Chapter One
Three murderers live on my block – two on opposite corners like a pair of
bookends, and one right across the street from my house. Not the crazed, ax-
wielding kind you might see in horror flicks, but genteel killers who go about
business in Armani suits and Gucci shoes, their victims disappearing without a
trace. This probably sounds creepy, and you might even wonder if I'm
afraid for my life, but up until now I’ve always felt safe. That’s because these
men are members of La Cosa Nostra, This Thing of Ours. Most people call
them Mafia.
When I was eight years old my family moved a whopping two-and-a-half
miles from our apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to a modest house in the
pristine section of Dyker Heights, home of the Colombo and Bonanno crime
families. While my dad had reservations about rubbing shoulders with the
locals, he was drawn to the quiet neighborhood, and my mother, who had a
thing about dirt, was thrilled to have her own garden where she grew tulips
and tomatoes.
What I liked most was that I’d finally gotten my own room, complete with
purple shag carpeting and a plastic Barbie vanity set. Outside there were lots
of kids to play with, and I never thought much about the men who drove
around in fancy Cadillacs, flashing gold chains and chest hair. They were just
part of the scenery. And if I ever had the good fortune of being invited to one
of their kid’s birthday parties, there was sure to be pony rides, magicians, live
bands, and homemade gelato.
But as I got older, I realized that Mafia presence had other benefits.
Because they kept out petty criminals, you didn’t have to worry about getting
mugged or having your stereo stolen or your ten-speed bike jacked from your
garage. However, along with these perks, there were certain rules you had to
follow. Such as, never say the word “Mafia” (according to them, the
organization does not exist), never ask a rich kid what his father does for a
living, and if you’re a non-Sicilian teenage boy, never ever date a connected
guy’s daughter.
So when I discovered that Matt, my sixteen-year-old, blond-haired, blue-
eyed, moron-of-a-brother was in love with Bettina Bocceli, daughter of
Colombo’s capo, I knew there was going to be trouble. Matt may have been
the tormentor of my life, but I didn’t exactly want to find him on the bottom of
the East River wearing a pair of cement shoes.
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Three murderers live on my block – two on opposite corners like a pair of
bookends, and one right across the street from my house. Not the crazed, ax-
wielding kind you might see in horror flicks, but genteel killers who go about
business in Armani suits and Gucci shoes, their victims disappearing without a
trace. This probably sounds creepy, and you might even wonder if I'm
afraid for my life, but up until now I’ve always felt safe. That’s because these
men are members of La Cosa Nostra, This Thing of Ours. Most people call
them Mafia.
When I was eight years old my family moved a whopping two-and-a-half
miles from our apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to a modest house in the
pristine section of Dyker Heights, home of the Colombo and Bonanno crime
families. While my dad had reservations about rubbing shoulders with the
locals, he was drawn to the quiet neighborhood, and my mother, who had a
thing about dirt, was thrilled to have her own garden where she grew tulips
and tomatoes.
What I liked most was that I’d finally gotten my own room, complete with
purple shag carpeting and a plastic Barbie vanity set. Outside there were lots
of kids to play with, and I never thought much about the men who drove
around in fancy Cadillacs, flashing gold chains and chest hair. They were just
part of the scenery. And if I ever had the good fortune of being invited to one
of their kid’s birthday parties, there was sure to be pony rides, magicians, live
bands, and homemade gelato.
But as I got older, I realized that Mafia presence had other benefits.
Because they kept out petty criminals, you didn’t have to worry about getting
mugged or having your stereo stolen or your ten-speed bike jacked from your
garage. However, along with these perks, there were certain rules you had to
follow. Such as, never say the word “Mafia” (according to them, the
organization does not exist), never ask a rich kid what his father does for a
living, and if you’re a non-Sicilian teenage boy, never ever date a connected
guy’s daughter.
So when I discovered that Matt, my sixteen-year-old, blond-haired, blue-
eyed, moron-of-a-brother was in love with Bettina Bocceli, daughter of
Colombo’s capo, I knew there was going to be trouble. Matt may have been
the tormentor of my life, but I didn’t exactly want to find him on the bottom of
the East River wearing a pair of cement shoes.
Back to books