Mob Daughter: The Mafia, Sammy The Bull Gravano, and Me!

by Karen Gravano; Lisa Pulitzer

  The house on the unadorned corner lot had been hideous, but it was all about location, location, location. The house was situated exactly at one of the loop ramp entrances for the eastbound Staten Island Expressway, making it virtually impossible for anyone in a car, be it a hit man or a cop, to covertly loiter or park in the area. Any car in front of our house was forced into the flow of traffic onto the freeway. Just as important, it was a great escape route for anybody inside our house who needed to suddenly hightail it away. The security was tight throughout the property. For anyone who thought going around the corner to the next street was an option, my father had built a massive brick wall along the side that faced Seldin Avenue and along the backyard.

  Once again, this was Sammy’s house, and everything was top shelf. He had telephones installed in every room, even the bathrooms. He took charge of all the tasks, from being the site planner to the builder. He even worked hands-on with the interior designer he hired. He should have been an architect, so exact was his vision of how something should look and where an element should go.

  For Lamberts Lane, my father hired a well-respected, well-known landscape architect to work with him on the grounds. My father had an appointment with him, even though we hadn’t moved in yet. Dad wanted the place to be perfect for our arrival. Both Dad and the landscape architect were very excited, because my father had a very big vision and a big budget, and what landscape designer doesn’t like that in a client? I was there with Dad on the day the guy arrived in high spirits to show my father the renderings and present him with the plans and to assess drainage and terrain issues.

  My father was excited, and while we waited for the landscape designer, he showed me where this and that tree were going to go, and described how they’d look in the different seasons. His business associates, Uncle Eddie, Huck, and some of the other guys in Dad’s crew, were there for the big unveiling. The architect brought out huge rolls of schematics covered with diagrams and layovers with every kind of option. Finally, it came time to roll out the bottom line.

  All of a sudden, the mood changed. My father looked at the sheet with the estimate, then looked at the poor guy with fire in his eyes. “Karen, go inside,” he ordered me abruptly. I went in hesitantly, but took a spot by the window where I could watch and hear everything.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” I heard Dad bellow at the startled man. I could see the guy starting to get really scared. He was backpedaling and justifying the best he could.

  “Well, Sammy,” he explained, “we are pulling this tree out of upstate, and that tree has to be imported from some other part of the country, and that other tree is a hybrid,” and so he continued.

  My father was livid. “Are you fucking kidding me? I should fucking kill you right now, right here! Are you fucking trying to rob me?” he kept repeating. The architect was terrified. When my father got hot and bothered, everybody was terrified. I could see the architect sitting on the windowsill crying and begging for his life. My father wound up taking the architect’s plans and ripping them into pieces. They eventually found a compromise, cutting back on some of the more expensive elements and replacing them with other trees, but one thing the man learned which I already knew, do not try to rip off Sammy the Bull.

  My father was very fair when it came to the bottom line, and he expected the people he dealt with to be honest and reasonable as well. The landscape architect was taking advantage of him, not knowing how much he paid attention to the cost details. Just because he had deep pockets, didn’t mean he was an extravagant spender. My father was completely unaware of how much his highfalutin design plan would realistically cost. I don’t think he realized how expensive a single tree could be, so both men were at fault. Dad was not a man who spent a lot of money on clothes, but he spared no expense when it came to his homes. However, the second you tried to rip him off, most likely you’d regret it. He was very generous when it came to numbers, but he was also a man who knew the value of a dollar, and he didn’t want to be taken advantage of. Even now, from prison, he watches the bottom line for me, making sure no one is trying to screw me over.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Say hello to your uncle John.”

  The first time I encountered John Gotti was when he called the house to talk to Dad not long after Paul Castellano was gunned down. I answered the phone and the male on the other end said, “Who’s this?”

  I answered, “Karen,” and the man said, “Hey Karen, this is your uncle John. Is your father home?”

