The Mafia Hit Man's Daughter (12 page)

He was so abusive and I was so afraid of him that I wouldn't even prosecute him until one of the assaults was so bad that I had no choice. The district attorney told me they weren't going to need me on the witness stand because they were going to have my body on a slab and that would have been enough for them to put him away. I was afraid I was going to die, so I decided to testify.

Finally after thirty-five arrests for assaulting me, he went to prison. It was kind of ironic that my life would take such a twist. My father had protected me when I was growing up, but then he was gone and I was the victim of abuse. If my father had been alive for that, only God knows what he would've done.

CHAPTER 10

THE SHOOTING ON THE BLOCK

It was November 18, 1991—a cold late-fall day. There was a very eerie feeling in the air. It was scary—a day I'll never forget.

It had been five months since the war erupted and things seemed kind of peaceful. Little did I know, all hell was about to break loose.

When the war was going on, there was a lot of tension in the air. There were a lot of people at my house all the time—my father's crew never left his side. They'd come to the house armed—each one had his own weapons—to pick him up. Then they'd go wherever they had to go. They'd drive around the neighborhood, go to the club. They were always on guard.

My father usually left the house at the same time every day—between eleven o'clock and noon. That was his routine. On this particular day I happened to leave at the same time as my father, which I never did. I had a shower to go to that night and I was going to buy a gift. I was walking down the steps carrying the baby, who was eight months old, and his diaper bag. And walking all around me were all these guys with loaded pistols. I couldn't see the guns, but I knew they all had them.

I know that's crazy, but at the time it all seemed perfectly normal. I wasn't thinking,
Holy shit, I'm surrounded by guys with guns.
Back then this really was kind of normal for me.

When I got to my black Mercedes, which was parked in front of the house, my father helped me put the baby into his car seat and kissed us good-bye. As soon as my son was settled, I got into my car. My father got into his car, which was parked in the driveway.

His car pulled out of the driveway and took a right heading toward Twelfth Avenue. I checked my rearview mirror and saw a van speeding up the block. When I backed out, I cut the van off. It almost slammed into me because it was so close and the driver was trying to pass me. I didn't have any idea who it was. I was thinking it was just a van driving up the block, but the guy was really flying. I yelled a few choice words and started driving again.

As I got to the corner of the block, where Eighty-Second Street met Twelfth Avenue, I saw a big white truck pull in horizontally between the stop signs on both sides of the street. My father's car got to the stop sign and my car was right behind him. The van was behind me. For some reason I glanced over to look at the baby, who was next to me in his rear-facing car seat.

At that moment I noticed this statue of Jesus in the front yard of the house on my left—his arms outstretched toward me and my son—surrounded by perfectly manicured shrubs. It was in front of this magnificent tree. Dried-up brown leaves still clinging to its nearly bare branches, remnants of summer. The statue had been there forever, but I never really paid much attention.

My father's car came to an abrupt stop, forcing me to stop my car. Since we weren't going anywhere, I figured it was a good time to put my radio back into the dash. Everybody was stealing car radios at that time, so Mercedes made radios that you could remove from the dashboard. I leaned down and reached underneath my seat, where I used to stash my radio. All of a sudden I heard popping noises that sounded just like fireworks.

I looked up and there were these guys dressed from head to toe in black. It was like a scene from a Mafia movie, but it was all too real. Their faces were covered with black ski masks and they were carrying these long black guns with silencers. They literally were dressed to kill.

They surrounded our cars and they started shooting at my father's car. As soon as the first shots rang out, I saw my father go down. I couldn't see him anymore. I was in shock. I was convinced my father was dead. Was I dead, too? Was I going to get killed right then? What was going to happen to my son and me?

I wanted to take him out of his car seat and put him on the floor, but I was too afraid to move or move him. I put my hand on him.
Oh, my God, what am I going to do?
I was only twenty-two years old.

