My associates and I are sitting around shooting the breeze in front of the family's Downtown Social Club, a local neighborhood hangout where we conduct business and, well, "socialize". Most of the guys are telling stories about their families and what is was like growing up as a kid, the first crime they committed, how they came to be in "the life", that sort of thing. Typical guy bullshit. I sat back in my chair, smoking my cigar and enjoying the entertainment. Most of it was bragodacious, as the majority of the guys were younger than me. They were obviously trying to outdo and impress each other and, I don't know, maybe even me. After a short lull in the conversation, Tommy, a young thug of about 18, looked at me and asked:

"Hey Louie, you're older than us. What was it like growing up here before us? We want to hear your story too", he asked inquisitively.

I croaked a deep belly laugh, assuming he was kidding. But when I looked at their faces, I realized they were serious. I stopped laughing and returned their glare.

"You guys really wanna hear what it was like back in the day?", I stated flatly. They all nodded. I leaned my chair back against the wall of the Social Club, took a long puff on my cigar, and began to tell my story of what it was like growing up near Broadway and Twenty-Eighth Street in the early 1900's in the biggest city in the world, New York.

CHAPTER 1

  Many people do not know this, but I was conceived in Salerno, Italy. My father, and my mother, 8 months pregnant with me, set sail on a boat designed for three hundred people, but packed with seven hundred, all bound for Ellis Island. After the accidental death of my older brother, Paolino, by a local mafia chieftain, Antonio, my father's name, decided he would move his family to America for a better life. I was born at sea during a storm, halfway between my parents home country and my future one, on May 8, 1906. My full given name is Luigi Carlo Brunello, but my father Americanized it when we arrived in New York. I never knew Maria, my mother, who died during my birth. When I was older, my dad told me there was a fire aboard the ship when I was born. Only 195 people survived out of the over 700 passengers. My father and I were both fortunate.

  My father and I settled in one of the huge tenement rows in lower Manhattan. As a baby, I was dependant on the generosity of neighboring mothers in our building on any extra milk they could spare, since I was without a mother. I was alone a lot because my father, Antonio, had to work two jobs. I became accustomed to being a loner at an early age, since I had no siblings or mother, so the yearning for affection was not there. Over the years, I have come to realize that most gangsters have a similar characteristic: the ability to turn external deprivation into inner strength. Its hard for a gangster to trust someone because that involves risk. And every mobster knows that you can only survive by minimizing risk.

Growing up as a young boy, I had many illnesses, the worst being a constant, nagging, debilitating cough. Our local doctor, a well-known drunk, said I inhaled too much smoke when I was born, scarring my lungs. This malady, of course, left my body weak and open to all manner of infectious diseases due to my weakened immune system. So I stayed in bed a lot in my younger years, in the back of our small apartment that Dad rented for $3 a week. I came to enjoy being left alone in my own little world. I rarely went outside to play with the other kids in the neighborhood, as I just didn't fit in. I really didn't care if I did, and I didn't care what they thought about me. In fact, I wanted it that way because the only advantage I had was anonymity.

  I stayed in and out of the local hospitals, coming close to death many times and worrying my father to death. After one particularly long stay, my father made a decision that would help shape me into what I am today. He moved us to a new apartment next to my mother's  great-aunt, Francesca. She was to care for me while my father was at work. She was a widow, a large Itaian woman with thick black hair, who came to love and care for me as a mother would. She was a widow of a slaine Italian capo and believed in the ways of the Mafia. Unbeknownst to my father, who abhored of those beliefs, she groomed me in the ways of the camorra. My father, with all his will and strength, tried his best to steer me away from that lifestyle, but he was no match for Francesca. I remember one day she sat me down in the bed and told me a story about my ancestors from the Old Country:

  "Louie, do you know where the word 'Mafia' comes from?", she asked. I shook my head no. "Well, it all started with the French. MAFIA means "Morte Alla Francese In Italia". In English, it translates to "Death To The French In Italy"."   "Why dead?" I ask. Francesca explains, "A long time ago, Louie, the French conquered our land, which did not belong to them. The people in power did nothing because they were afraid. So, the men in the small towns and villages came together to organize a group that could only be trusted by each other. And they fought the French to get their land back." 

"Did the men beat the French", I asked with wide-eyed innocence. Francesca just smiled and nodded, "Yes, they won the fight, but many men died. But no one tried to take their land again." 

