This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (19 page)

I realized he was right. Still, the grief made us feel empty. My whole family, especially my mother, felt a huge void that could never be filled, even years later.

Our entire lives had changed overnight. My siblings and I walked
on eggshells whenever Mom or Dad were present, desperately afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing that might trigger a memory or thought of my brother, especially on holidays. Regardless, Frankie Boy was on their minds constantly. My father visited the cemetery every day. He would sit there sometimes for hours while my mother walked around like a zombie.

She was getting worse by the day, and Dad grew despondent. He believed that a few weeks away from home, being surrounded by what little family Mom had left, would do her some good. So, he arranged a trip to Florida—Dad, Mom, and my brother Peter left early in the morning. Because Dad hated flying, we always traveled in two groups—on two different flights because he believed if the plane crashed, he would lose his entire family. Dad couldn’t imagine that.

But he made one exception when he took Mom to Florida in 1980. Dad was more frazzled over Mom’s state of mind after Frankie’s death than he was about flying. He had hoped her father could help.

During this time, with my parents in Florida, Favara went missing.

According to the FBI, he was last seen being beaten and stuffed into a van. I remember the FBI coming to the door only days after Mom and Dad returned home from Florida. They came to see Dad, but because Mom was in the kitchen, they started asking her questions. Simple ones like, “How was your trip?” and “How are you feeling?” The two men seemed nervous—even anxious. It was obvious that they were affected by my brother’s death. One of the agents said he had a ten-year-old boy and couldn’t imagine the thought that something might happen to him. Mom only nodded and left the room. When Dad came downstairs, he ushered the two men outside—he didn’t want to talk in front of any of us. Dad and the two men spoke only for a few minutes. I heard one of the
officers tell my father that Favara was missing. I heard my father say “Really?” There was another minute of conversation and then Dad said, “I wish I could help you gentlemen, but I’m sorry. I know nothing about this.”

Soon after, so many theories surfaced; Favara was shot and his body buried under a parking lot; Favara was stuffed in John Carneglia’s (an associate of Dad’s) car crusher on Fountain Avenue; Favara was kidnapped and taken to a nearby basement, tortured, and then killed, his body dissolved in acid, all in retaliation for my brother’s death. I believe Favara
is
dead. I was told years later, by someone “in the know,” that someone close to my father—outraged by my brother’s death, Favara’s callous behavior after the accident, and my father’s grief—killed Favara. I believe this person felt he was doing a tremendous favor for my father. No mob-sanctioned hit. That’s the truth.

If it were indeed a mob-sanctioned hit, at least one of the many government witnesses would have knowledge of where Favara’s body is—yet no one has offered any credible information to this day.

One witness claimed the body was in one location and the FBI dug up the site for days, finding no trace of Favara, while another claimed the remains were in another location, a rumored mob graveyard, and once again that site was dug up. Yes, there were bodies found, but not Favara’s. Also, the many rats who have testified in recent years all have totally different stories about the suspected murder of John Favara. No two stories match.

In retrospect, I have always had mixed emotions about the disappearance of Favara. Hearing the horrible details about the accident, imagining my brother’s lifeless body, mangled and on the street and witnessing firsthand Favara’s cruel actions have sent me over the edge on more than one occasion.

Besides taking my baby brother away from me, it destroyed my
parents and left them empty and cold. It destroyed my family, my life. A person can’t help being bitter. Nearly thirty years later, I still find it difficult to speak about Frankie Boy without tearing up. Normally, I could never take a human life, but if someone hurt my child, the rules would change. It’s human nature to protect those you love. It’s human nature to want revenge against someone that hurts those you love. And then there’s the guilt. And the knowledge that two wrongs don’t make a right.

I only wish Favara had shown some remorse—some respect. I believe he would be alive today if he had. Because in the end, Dad was right—two families were destroyed.

