it to you straight. You might notice a few faces are missing. Our friends from Brooklyn, Manhattan, Jersey, Queens.” Stefano’s eyes danced around the room, making sure they landed on the men individually. “When you enter this life there’s rules, structure that every man must obey. If not, what the fuck is this thing for? Now some people decided to break those rules and they were punished. I look around and see men, not cowards. While I was away, maybe some of you didn’t like the way things were run. Maybe some of you think my time is up. If so, speak up now. If not, all beefs die here.”
Stefano gazed around the room. No one said a word. He clapped his hands. “OK, now that’s settled, one last piece of business. Three of the other bosses decided to step down due to health problems, God forbid, nothing serious, we wish them well. Some changes will be coming, all that will benefit each and every one of you. My brother Gene will fill you in with the details soon. With that, I have to go. I love all youse.”
Luis Gutierrez waited in the White Crown Victoria, three blocks from where the ceremony took place. He made the trip from California as a favor to Stefano Ruggerio. The two met in prison, when both were housed in Lompoc. Gutierrez was serving a stretch for distribution of narcotics. After he was released on appeal, he built up a crew in San Francisco, and through murder, intimidation and a list of politicians and local cops on the payroll, they became the most powerful and structured, with chapters up and down the West Coast.
The door opened. Stefano lowered his head and sat next to Luis. “We all set?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said, Luis. “Your brother took care of the payment, so we all good.”
Stefano said, “I might need some bulls watching my back when I get back to the big house. Just in case one of these fucks wants to be a hero.”
“I’ll reach out to a few of my boys in lockup,” said Luis.
“What about my old pal in witness protection?”
Luis said, “We got his wife, kids, locked up. They’re being fed, taken care of. Your friends been told if he wants to see them alive he should develop a conscience.”
Stefano patted Luis on the cheek. “Good boy.”
Luis turned to Stefano. “Stefano. You know I got respect for you. I covered your ass inside but I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”
“Fuck you mean?” said Stefano.
“I’ll stick to our agreement, help you expand in Cali but let’s get one thing clear, essay. I don’t work for you. None of my men work for you. None of your men try and muscle in on my territory. I’m a partner not a subordinate. As lon
g as that’s clear, we got no problems and I look forward to making a lot of money with you.”
Stefano took in the words before breaking out in a high pitch laugh. “I like you Luis. You’re a man of your word, no bullshit. You remind me of me.” Stefano extended his hand. Luis took it.
“Safe travels my friend,” said Stefano as he opened the door.
“Don’t forget to watch the five O’clock news,” said Luis before the door closed.
Robert Stern sat across from Stefano in a plush room in the Federal Building in Brooklyn. The room was used as a place for training for Federal officials. There were a clutter of papers in front of Stern. “This is good news,” he said, “Frank’s going to reverse his testimony. Word is he’s implicating Joey Suppa in the murders.”
Stefano, now decked out in an orange jumpsuit, sitting in a leather chair pointed to the television behind Stern. “Does that thing work?” he said.
“The television?” asked Stern.
“Yeah, I want to watch Channel 12 news. The anchor is a piece of ass.”
Stern turned on the television, his fingers stabbed the remote, stopping on a picture of a beautiful anchor reading a report.
“Turn it up,” said Stefano.
Anchor: This is Diane Sandoval. Wait. Sorry. This just in. Breaking news. There has been a shooting in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. The police discovered ten bodies in a warehouse. Three of those bodies have been identified as Gaspare Scalia, Dominick Lamanna, and Lewis Mormando, all reputed mob bosses of the Manhattan, New Jersey area. On the phone we have mob expert Jerry Anastasia. Welcome Jerry.
Jerry: How are you Diane?
Diane: Jerry, are we witnessing a mob war, struggle for power?
Jerry: I don’t know all the details but it certainly appears so. Gaspare Scalia, Dominick Lamanna, and Lewis Mormando are all charter members of the ruling commission.
Diane: Commission?
Jerry: There are five mob families of New York. The head of each family sits on what’s called a commission. They settle disputes between the families, vote who is inducted, killed.
Diane: Does this have anything to do with imprisoned mob boss Stefano Ruggerio coming back into town for his retrial?
Jerry: It’s hard to say right now. Like I said I don’t have all the details but...
Diane: I’m sorry to interrupt Jerry but this just in. Four more people have been shot. The report I have is that all were connected to organized crime. OK, the victims have been identified as Johnny Morello, Joseph Eboli, Larry Cirillo, and George Cafaro. Jerry, any of those names sound familiar?
Jerry: Yes, those guys were all capos, high ranking members in the Stefano Ruggerio crime family.
Diane: We’ve also just received news that there has been an arrest in connection with the shootings. A Joey Suppa of Queens.
Jerry: Wow! Suppa is also a heavy hitter. My sources tell me he was next in line to take over Stefano Ruggerio’s position as boss of the family.
Diane: So, what does this mean?
Jerry: It sounds like a civil war in the family.
Robert Stern turned off the television. He placed his hand on the chair. He rubbed his forehead, visibly shaken by the news. “Should I ask?” he said.
Stefano said, “Sometimes bad things happen. Don’t worry counselor it won’t come back on you.”
Stefano smiled, proud of himself for orchestrating the ordeal. Luis and his men had shot the three capos outside of their places in front of their families, something Stefano wanted. To send a message to the other members in his family that you better think twice about moving against him. Next time, your family could catch some friendly fire. Joey Suppa, the underboss, was well liked within the family and was in business with three of the other families. He had some juice. Stefano knew he couldn’t kill him like the other three men. So, when Luis Gutierrez kidnapped Stefano’s former underboss, Frank Alite’s, children and wife, the message was made clear to Frank: You blame Joey Suppa for the murders, that you accused Stefano of or we mail your family back to you in pieces.