  I knew this was the person I had seen so many times in the papers and on the news after Paul died. He intrigued me, with his dapper confidence and swagger. He was like a movie star to me, a celebrity. He rode in shiny Lincoln Town Cars and had a crew of men around him. He reeked of importance.

  From that phone call forward, John was in Dad’s life. If John needed something, my father would jump. It just seemed like everything got more formal. We used to eat dinner as a family every night at 5:30 P.M. Now Dad had to eat dinner at 5:00 because he had to meet John at the social club on Mulberry Street in Little Italy at 6:00.

  That’s when I became “Sammy’s daughter,” but it was bigger than that. The transformation in how my father was received went from straight-up respect, to respect coupled with fear. This was the first time I saw that people were afraid of him, that he was powerful, and that he controlled something. From the moment Paul Castellano was killed, my father was in the spotlight with John. He was the guy carrying the umbrella while John was walking down the street. He was the second in command and helping to run the most powerful crime family in New York.

  The first time I met John Gotti was at my Sweet Sixteen party. I had seen him at my father’s office on Stillwell Avenue a couple of times, but this was the first time we were introduced. The celebration was at Pastels in Brooklyn, a well-known Mafia hangout. For the big occasion, I wore a pink leather dress, custom made. It was really tight-fitting, had a sweetheart top and came with a matching pink leather jacket. I complimented the ensemble with pink high heels. I got my hair professionally styled and it was teased and sprayed to the max. My father forewarned me that John was going to be there. “When you meet John, you be polite. You mind your manners,” he told me.

  Fifty teenagers and sixty men with their families were at the party. My fifty friends included cousins, classmates from Staten Island Academy, and schoolyard guy friends from Leggett Place. Dad’s sixty men friends were all wiseguys.

  Dad hired a DJ who played songs I chose personally and a video-photographer. I didn’t realize the photographer stank until after the party was over, and I was watching the video with friends. All the footage was shot on the dance floor, nothing else. I complained to Dad, who told me that was how it had to be. My father had told the guy not to come up past the sunken dance floor where the tables were to keep him from filming the top wiseguys who were in attendance. In the middle of the festivities, there was a whisper circulating in the crowd. “John Gotti’s here,” my classmates were murmuring excitedly. It was as if I had a celebrity at my Sweet Sixteen. My father brought John over to the bar, where I was hanging out with some of my friends, and said, “Say hello to your uncle John.”

  I didn’t even have an uncle named John. I kissed him on the cheek. The Don smiled, congratulated me on getting older, and handed me an envelope stuffed with ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

  He was totally different from my dad. He was serious and poised, not the least bit warm and bubbly. He was not the “hey kiddo” type, he was very serious. He needed to be catered to and worshipped. I minded my manners, like my father had told me. But I was relieved when he exited to a back room where all the wiseguys were hanging out.

  A couple of days later, there was a note taped to my locker at school. It said, “I heard you had a nice Sweet Sixteen. Must be nice to be a Mafia princess.” It wasn’t signed. I thought it might be from a girl whose boyfriend liked me, but I was not sure. I also didn’t know if it was meant
as a compliment or an insult. I never felt like I was a Mafia princess. I felt like my father was a kingpin among gangsters, but the “royalty” thing began and ended there.

  I never felt completely comfortable at Staten Island Academy. I would dress up like the other kids, walk around with Fendi bags and such, but I always felt different.

  When I was twelve, somebody gave my dad a Gucci bag, which he passed on to me. I thought the thing was hideous and told him I didn’t want it. He told me, “It’s from Italy. It’s supposed to be nice.” A couple of years went by, and all my friends were carrying Gucci bags. I asked my mother what became of mine.

  “I thought you didn’t like it,” she said. She told me she had given it away.

  “Now I need to have it,” I said in my best convincing voice. “Everyone at school has one.”

  “Guess what? You’re not getting one now,” said my mother. “You don’t need something because everyone else has it. You get something because you want it.”