I reacted as if listening to a fairy tale, "Was your husband part of this group of men?"  She answered, "Yes, he was a capo. He lived and died in the same town." She spoke of this with enormous pride.

"Papa told me that we came to America to get away from people like your husband", I said weakly. But she responded with conviction, "Your father is a weak man, and his fate is to be manipulated by stronger people."  I looked at her sheepishly, "But Francesca, I am very weak too."

Francesca looked at me with knowing eyes and a kind smile, lightly brushing my hair, and said, "My dear Louie, that will change, I can assure you." 

Hearing tales like this during my childhood is most likely the reason I am superstitious, like most other mobsters. Old women like Francesca pass down old wives-tales that are not grounded in reality, but taken for Gospel-truths. Two of my biggest fears are credited to Francesca: one is that if a man came into a room with his jacket buttoned, it meant he was going to plan to kill me; the other one is that you should never be seen with or sit down at a table with a red-headed woman because it was the Devil's color. She told me they had the will and power to turn even the most trusted and loyal men against you.

To be continued in Chapter 2...

Chapter 2

  As a young boy, I would often sit in front of our building and watch the people walk by. There were so many of them, merged with the all horses and wagons bustling along busy with their daily lives, and the smell of garbage and horse manure burned my nostrils. I liked looking at the different type of people and trying to figure out what country they were from and what they did for a living. But my main source of fascination was an old worn-down bar and restaurant across the street, with its paint chipping, dilapidated door and dirty windows and an uptown name.

 It was named the Cafe' Lexington.

 The type of people that frequented the cafe' were mostly the unsavory type, and although I didn't know it at the time, most of them belonged to local gangs. I could glimpse the inside from time to time when the door was left open, and all I could see was that it was dark, dirty and had various dark blotches of stains on the floors and walls, either from liquor or blood, I could not tell. These men used to the cafe' as a meeting place to conduct their various businesses, such as collecting on loans, organizing plans to hijack and scheming various plots of thievery, or even hits on rival gangs. One rumor on the streets had it that a few years ago, after a long and boisterous disagreement, three men were shot and killed in the cafe. They said it was over a woman who had pleasured all three men. When the hospital orderlies picked up the bodies in their wagon, it was said they were laughing and shaking their heads, joking about another spat between "the micks and the dagos."

 My father forbid me to go near the cafe'. He said those people were the same ones we got away from in Italy. I know he wanted to spend more time with me, but between him working at the docks during the day for $8 a week, and working a night shift at the slaughterhouse for $6 a week and two hog heads, he was always too tired. What really made my father angry was that he had to kick back half of his dockworker pay just so he would have a spot held on the pier. Francesca would marinate the hog heads in red wine, garlic, and vinegar and then slow roast it. That was our best Sunday meal. I watched my father work his fingers to the bone for little money and that influenced me deeply. I felt sorry for him at first, he was so beaten down. As I grew older, it turned to pity. I realized that I would rather die than live like that, no matter how honorable it might seem. I also knew that the deaths of my mother and brother, whom I never knew, weighed heavily on him.

 I was only 7 years old when I had my first street fight. A big, thick bully of 10 named Chubby Flynn was fond of picking on young, weak-looking kids like myself. And the fact that I had an Italian accent laced with poor English made me an even bigger target. He wanted my money, but I told him I didn't have any. So he hit me. Then he told me he wanted my clothes, but I told him he'd take nothing from me, even my clothes. So he hit me some more until I fell down. Then he kicked me. I remembered my nose was bleeding and my lungs seared from lack of air.

Chubby grinned at me and said, "You would rather die than give me those crappy rags you're wearing?"

"You will no have my clothes", I gasped between breaths in my broken English. I crawled towards the street, grabbed the base of a bench and pulled myself up. Chubby grasped my neck and pummeled my head and neck, blood streaming from my mouth and nose. Many people watched, but no one stopped it. Flynn let go of me and I fell to the ground. He took off one of my shoes.

"Thanks for getting your clothes all bloody, now I can't use them. But I can use your shoes," remarked Chubby sarcastically. I heard a voice from behind us, a sultry voice of a woman..

"You can take the kid's shoes, but it will cost you your life."

Chubby looked around and saw the people in the group near us. Their face changed from disgust to open fear. He turned around and stared at Edith the Hawk. Edith McMahon was the most beautiful and one of the toughest women to grace the West Side of town. She was the reigning queen of the Cafe' Lexington and toted 2 loaded guns 24-7. It was rumored that she had been many a gang leader's lover. She ruled over her own crew of cutthroats and thieves, and the word on the street had it that she had at least nine kills credited to her hands.