Joey Suppa was arrested at his home on Long Island. Stefano struck a deal with the underbosses of the other three families, who didn’t shed a tear when they learned their bosses had been gunned down. Stefano was making a move to plant his flag in California and Vegas and cut them in on a piece of the action. Rosario Cali, the other imprisoned boss, who was doing a twenty year stretch in a Colorado Federal Prison gave his OK for Stefano to make his move. In return Stefano cut him in on twenty five percent of the profits of the heroin trade he worked out with Luis Gutierrez.
Frank Alite took the stand, implicating Joey Suppa in the murders Stefano was accused of. A new trial was ordered. Stefano was shipped back to Springfield, to await his retrial.
U.S. Attorney, John Goldstein, sat across from Stefano. The room was covered in broken Elephant gray paint. Goldstein looked at Stefano like he killed his mother. He was the one who convicted Stefano. “I know,” said Goldstein, “you may fool everyone else but I know it was you who was behind the bloodbath in New York.”
Stefano was relaxed. His breathing normal. “Don’t know what you’re talking about counselor.”
Goldstein leaned forward. “I know it was you, you piece of shit. Somehow you got Frank to reverse his testimony. I don’t know how, but I’m going to find out. You think you’re going to get off, sniff free air? Keep dreaming pal. When I get done with you you’ll wish you took that deal I offered.”
“Let me ask you something,” said Stefano, “Why’d you become a lawyer?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Was it because you thought you could go after guys like me? Make an example of me? Because that’s what I’m thinking. You’re a middle-class John. Father worked long hours, his hands bled, fuckin’ callouses. You probably got the shit beat out of you ‘cause you’d rather read a book than smoke a joint with the cool kids. Am I right? Yeah I am. Fuck! I can see it in your eyes. My father was a son of a bitch. Six fuckin’ kids at home and this prick spent his paycheck at the race track. Didn’t give a shit about his starving kids. My brother Gene and I would go out, rob, steal, just to put food on the table. You know who ate first? My brothers and sisters. Me and Geno would eat last. You know why? Because we were the oldest. That’s what we do. The responsibility fell into our lap. What do you want me to do? Obey the law, a fuckin’ law that could give a shit about me, my family, and starve? Who the fuck are you to make that call? You come home to helpless mouths who want to be fed, then get back to me.”
Goldstein stood up. “Poverty is a bad thing, but that doesn’t justify murder. You’re a megalomaniac. At the snap of the finger, people die. Sure, I didn’t grow up like you but a lot of people did, and they aren’t murderers.”
Stefano burped a laugh. “You will never understand what I’m talking about. Opportunity never presented itself, as it did you. You see, I grabbed it by the balls, made it my bitch. Took it, and fucked it doggy-style. You want to come after me again? Bring it. I got another round left in me.”
Sergio Ramirez finds out that one can never escape the ghosts of the past, for they are always lurking. I’m sure the grim reaper is watching with anticipation. Let’s find out.
Sins of the Past
“Damn, they sent you? What are you, like twenty? Fucking suburban beauty, straight out of college, want to see what it’s like on the other side of the fence. Come down to look at the bad guy? I can check your whole life just by looking at you. Grew up in a middle-class family. I’m guessing upper echelon type of shit. I ain’t sayin’ you was Donald Trump wealthy but daddy made enough so mommy could go to yoga class in the morning then take up some ‘save the world’ bullshit adventure with her and her P.T.A friends. You was on the cheerleading squad, shaking that ass, trying to get the quarterback of the football team to notice you. Sound about right?”
Megan Baker squinted, as she attempted to look into the eyes of Sergio Ramirez, a violent criminal, turned informant
. She had been sent from Tyson & Brinks, a prestigious publishing company out of New York to record the memoirs of the man who brought down Luis Rivera, a high-ranking boss in the Montoya Cartel, as well as what was left of the mob on the West Coast.
Sergio insisted before he testified and disappeared into witness protection, he tell his story. So here he sat in a safe-house, in a secured location, somewhere in California. Megan Baker had been blindfolded when she was met by the U.S. Marshalls at Sacramento International Airport. A smug ‘Fuck You’ was written on Sergio’s face. A fit Marshall stood a few feet away. His face, stoic, eyes: two tablespoons of a rock. Sergio watched the thin blonde haired journalist, dressed in a power suit, place a tape recorder on the coffee table. Megan’s index finger pushed up on her glasses. She held a note pad close to her chest, using it as a protective shield.
The living room was middle-class. Smooth root beer carpets, a brick fire-place, fine leather couches and recliners. It smelled like cigarette smoke and stale beer. The walls were covered with a money green slab of paint.
“It’s true,” said Megan, her words stuttering fearsome bumps, “I’ve lived an affluenza life, but I still had problems like everyone else.”
Sergio laughed, trying to see down Megan’s shirt. He sat back in his chair and interlocked his hands, placing them behind his head.
“You got no fucking idea, do you?” said Sergio.
Megan rubbed her forehead repeatedly. She rubbed her fingers in front of her mouth. Her eyes did not want to glance up. “I wasn’t implying…”
Sergio cut her off. “Shut the fuck up.” His wrists slammed down on the table. The sound echoing throughout the house.
“Watch it Ramirez,” said the U.S. Marshall. Sergio turned to him but after meeting his menacing stare. He looked away and slouched in his chair.
Sergio raised his hands as if to say, ‘I’m sorry.’
“Where should I start?” said Sergio.
Megan composed herself. Red circles stroked her face. She felt a tear sliding down her cheek, so she picked a spot on the wall and stared until her eyes dried up. “How about your childhood?” she said.
Confessions of a Vigilante Page 7