I
met my first serious boyfriend, Carmine Agnello, in 1980, the same year that my brother was killed. We met three months before the accident. Mutual friends introduced us, and I didn’t know much about him except that he was a popular guy around the neighborhood. I treaded the waters slowly, but I grew to like him early on, much to the surprise of those who knew me best. He was different from the guys I usually dated, and he was handsome in a dark and brooding way. There was a little young, mischievous, and scruffy Marlon Brando in him.

Carmine was not formally educated, but I convinced myself that what he lacked in academics he more than made up for in business savvy. He had street smarts like my dad. He owned his own auto parts business and was quite successful. He drove fancy cars:
Cadillacs, Lincoln Town Cars, and even a Mercedes. He took me to expensive restaurants and gave me beautiful diamond jewelry. What girl doesn’t love diamonds?

Well, little did I know that he supposedly came with a checkered past. Besides running the biggest auto parts yard in Queens, it was heavily rumored that he participated in what was called “insurance jobs.” This was something my father had heard about Carmine early on from an associate of his, John Carneglia, who was also in the auto parts business and was a rival competitor of Carmine’s. Back then, Brooklyn and Queens were two of the riskiest boroughs in which to own a car. Stolen car rings were cropping up everywhere. These rings profited mostly from insurance jobs. Car thieves labeled these cars “tag jobs.” The car owners would buy expensive luxury cars like Porsches, Mercedes, and Corvettes. When they could no longer afford the payments or they simply grew tired of the car, they contacted someone involved in a stolen car ring and arranged to have their car taken. Someone would show up late at night and pick up the car using a key supplied by the owner. These cars were taken to a junkyard, stripped of their valuable parts (which were later sold for extra money), and put in a car crusher. The compacted steel was sold to a metal shredder and then shipped overseas. The owner was instructed to wait at least a week before reporting the car stolen.

Carmine would often show up in various luxury cars. A flashy yellow Corvette. A fully loaded black BMW. Even a two-month-old, beige Rolls-Royce. When I asked him who these cars belonged to, he would just look away and mumble something about helping a friend with some repairs. I was young and stupid. I believed him. My father did not.

I questioned Carmine and his answers made sense to me at the time. He’d claim that Carneglia was spreading false rumors. Carmine told me Carneglia was jealous of him “because he was a better businessman.” He added that his auto parts business was
making much more money than Carneglia’s. Again, I was young and stupid. I
wanted
to believe him.

My father issued me a stern and firm warning: I was
never
to see or even so much as say hello to Carmine Agnello ever again. Dad had hoped I would marry a Jewish doctor or lawyer. I wasn’t head-over-heels in love with Carmine, but I saw this as an opportunity to rebel against my father for the first time in my life.

Coincidentally, Carmine was robbed, beaten, and nearly killed a few months later. He was at a red light, not far from his auto parts business, when he was attacked by a group of young men. These men were later identified as Peter Zucaro and Andrew Currough (both would become government witnesses). Immediately the neighborhood began gossiping about how my father was responsible for the attack. This wasn’t true. The incident had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with an ex-girlfriend. During their nearly two-year relationship, she had been caught cheating on him with another guy—one of the guys who would later attack him.

Carmine had retaliated by going out with the sister of the guy his ex-girlfriend was cheating with. The girl claimed Carmine even beat her up once. Soon, it turned into a gang war. Carmine wrecked the Lindenwood Diner during one of these heated rumbles. What Carmine didn’t realize was that the Lindenwood Diner was John Carneglia’s main hangout, his regular meeting place. Of course the incident enraged Carneglia—enough so that he sent Zucaro, Currough, and a few others to teach Carmine a lesson he wouldn’t forget. My father had nothing to do with the beating or the cause, and it definitely had nothing to do with me. But for years people gossiped that Dad was behind it. Supposedly, Carmine had beaten me up and John Gotti sought revenge. Not true.