Edith looked at Chubby with a stern expression, "If you even think about running, I can just as easily shoot you in the back."

"Nope, ain't gonna run", Chubby said shaking his head while looking down at his feet.

 "Help him up and carry him to the Cafe'. Put him on the table in the kitchen. And don't you dare leave until I get back." Edith warned, shaking a finger at Chubby. His face paled. "The boy needs a doctor", stated Edith matter-of-factly as she headed down the street. "Do what I told you."

Edith the Hawk took me in, and along with the alcoholic doctor, helped to heal my wounds. She insisted that Francesca not let my father see my injuries. I was lying in a cot in a storeroom of the cafe' as I overheard Edith and Francesca talking, glasses of whiskey clinking on the table. Francesca asked Edith...

"Why you do this for him?". I heard another glass land on the table, then Edith's throaty voice stated, "I guess I have a weak spot for strays. A few years ago, I found a lost puppy on the verge of death in an alley down the street. Three cats had him surrounded and he wouldn't have lasted long if I hadn't showed up. I nursed him back to health, made him tough and grizzled, enough to take on 3 or 4 cats at a time." More whiskey being poured into glasses.

"So are you gonna make Louie tough and grizzled, like the dog?" Francesca inquired. A long silence followed.

"Nah, lady. Just gonna learn him things to keep 'im from gettin hisself whacked out there on the streets", Edith murmured,

"Don't let his weak, fraile body fool you. He has much inner strength", insisted Francesca.

I heard a throaty exhale of breath as Edith said,"Yeah maybe so. He's gonna need every bit of it."

 When I got older and more experienced, I came to realize that most mobsters are influenced by the women that are prominent in their childhood. My path was set by Francesca and Edith the Hawk, but I was too young to understand at the time. Since I didn't have a family, Francesca became my grandmother, Edith my mother, and eventually Chubby was to become my brother figure. I listened to them, trusted them and also learned from them. As Francesca once told me when I was older, a man can ignore, or even fight against his destiny, but in the end, he must yield to it.

...to be continued

 I took a deep breath and put out the last of my cigar. I made a move to stand. It was nearing lunchtime and I was getting hungry.

"Hey! Where you going, Louie?", Tommy asked. "We wanna hear more, don't we guys?" Tommy looked around at the other guys, and they all nodded their consent.

"I don't know, guys. I'm getting hungry. I need to take a break and I got work to do. Joey_Cesari won't like us sitting around all day flapping our gums like a bunch of old women." I commented. They all stood up with me, holding out their hands and motioning me to sit back down. Tommy slapped one boy on the shoulder and ordered, "Paulie, go inside and get Louie here something to eat! Hurry now!". He looked over at me and wondered, "Gee Louie, keep going!"

I looked at their young faces, full of anticipation and eager to hear more of my humble beginnings, so I decided to indulge them. After all, part of our job is to inform and educate those that come up in the ranks behind us so we can keep "this thing of ours" strong and growing. My stomach growled at the heaping plate of linguini with clam sauce Paulie hurriedly put on the table in front of me. I resumed my story after taking a bite of the fresh bread at my elbow...

Chapter 3

 On a rainy Saturday 2 weeks later, Edith the Hawk summoned Chubby Flynn to meet her at Cafe' Lexington. Chubby looked nervous as he entered and stood across the bar from Edith, his cap in his hands as if pleading for mercy. Edith took a drag from a limp cigarette as she looked him over, her sharp eyes boring into him, making it obvious how she got her nickname. Chubby relented and spoke first...

"I swear, I ain't hurt nobody else since I pummeled the wop", he said in a shaky voice. Edith grunted into the coffee mug in front of her face, She poured a cup and slid it across the bar, motioning Chubby closer. He looked around warily, then edged towards the bar and grasped the warm cup.

"Just me and you in here, kid. Don't worry. I don't hurt kids", Edith said with a slight smirk.

Chubby looked at her suspiciously, "Whadya want?". Chubby looked around reverently and asked, "Is it true what they say about the cafe', 'bout all the guys killed here?" Edith ignored him. She looked at him with a hard stare, making Chubby uneasy.

"I wanna talk to ya about the boy you used as a punching bag" said Edith flatly.

Chubby choked on his coffee, "You mean the wop? So?"

Edith the Hawk nodded and replied, "I want you to be his protector. Make damn sure nobody ever does that to him again, or it'll be your ass". Smoke wafted from her nostrils.