The fear was paralyzing. Everything happened so fast, but the minutes felt like hours. It was like I was outside my body, watching everything that was going on around me. I noticed this one guy with a walkie-talkie standing on the sidewalk, to the right of our cars, watching this whole thing as if he was directing a movie. I didn't know who he was. He had salt-and-pepper hair and very thick eyebrows. He was wearing a black trench coat and a black hat. I couldn't believe he was just standing there, watching these guys shooting at my father's car.

One of my father's friends, Joe Fish, hopped out of my father's car. He was the only one who got out. Joe started shooting back. One of the guys, who was to the right of my car, started shooting back at Joe. Joe had his hair styled in a DA, and I saw the wind from the bullet whiz right through it. He just missed getting his head blown up. I read his lips. He said, “Holy shit.” He must have felt it, because he immediately jumped back in the car.

The guy he was shooting at panicked. His automatic gun was spraying bullets everywhere. He even shot into my car. By now my father's entire car looked like Swiss cheese. It was a miracle no one got killed. All those guys must have been amateurs, because they didn't even hit anybody. It was like the gang that couldn't shoot straight.

The next thing I knew, the car my father was in took off. There was a slight gap between the stop sign and the truck. The guy who was driving the car, Ilario “Fat Larry” Sessa, didn't care if he took all the doors off the car. He was going to get the hell out of there. He made it through. I found out later that all the while father was screaming, “Stop the fucking car! What are you crazy? My daughter is back there.” But Larry wasn't stopping the car. He was gunning it. He was scared.

So my father slapped him. “Stop the fucking car and let me out. My daughter is over there!” he screamed. But Larry still didn't want to let my father out. Finally he stopped the car, and my father got out and started walking back to us.

While all this was happening, I didn't have a clue where he was. I was convinced he was dead in his car. I was left there on the road—the baby and I—with the van, the truck, the guy on the sidewalk in the trench coat and all these guys dressed in black. My heart was in my mouth. I knew I was I going to die right then. They were going to kill me.

Then one of the guys—I'll never forget him because he had the bluest eyes—the guy whose gun was spraying bullets, came running over to my car. All the other guys started scattering and running away, except for the guy directing the hit on the sidewalk. He just nonchalantly started walking away like nothing ever happened.

The guy with the blue eyes came running over to me. I looked at him; he looked at me; time stood still. I didn't know if he was going to shoot me in the head, but he just looked at me. Maybe it was because he knew his gun had sprayed into my car and he wanted to see if I got hit. He looked into the car; then he turned and ran away.

When the gunshots stopped, there was dead silence. I had the sickest feeling. As soon as the guy ran, and all that crazy energy was gone, my son started screaming.

I was shaking. Blue eyes let me live. Did he purposely let me live? Did he want to see if I was okay? Did he think he got my son or me? Did he have an ounce of a heart to check on us? I've never stopped wondering about that.

I was left there alone. I didn't know what to do. Should I go to the store, or should I go home? I was in such a state of shock. I couldn't think straight.

When reality set in about what had just happened to us, I slammed the car into reverse and backed up to the house as fast as I could. I pulled into my spot in the driveway, shut the car off and grabbed my son out of his car seat. As I was getting the baby and my bag out of the car, the guy in the trench coat walked right by me.

I started running up to the house. I had no strength. I was dropping stuff—my keys, my bags—as I went. How I didn't drop my son, I'll never know. I felt completely drained. I had no strength left in my body to hold anything. But I held on to my son until I got to the door. I pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. I didn't know where my keys were.

I started ringing the bell and banging on the door, screaming. “Ma, Ma, open the door! Open the fucking door!” All of a sudden she opened the door and I dropped my son in her arms. I just couldn't hold him any longer. I wanted to fall on the floor.

“What happened? What's going on?”

“Mom, I think they killed Daddy. I think they killed Daddy.”

“What are you talking about?”

I started freaking out. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I screamed. Then I started ranting and raving. “There was a truck and there were guys. They were shooting at Daddy. I think he's dead. I think he's dead,” I said, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Is he dead? Do you know?”

“I don't know. I think they killed him. They were shooting at the car.”