  So I went to the school locker room the next day and stole someone’s Gucci bag.

  Dad asked how I got a Gucci bag. He knew my mom had given away the one I didn’t like, so I told him.

  “Unbelievable. Now what are you gonna do?” He knew I couldn’t walk around the school with stolen property, especially since someone at the school was looking for it.

  Dad ordered me to get rid of it. In a sense, I think, deep down inside, my father secretly liked that I was a lot like him, and if I wanted something I knew how to get it. But, on the other hand, he did not want me robbing and stealing. That was not how he wanted his kids to be.

  I snuck it back into the locker room the next morning, and Dad bought me the Gucci bag of my choice.

  At the end of the day, when all was said and done, I wasn’t used to going to country clubs, having nannies, and going to summer camp. That wasn’t who I was. Deep down inside, I always kind of knew I could fit in, go with the flow, try to make it work at Staten Island Academy. Now, at sixteen, I just plain didn’t want to. People now knew who my father was. I kind of felt like it was cool. Everybody else thought it was cool, and it made my Mafia connection more accepted. “It is what it is,” I told myself.

  Maybe I was on a little high, intrigued about Dad’s notoriety. My father was on the front page of newspapers and it seemed surreal. It felt as though my dad were two different people, Sammy the Bull to the world, and an affectionate, fun-loving father to me.

  After Paul was killed and my father aligned himself with John Gotti, I attached myself more than ever to the people I felt comfortable with, all of whom had mob connections. I liked Dina Milito, Dad’s friend Louie’s daughter, and Dori LaForte, whose grandfather was a bigwig in the Gambino family. Dori was two years older than me, but it didn’t matter to either of us. We were like the little Italian gangster girls. Although we didn’t act like that, we felt that way. We knew who and what our fathers were, but we never talked about it.

  * * *

  I convinced my parents that Staten Island Academy was not for me. I felt that I had outgrown the school. I wanted a change and talked my parents into letting me switch schools to be with girls who were more like me. I’d still go to parties hosted by the school, but I stopped being invited to my classmates’ houses. I didn’t care. I was becoming less interested in the kids at the house parties and more interested in the kids who were hanging out on the street corners and in the schoolyards. I got Mom and Dad’s blessing to transfer to Richmondtown Prep School on Richmond Road. It wasn’t that far from Lamberts Lane, and Roxanne and Ramona Rizzo went there. They were Dad’s friend Johnny Rizzo’s daughters, but we were lifelong friends. Johnny’s father, “Old Man Rizzo,” was a captain in the Gambino crime family. My father had been a member of his crew when he first came over from the Colombo crime family. Johnny and my father grew up together. The girls’ maternal grandfather was Benjamin “Lefty Guns” Ruggiero, a soldier in the Bonanno crime family, who was portrayed by Al Pacino in the 1997 movie Donnie Brasco. Ramona and I were a month apart in age, but I hung out more with Roxanne, who was a year younger than me.

  We had been very close since we were little kids. We were so tight, we were always at each other’s houses growing up. We even called each other cousin. We had drifted apart when I went to Staten Island Academy, but we started to hang out again at Richmondtown Prep, and I was ready to get back together with my old friends.

  * * *

  Gerard was still struggling along. He had been going to the public school, Intermediate School 72, but I wanted him to go to school with me. I convinced my parents that Richmondtown Prep was a school for kids who don’t get along in other schools, so they’d be agreeable. After he was enrolled, my parents were so pissed that I had conned them. It was okay, though. The school was so laid back and small. It was pretty much run by a family. Mr. White was the dean; Miss White was the teacher, and Mrs. White was everybody else.

  My brother was the quiet kid, even though he was very mischievous. He was severely dyslexic, like my dad. My mother would cry and pull her hair out trying to help him. He was always in outreach classes and he had to have tutors at the house. He’d act out at school a lot, too. He had been held back in first grade. It wasn’t until he went to private school that we found out what was really wrong with him.