Chubby looked at her thoughtfully, then asked "And what if I don't?".

Edith shrugged and said, "I might let it go, or I might find a fella to beat the shit out of ya'".

"This is crazy!" Chubby shouted defiantly. He sighed, "For how long?"

"As long as I damn well please. I don't wanna ever see him touched again, got it? If he trips and skins his knee, somebody is gonna bleed. And it might be you." Edith responded.

Chubby drooped his shoulders, accepting his fate. He shook his head and muttered, "I can't believe I'm gonna bodyguard a damn dago! I wish I was dead, I'll never live this down".

Edith looked over her shoulder as she exited the room, "I could make that wish come true..."  Chubby turned and ran out of the smoke-filled Cafe' Lexington.

 Because of the type of life, most mobsters have very few friends. An old story I heard once that sums up a gangster's code goes like this: A Dad puts his boy on a building's ledge, about 18 feet up. The boy is about 7. His dad tells him to jump, but the kid refuses. The father tells him no problem, I'm here and will catch you, you won't get hurt. The boy closes his eyes, takes a breath and jumps. Dad moves outta the way and lets his son hit the ground, and he gets skinned up. The dad picks his son up by the collar and pulls him close, telling him with clenched teeth, "You remember one thing, boy: You NEVER trust anybody in this life! And don't you forget it!"  I've found that you rarely find someone in this lifestyle you can trully depend on, much less a friend. Most of your so-called "friends" are more as a result of business agreements. They will last only as long as you can make money from it. I once overheard a conversation between two higher-ranked mobsters. One of them said, "I wash your back and you wash mine...until its time for me to shoot you in the back." This is the life we have chosen.

 I push my empty plate back, wipe my mouth with the white cloth napkin, then pull out another cigar, my hunger satisfied. The guys look at me encouragingly, so I light my cigar and prepare to continue my story. Rocco brings out a bottle of wine and sets it on the table.

Chapter 4

  World War I was in full gear by the time the winter of 1913 hit our city. The streets of our neighborhood had become a continuous war zone as well between the races, especially between the Irish and Italians. The streets were fully controlled by the Gangs, an estimation of over 150 brutal groups that enforced their will on the general populace. The police were outnumbered in men, experience and weaponry, plus city hall was notoriously corrupt. Thievery was blatant and rampant, as people just regarded it as an everyday occurrence. Most of the stolen goods were quickly converted to cash through an elaborate and untraceable web of underground fences. Prostitution was widespread due to the enormous numbers of poverty-stricken families desperate for cash, resulting in many wives and even daughters selling themselves to improve their living conditions. Believe it or not, an industrious pimp in those days could make as much as $450.00 a week with good women, which is as much as the police commissioner made.

  There were many vices that men could find then, such as the many bars and cafes that covered the neighborhoods. Some men used them to drown out their sorrows. However, the most influential vice then was gambling. Both Irish and Italians indulged regularly in betting daily numbers provided by droves of hustlers in an effort to profit from these immigrants' misery. Some of these gangsters died trying to get rich. A few of them profited greatly.

  One such man mastered it above all others. His name was Colin McGuire.

  Colin was a larger than life man, always well-dressed and very soft-spoken for his size. He stood a head taller than the average man and was twice as wide. On the streets, he was known reverently as Colin the Killer. He never shouted and his word was his bond. He logged his first hit at 17 and only a short year later, became the boss of his street gang, the feared Dead Rabbits Irish gang. They were called that because they did all their business in the underground burrows beneath the streets. McGuire's reputation grew, enhanced by his 8 kills before he was 23. And he was always prepared. He walked the streets with brass knuckles in his vest pocket, a cloth-wrapped lead pipe in his back pocket, a blackjack hung from his neck on a string, a knife in his coat pocket and a pistol lodged in his belt. McGuire was a vain man, as he was thrilled to read of his name in the papers. He achieved an almost legendary status and did everything in his power to maintain it, including killing. More so than other gang leaders, Colin also demonstrated a natural head for business to the point of being visionary. He anticipated that one day all these run-down saloons would be taken over by unique, high-level dance and nightclubs with big name stars and high-priced drinks. His vision would come to fruition one day when he would own over two dozen of these bars, even a stake in the well-known Cotton Club.