I was going wild, totally freaking out—screaming. And the baby was still screaming. My mother was trying to calm me down.

“Calm down, we have to think,” she said.

“Think about what, Mom? How are we going to find out what happened to Daddy?”

The next thing I knew, my father walked through the door. He was pale as a ghost. He saw me and the baby and he just started to cry. He grabbed my son and hugged him. Then he looked at me.

“You saved my life. You realize that, right?”

If I hadn't pulled out and cut off the van, my father and everybody in his car would have been dead. The four guys in the car—they would have been done.

“Dad . . . oh, my God. Oh, my God. I can't believe they didn't get you. What happened?”

“I ducked down,” he said. “Don't worry. Everything's okay.”

“What do you mean? Everything's not okay.”

“Don't worry,” he said, trying to calm me down.

“What do you mean, ‘don't worry'?”

“Don't worry, I'm going to take care of this.”

Then he looked at my mother. “They're all fucking dead. They're going to fucking die, starting tonight.”

“Greg, calm down,” my mother said.

“
Calm down?
They're fucking dead.”

When my father walked through the door and saw that my son and I were safe, I saw the love in his eyes and the fear that his child and grandchild could have been hurt or killed. That was the look of my father.

But as soon as he knew we were okay, he had the look of the devil in his eyes—and he never, ever lost it until the day he died.

CHAPTER 11

OPERATION WILD BILL

After the shooting on the block, my father wanted to know exactly who was involved, so he called Lin DeVecchio. He wanted to know what Lin had heard. My father didn't call him as his FBI handler; he called him as his friend.

My father gave him the license plate number of one of the trucks used in the shooting. Lin checked around. He told my father that the truck belonged to William “Wild Bill” Cutolo. So my father knew that Wild Bill and Vic Orena had called the hit—and now he knew who his targets were.

One day not long after that, we were all sitting at the table—me, my mother, my father, Larry Mazza, Jimmy Delmasto, and their wives or girlfriends. The television was turned to the news and there was a story about Operation Desert Storm, which my father was watching.

When it was over, he turned to me.

“Linda, when you go out tomorrow, I want you to do me a favor and go to the store for me.”

“For what?”

“I want you to get me—you know those baseball hats? The ones that you can put letters on?”

“Yeah.”

“Get me the iron-on letters that say ‘Operation Wild Bill.'”

“Dad, you're joking, right? You can't wear that.”

“No, really, I want to wear it.”

“Dad, you can't wear that.”

“I'm wearing it. Could you get it for me?”

“Dad, how am I going to walk into a store and ask for that?”

“Why? What's the big deal? Just get me the hat with the letters. They're not going to know what it's for.”

“I don't know, Dad. All right, yeah, I'll get it for you.”

I had to do what he said; we really couldn't say no to him at that point. If we said no, we'd get into a lot of trouble. It was never like that before.

“Okay, Dad, I'll get you the hat, no problem. I have to look for it. I have to find a place that has them. I don't even know where to get it.”

Larry and Jimmy were laughing about this hat that I had to get, but the fact was my father wanted Wild Bill and his son dead as much as he wanted Vic Orena and his sons dead.

A few nights after my father told me to get the hat, my cousin's husband came over to house and he was wearing a beautiful new black coat. My father took one look at it and said, “John, let me see that coat.”

“What do you mean? I just got the coat. I'll tell you where I got it.”

“No, I want to try it on. I want to see if it fits me.”

John had no idea why my father wanted to see the coat, but he handed it over. My father tried it on. Then he took a wad of cash out of his pocket and handed it to John.

“Here's some money. Go buy yourself a new coat.”

I was sitting on the couch, watching
Wheel of Fortune.
My father turned to me and said, “Linda, go get me the scissors.”

“Greg, what are you doing with my coat? I just got the coat,” John said. “It's freezing out and I need a coat.”

“No, this is my coat now. I need the coat.”

After I gave him the scissors, he cut the right pocket out of the coat. Then he got his shotgun and put it in the pocket.

“Perfect. Look at this, Linda. The gun fits perfect. They'll never even know. John, can you get me a Jewish hat and a beard like the Jews wear?”