Further evidence of this came less than a month after the beating when my brother Frankie died and Carmine showed up at the wake to pay his respects. Carmine became enraged when the guys
who had issued him the beating arrived not too long after him. The men, all in their early twenties, were Carneglia’s errand boys. Carmine left rather quickly. But everyone soon realized there was no way Carmine would have showed up at John Gotti’s son’s funeral if Gotti had been responsible for the attack. But, sadly the rumor still circulated and caused my family much grief years later.

For two years, Carmine and I continued to see each other behind my father’s back. This was something no other guy would ever dare do when it came to John Gotti. That must have impressed me back then, the fact that Carmine was risking his life to date me.

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE
my eighteenth birthday, my father asked me what I wanted as a gift. I asked him to give me permission to date Carmine. Once again he refused. He told me that it “was for my own good.” I ran from my father and cried well into the night and insisted I would not show up at my own eighteenth birthday dinner, which was being hosted by my father at Ruggiero’s, a fancy Manhattan restaurant. My father was livid, as was my mother. She always had a soft spot for Carmine and really hoped my father would finally give in and allow me to date him. She, too, was sick of the sneaking around and all of the lies. At my mother’s insistence, Carmine went to see my father a few hours before the birthday dinner. He and I had had a brief conversation earlier in the day and we both agreed that we were tired of going behind my father’s back. We decided Carmine would approach my father for the last time and if my father still said “No,” we would just end it.

Carmine showed up at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club and asked to see my father. He was ushered inside a few minutes later and led to the back room where my father was sitting behind his desk, smoking a cigar as usual. Carmine was nervous and said, “Mr. Gotti, I am here to ask your permission to date your daughter.”

My father didn’t bat an eyelash, just stared back at Carmine. When my father finally spoke, all he said was, “If you don’t think I’ve known all along that you and my daughter have been seeing each other on the sneak for over two years, well then, you’re dumber than I thought.” Carmine told me, “You could have heard a pin drop,” the silence after that was so deafening. Carmine bowed his head. He really believed he was going to be killed.

My father continued, “I can’t stop my daughter from doing what she wants. She’s that strong-willed. If this is what she wants, then so be it. But I will tell you this: If I ever find out you take her to inappropriate places like bars and clubs, or mistreat her in
any
way, I will come looking for you.”

Carmine thanked him and left the room quickly. He was thrilled he’d made it out of there alive and that he had my father’s blessing. When Carmine called me, my mother and I nearly fell off the sofa when he announced, “He said
yes
!” My eighteenth birthday wish had come true. The news spread around the neighborhood so quickly that everyone was talking about me and Carmine—most people were happy for the two of us. Some were not. My father’s blessing meant that guys like Currough and Zucaro were now forced to “bow down” to Carmine. Overnight, it seemed Carmine went from being persona non grata to John Gotti’s new and favorite protege.

In the meantime, my father remained very on-guard where Carmine was concerned. He realized early on that forbidding me to date Carmine only propelled me to do it even more. With Carmine, he figured if he gave me enough rope I’d hang myself. Dad believed I would eventually “wake up” and see this for myself. What he didn’t realize was that girls my age found men like Carmine exciting. He was tough, dark, and daring, and I found these traits very attractive. I really believed marrying a doctor, lawyer, or accountant was a path to a boring and mundane life. How stupid I was.

D
URING THESE YEARS
, Dad and Neil Dellacroce became nearly inseparable. My father realized his older, wiser mentor was a wealth of information as far as the life went, and Dad became utterly enthralled with Neil. The men were so close that vicious rumors began to swirl. One rumor in particular had to do with an affair between Dad and Neil’s daughter Rosemary, a married forty-year-old housewife. Dad was seen coming and going from Neil’s house in Staten Island so often that those who loved gossip and lies started spreading rumors of an affair. Rosemary and her family lived with Neil. Dad may not have been a saint, but I would bet the farm there was nothing going on between Neil’s daughter and my father. Dad played by the book when it came to the life. Pissing off the man he idolized and respected above all other men was not something Dad would have even thought about.