  Several weeks later, Chubby and I were trying to make our way down the street through the viciously cold wind and snow. During this time, Chubby had not let me out of his sight, following Edith's directions to the T. We were not yet friends, but we had reached a level of mutual respect. Moments later, we ducked into the warmth of the Cafe' Lexington, rubbing our hands and stomping our feet to get the blood flowing again. Francesca and Edith were both sitting at a table and they motioned us to come over.

"Edith, why do I have to talk to this man?", I asked in an annoyed tone.

"Nevermind why", said Francesca, straightening my coat. "He is a very powerful boss and will teach you things to help you."

"To help me do what, Francesca?", I inquired.

"He will teach you things to keep you from being like your Papa. A man like McGuire will teach you things you should know", she replied firmly.

"But Papa teaches me things to make me a good man", I protested.

Edith jumped in, saying "You'll be a good man, Louie, but in your own way. McGuire will learn you about things like honor and loyalty. Remember, loyalty stays with you forever. That is, until McGuire dies or is boss no more.", she said with finality. I was unaware at the time that the meeting between McGuire, Chubby and me would be a pivotal event in steering me to a life of crime.

 The quest for power and maintenance of it is the sole motivation for most mobsters, the one true code we all abide by. The way they maintain that power is by using a blend of friendship, loyalty and faith. This desire for power is a seed that is planted early in our youth by modeling our lives after the men who hold the power at that time. During this time period, these powerful men were usually criminals. However, we go into this life without any romantic ideas about "our thing". One underlying current holding us together is that we all decided that we would not live our lives at the mercy of the pezzonovante, men of power, to be kicked around and abused like worthless dogs.

to be continued...

  I stand up to stretch, and realize the sun is starting to drop below the horizon. I pull out my pocket watch, sighing at the limited amount of time I have to finish making my pick-ups. The guys around the table are stretching too, and it dawns on me that we need to take a break.

"Ok guys, that's enough for now. I gotta make some runs and should be back here in about 3 hours. And I know you guys have some jobs to do as well. I tell you what...why don't we meet back here in about 3 hours, grab a bite and I'll continue my story. Sound good?", I instructed. I was greeted with nods all around. We all took off in various directions...

                                            ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Three hours and a few busted heads later, I sat at the table in front of the Social Club and watched as the rest of the fellows straggled in. I leaned my head in the doorway and motioned for Rocco to bring plates and drinks all around. The night was cool and the the twilight was just about gone, night was descending. It was a quiet night so far, not much traffic or pedestrians clogging the streets. We all took a shot of vodka and the boys settled back, ready for me to resume my tale...

Chapter 5

  Chubby and I were sitting against the decaying brick wall of McGuire's tenement building, waiting to be summoned for our meeting with him. Chubby looked over at me and took a deep breath.

"You know Louie, I never wanted to be your friend. Edith put me up to it", Flynn confessed.

"I already know that, Chubby. Maybe you won't have to hang around me much longer", I said wearily.

Chubby glanced at me, measuring his words. "Well...I think you might have to put up with me longer than we both expected."

I looked over at him and said, "Sorry, Chubby."

"At first, I was too. But you've been straight with me and haven't been as big of a pain in the ass as I thought", he stated. "Listen, I've been thinkin'. When we meet with Mr. McGuire, we gotta let him know that we only work as a team, me and you. Probably the only way he'll take us."

I looked at him sadly. "There ain't no way I can protect you like you do me."

Chubby waved a hand at me dismissively and said, "Shoot, let's try it a while longer, see how it turns out. You might wind up tougher than everybody."

I looked him dead in the eyes and spoke, "I will always be your friend and I will never betray you. That, I promise you." The last sentence was said with conviction. Chubby just nodded in agreement and said, "Good. In this kind of work, we're definitely gonna need it."

  The back door to the tenement opened and a huge red-headed man with a crooked nose motioned Chubby and I inside. He led us down the hall and motioned us into a large apartment on the right. Colin McGuire was seated in front of us at a large polished oaken table playing solitaire. He didn't look up, but flipped the cards slowly with a rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. I noticed his hands and nails were manicured, which I found odd. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke suddenly in a low voice laced with an Irish accent, jarring both Chubby and I to attention.

"So, I understand that Edith the Hawk thinks you two kids can handle some work. You agree?", McGuire asked without looking up from his cards.

Chubby and I looked at each other, but he spoke first. "You bet, Mr. McGuire. Whatever it is, we can handle anything."

McGuire took a long drag on his cigarette and finally looked up at us. His bright green eyes seem to burn through me. "Anything, eh? That covers a lot of ground." He walked around the table to stand in front of us. He was even bigger than I'd heard.