“Seriously?” John asked, really confused.

My father was looking at himself with the coat, admiring his handiwork.

“Look, all I have to do is poke the gun out.
Boom!
It's perfect, this coat. Thanks, pal,” my father said to John, giving him a pat on the back. “Thanks for the coat.”

A few days after that, my father and my mother were talking about Wild Bill. They were in the kitchen; I was in the living room.

“He's staying at his girlfriend's house, so we're going to go there and we're going to get him at his girlfriend's house,” my father said.

“How did Lin find out that he's at his girlfriend's house?” my mother asked, referring to Lin DeVecchio.

“Come on, Lin.” He called her “Lin” sometimes, too. “You're joking around, right?”

“No. How did he know where he's hiding?”

“Well, he found out, and that's where he is, so we're going to get him there.”

My father's plan was that he and his crew would dress up like Hasidic Jews and murder Wild Bill on Thanksgiving in front of his girlfriend's grandmother's house in a Hasidic neighborhood in Brooklyn. But he had to call off the hit because of an article that ran in the
New York Post
on Thanksgiving morning that speculated that my father was a rat. He had to spend some time convincing the other members of the Colombo family that he was no such thing.

During that part of the war I kept going back and forth to my aunt's house on Eightieth Street because I was so scared. One day when I was there, my father called me up and said, “I miss you. Come home.”

“Dad, I'm scared.”

“No, I miss you. Everything's okay. Just come home.”

So, of course, I went home because he missed me and he missed my son. Screw my safety—I wasn't thinking about that. I was thinking that my father missed me and I had to go home. I couldn't really stay away from him because he had a way of calling me and making me feel guilty. But deep down I missed him, too.

So I went. One night after I had been home for a few days, I had this dream. I woke up and I was freaking out. The dream started out exactly the way I said good night to my father every night.

When I went up to bed, I always kissed my father good night; or if he went to bed before me, I went over to him and kissed him good night as he walked up the steps. The dream started off after I kissed him good night and went to bed. The next thing I knew—in my dream—there were these guys coming through the window dressed in the same black outfits as the guys who tried to kill my father.

I hid under my blankets, thinking in my dream that they weren't going to see me. Then they went into my mother's room and killed my mother and father. I heard the gunshots and the screaming. Then they went into my brother Joey's room and killed him. Then they came back into my room, and that's when I woke up, screaming.

My father came rushing into my room to comfort me.

“I can't take this anymore,” I said. “I can't live like this.”

I was scared. I was traumatized. I thought my father was going to die.

“They're going to kill you,” I said to him.

“No one is going to kill your father,” he said.

“Dad, you don't know that. They almost killed you.”

“Linda, believe me, they're not killing me. I'm going to get every one of those fucking bastards. Do you think I'm going to let them kill me? You don't know your father?”

He always said that: “You don't know your father?”

“Dad, they're going to get you eventually. It's going to happen. And I don't want to see that happen. I don't want you to leave me. Please don't leave me.”

“Linda, I'm not going nowhere. Relax. Listen, I have to end this. I'm not going to walk away. I have to end this.”

“Dad, it's not going to end the way you think.”

“This is what I have to do. This is what I have to do.”

He just didn't care anymore about how I felt. He didn't care that his family was being destroyed. He was so juiced up. He was a killing machine and his goal was to kill all those involved.

Before, if he had to kill somebody, he'd do it and then come home, eat dinner with his family and go to bed. Then he'd wake up in the morning and it would be a normal day. But during the war it was like killing was his only purpose.

“I have to do this. I have to defend this family,” he said.

But he didn't mean just our family. He meant the Persico family. Screw the Persico family! What did they ever do for us but put us in that position? But he had to defend them, and that was what he was living by.

Today I realize that if he didn't have AIDS, he would have been thinking more logically. But because he knew he was going to die of AIDS, he'd always say, “I don't want to die of this disease.” His thinking was that if he had to die by the bullet or by the disease, he'd rather take the bullet.