  My mother was extremely protective of Gerard. She didn’t want to admit that he had dyslexia, and she enabled him by doing his schoolwork for him. At school, he would do weird stuff like go to the bathroom and never return to class, or start fights like my father had done when he had trouble in school.

  My father had told me about his struggles in school. He had been red-flagged as a slow learner because of his dyslexia. Back then, dyslexia was not understood, let alone recognized as a disability. My father dropped out of school in the eighth grade rather than endure the mockery he was subjected to from teachers and fellow classmates alike.

  When teachers told Dad that Gerard was dyslexic, he was heartbroken. He did everything within his means to help his son overcome the disability. He hired specialists, tutors, and doctors to take on the challenge. Still, he was very hard on Gerard, pushing him to do better. He didn’t want Gerard to follow in his footsteps. He wanted Gerard to be far away from the life.

  I remembered one time, in particular, when Dad practically terrorized the poor kid. We had an in-ground pool in our backyard on Lamberts Lane, which attracted a lot of pigeons. They landed on the patio area and did their pooping there. Dad hated the annoying, messy birds with a passion. He ran inside, grabbed a BB gun, and started shooting them one by one. Gerard was about thirteen years old at the time. He was horrified watching the dead birds drop out of the sky onto the cement, although he was trying not to show it. When my father handed him the rifle and said it was his turn, he froze up. “Shoot!” my father ordered. Gerard didn’t want Dad to perceive him as a coward, so he aimed and fired. He succeeded in hitting the bird, but not killing it. It was screaming and writhing in pain on the patio.

  “Kill the fucking thing!” my father directed.

  Gerard just stood there, paralyzed. He loved animals, so he couldn’t bear to watch the bird suffer. But at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger a second time.

  Grabbing the rifle, my father quickly took care of business and put the bird out of its misery. “It’s okay, Son,” he said, patting Gerard sympathetically on the shoulder. He was kind that way, but he always said Gerard was “not cut out for the life.” I was the survivor. If Dad had handed me the gun that day, I would have killed sixty pigeons. I was the girl, though, so it wasn’t expected of me.

  Gerard was a really good kid outside of school. He never talked back to my parents. He was so obedient. If my parents said to be home at a certain time, he was home right at that time. I was the rebel, not Gerard.

  One time, my friend Jackie and I stole clothes out of our classmate Lisa Bongiorno’s locker at school. We went to Jackie’s, and she put on the clothes we ha
d just stolen. The doorbell rang, and Jackie opened the door. There was Lisa Bongiorno standing in the doorway. “Nice outfit,” she said.

  I just closed the door in her face. “Oh my God, we are in trouble,” I told Jackie.

  Lisa went back to the school and told the principal.

  I went home, knowing how much trouble we were in.

  I found my father in the kitchen, “I have to tell you something,” I said. “Today Jackie and I stole clothes from a locker and the girl we stole them from came to Jackie’s house and saw Jackie wearing them. She told the principal and we are probably going to get in trouble.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” my father wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I am worried that I might get expelled.” I was thinking that my answer to Dad’s question should have been “tell the truth.” I didn’t want to tell the truth, but I felt that was the correct response. “I don’t know” was all I said.

  “Well, here’s what you are going to do,” Dad instructed. “You’re going say, ‘I don’t know how the clothes got there.’ Then you are going to take the consequences, whatever they may be.” If I admitted my role, then I was also admitting Jackie’s guilt.

  “So I’m not in trouble?” I asked.

  “Oh, you are in trouble for stealing, but that’s with me. I am going to deal with you.”

  My father made me go to school. When the principal asked me about the clothes, I said I didn’t know anything.

  I had in-school suspension for a week. I had to sit in the dean’s office and do my homework. Jackie and I had to apologize to Lisa when we gave her the clothes back.