I looked at him and said, "We ain't afraid..."

McGuire chuckled dryly, "Yeah, I can tell you boys ain't afraid of me." He leaned back against the table, making sure we noticed the pistol tucked in his belt. "Well, I'll think about it. It won't be much at first, just running errands and such. Oh, and the pay won't be all that great. And remember, if you gonna work for me, you'll make plenty of enemies, but you'll only need one friend. In any business, one friend and one thousand enemies will make you very rich."

Chubby looked at me and said flatly, "As long as he's around, I'll have plenty of enemies."

Colin McGuire barked a deep belly laugh. "Yee haven't even started yet and yeu're already one step ahead of the game. Aye lad, yee are indeed very lucky. If you play yee cards right, yee might even die a very rich fella."

I looked at Chubby, promising him, "I will never let you die".

Colin McGuire looked at us and smiled broadly.

                                              ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chubby and I started working for Colin McGuire as runners making pickups and money drops three times a week. We frequented the back rooms of many cafes and bars. We were each paid $2.00 a week and I liked the feel of money in my pants. In fact, it was my first taste of illegal cash and I was hooked! All I could think about was getting more.

 Chubby told me one day while we were eating lunch, "The main reason people become mobsters is cause of money. It pulls ya in and everything else comes after that, the dames, the cars, the threads and the big fancy houses. All of the best gangsters in history started without a pot to pee in. And one day, you got plenty of cash stashed away and you wanna get out, but you can't. Its all you've ever known and all your ever gonna be, and that's how you'll die: a gangster. All of that cause of a few bucks you made as a kid."

  Everything seemed to be going great. Chubby and I were making money and earning the Boss' favor. And suddenly, like a big storm moving in outta nowhere, two major incidents impacted my life forever: first, Francesca became stricken by a series of illnesses and second, a truth was revealed to me about my father that I had never known...

to be continued....

Is anyone even reading this? Do you guys want me to keep going? Yes? No? It sucks and I hate you? Please stop!  I've had a couple of people mobmail me and said they really enjoyed it and to keep going.... *sigh*

Well, I guess in honor of both of my fans, I will continue the saga...

  Me and the guys were well into our second bottle of wine by now and everyone was feeling pretty relaxed. Some of the guys took bathroom breaks, and we stopped for a few minutes to chat with some of the dames in our crew that stopped in for a minute, Killer_Jane and Maranatha. They were going to the speakeasy, so they didn't stay long. We bid them good night, and after a few minutes of chit-chat, they guys implored me to continue. So, I poured another glass of wine and picked up where I left off...

Chapter 6

  During the winter of 1914, Francesca finally began to succumb to age and the inferior environment. She became bedridden due to multiple illnesses such as kidney infection, pneumonia and eventually liver failure set in. The doctors tried their best, but the medications and diseases began to take their toll as delirium set in. I stayed by her side as much as I could and tried to lift her spirits, but sometimes the pain was too strong for her. One day when I was trying to reassure her, she began rattling on about her life in Italy. Her breaths were ragged from her damaged lungs, but she pulled me close, the anguish on her face clearly visible. It looked like she was debating whether or not to tell me something important.

"Louie, I have to tell you, something important before its too late, something about your father", she breathed in her raspy voice. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my chest in anticipation of this news. "It breaks my heart to be the one to have to tell you this, but I am the only one left who knows the truth. After I am gone, this truth will be buried with me, little one. Your older brother back in Italy, Paolino, was shot and killed when he was seven years old. Now, I know you were told that a mafia chieftain did it. And he was involved in it, yes." Francesca gasped for air, licking her dry lips. I held her head up and gave her a sip of water, then gently laid her back on the pillow.

"What happened, Francesca? What man killed my brother?", I asked through tight lips, my fists clenched, dreading her answer.

Francesca held my fist in her hand, looked me in the eyes and said, "He was killed by a man he both loved and trusted. Louie, your father killed his own son, your brother."

The news hit me like a blow to the stomach. I exhaled then walked over to the window with my back to Francesca. "Why? Why did he do it?" I asked, tears streaming down my face.

"Paolino was kidnapped by these men and by the time your father found him, they had already corrupted him to their ways. He could not bear to see a son of his live their life, so he did the unthinkable...murdered his own son.", she said wearily, and added, "You can't let him know. You must not reveal this until the time is right, Louie. I tell you this to make you strong so you will stand up to your enemies and never run or hide. You must always fight. One day, you will find your real destiny."

I look over at her and whispered, "What about Papa?"

Francesca closed her eyes and mouthed, "He will fulfill his destiny, too".

I continued to stare out at the rain-soaked roofs on the tenements, digesting this new information. I also began to digest something else, something new and foreign to me, something growing deep inside...hate. I heard deep rumblings from Francesca's chest, her gasping for breath increasing. She held out her hand as I rushed to her side. Fear gripped me as I could feel her end was near.

"My dear Louie, I am pleased you are with me. I'm afraid my time is here and I must go. Whatever you do, do not forget all I have said. Promise me..." she whispered for the last time.

"I promise. I won't ever forget you", I croaked as I felt her go still. I weeped, her hand on my cheek, as Francesca closed her eyes for the last time.

                             -------------------------------------------------------------

  The summer of 1918 was one of the hottest ever in the city. Chubby and I had been working hard for Colin McGuire, and learning many tricks of trade in the process. On my 12th birthday, Edith the Hawk, Colin McGuire and Chubby gave me a party at the Cafe Lexington. They gave me a huge package wrapped in bows. I looked at them, astonished, and surprised by the wide grins on their faces.

Colin McGuire was the first to speak, saying "A happy and joyous beerthday to ya, laddie!"

"Yeah kid, you really earned it", chimed in Edith, smoke emitting from her nostrils.

Chubby looked at me, furrowing his brow and trying to sound mean, and said "Hey Louie, you better not try to use that thing on me if you know whats good for ya". Then he flashed a toothy smile.

My hands trembling, I took the bows off and put them on the bar. Opening the box, I gasped at the smooth walnut case inside. Gingerly, I lifted it up and opened it, revealing a soft red velvet lining. And resting on that lining was a brand-new pistol, a Colt Model 1908 .32 caliber Hammerless surrounded by 12 shiny new bullets!

I looked at each of them in turn, holding their gaze for a moment, and said "I will forever remember this act of charity and kindness. Thanks so much!"

McGuire stood next to me, wrapping an arm over my shoulder, and chided, "Louie, you must only use it in the best of health!"

                            ------------------------------------------------------------

  A week later, I walk into my room and find Papa holding my pistol in his hands like it was a poisonous snake. I could see the anger on his face. I told him...

"Papa, put down my gun."

 He looked at me with a hurt expression, not seeing me enter. I could move like a shadow when I wanted. "Who gave you this, Louie?" my father shouted.

"It was a birthday present from a friend.", I said matter-of-factly.

He held it up in front of me, holding it by the butt with two fingers as if it might bite him. "Oh really? And what will you do with it?", he demanded vehemently.

I looked him straight in the eye and whispered "It will make me never forget..."

Papa looked at me imploringly, and asked "Never forget what?"

I took a deep breath, preparing my words carefully, before declaring, "That you used a gun like that to kill my brother".

Antonio's face turned deathly pale, a shocked expression uncoiling across it as he slumped to the bed and dropped the pistol. He was visibly trembling as the full impact of that heinous act coming back to him like a flood. I walked up to him and stood in front of him and said accusingly...

"You are a coward, Papa. You murdered your own son, my brother, with a bullet from YOUR lupara. You chose to lose him from a bullet instead of the camorra. THAT'S why I carry a gun, because I live with a father who killed his own son."

My father put his head in his hands and wept openly. "I'm so sorry, Louie. I know you can never forgive me, I don't expect you to. My sin is coming back to haunt me by causing me to lose my only other son to the mafiosi. I have lost you."

"No Papa, you haven't. I will always be there for you.", I replied.

"Only if you're not a gangster", he insisted.

"I can't do that, Papa. Goodbye", I said emphatically as I put the pistol in my waistband, slamming the door as I left my father weeping behind me.

                            --------------------------------------------------------

  Revenge is usually an underlying motive for a mobster. It can be the fuel that drives him in his thirst for power and can easily be found just below the surface, ready to lash out at a moments notice, like a coiled viper. Most of the truly great mobsters have used it to gain an advantage in their notorious climb up the organized crime ladder----the great quest for the ultimate get-even. Chubby once told me, "Payback is a thing all gangsters want. There is no other way of life that provides you with that satisfaction better than being a gangster." I do know one thing: Francesca finished the task she set out to do. She broke any ties that connected me to my father when she told me the truth about him. Definitely, it was on that day that I, Louie_Bruno, became a gangster.

to be continued...

  After the previous chapter, we all decided to call it a night and straggled off to our various domiciles to get some rest. We met back at the Social Club the next day to resume the history of my education into the life of a mobster. After exchanging pleasantries and eating breakfast, the guys settled back with much anticipation as I lit another cigar, took a sip of expresso and picked up where I left off...

Chapter 7

  Fast forwarding to 1923, we found ourselves facing a new and exciting era. Chubby and I had been working hard the previous few years and, with our successes, kept getting rewarded by Colin McGuire with more important and prosperous jobs. We mastered hijacking of trucks and warehouses, then graduated to running a pier downtown where we lifted swag off of the ships and got a cut from the dock workers' checks and helped run one of McGuire's numbers rackets. All in all, we were getting quite an education, not to mention amassing a reputation as well. By now, I was 17 and Chubby had just turned 20. Many things were changing around the country as well. Congress passed the Federal Income tax law; more and more automobiles crammed city streets as there were upwards of 13 million rolling around; Hitler and Mussolini were coming into power.

  But the most important thing that happened for us was the passage of the Volstead Act which made the sale of alcohol a crime. That law served as the impetus for the outbreak of organized crime in America.

So in New York City, us gangsters got richer.

 We also increased our betting parlors in the poor neighborhoods and we were soon raking in more than $10,000 a week. Our gang numbers were growing too as more and more people lost jobs, making our numbers swell. The more popular mobsters became celebrities thanks to the newspapers. We were quick to make money off of people's misery. Thats what we do.

Chubby had lost all his baby fat and his upper body was thick and imposing, with huge foreams and biceps. I myself had sprouted into a tall, lean and lanky fellow, and we made quite a pair strolling down the sidewalk. Everybody steered clear of Chubby. This day we were both striding with purpose, intent on the task at hand. Colin had sent us to find a two-bit hood named Gapper Mahoney. Unfortunately for him, he broke into one of McGuire's new speakeasy's, stole some cash, trashed the place and was running his mouth and bragging about it. We had to send him a message. Chubby looked over at me and asked...

"Louie, do you know where this Mahoney guy is?"

"Yeah", I answered. "Him and his runty crew hang out over by the tunnels, like the rats they are. They are just small-timers."

Chubby chuckled and said, "Shit Louie, they only got $500 bucks! I think the thing that ticked Colin off the most is the way they smashed up the bar. He musta thought McGuire would just shake it off."

I looked seriously at Chubby and countered, "Yeah well, he's gonna find out he figured dead wrong."

We turned the corner and were standing across the street from our destination. Mahoney's tenement seemed almost deserted. Gino "Sticks" Palermo strolled up to us smoking a cigarette. He had been working for McGuire for about 10 years. He was his designated enforcer.

"Hey fellas. Gapper's in there. I think he's sleeping one off. Nobody's been in or out in the last hour", said Sticks matter-of-factly.

"Okay. Chubby, you and Sticks go in the front. I'm gonna wheel around through the back. We'll meet in front of his apartment door. Watch your backs", I instructed. We took off on our separate ways and after careful maneuvering, we made it to Gapper's room with no resistance, surprised that none of his crew were around.

When Gapper Mahoney woke up, he found himself tied to a chair with a pistol pointed at his temple. He was still somewhat drunk and smelled like a brewery. He quickly grasped the seriousness of the situation when he saw Chubby and I standing in front of him. His eyes glanced nervously at Sticks, and then at the gun, while Sticks just stared at him chewing on his toothpick. Beads of sweat began forming on his forehead. He didn't look near as fearsome as his reputation suggested...especially now.

"Hey...wait a sec, guys...you can help pull me outta this one, right?", Gapper stuttered nervously, licking his lips. "C-c-c-c-an't you help me let McGuire pay him back?"

Chubby grinned, "Oh, its not about the money, Mahoney. You made him look bad and for that, he can't let this one go. Sorry..."

Sticks cocked his pistol then looked at me for the go-ahead. Gapper started shaking, looking back and forth from me to Chubby, eyes pleading for mercy.

"I-I-I will make it up to McGuire so he don't look bad....he can have half of my take every week..." he bargained, desperation filling his voice.

"How much is that, Gapper?", I asked.

"Um-um, after paying off my crew? Its about a grand a week, give or take...", Mahoney stammered.

"We'll take....as in ALL of it. If you want to see the sun go down, bring that grand every week to Mr. McGuire", I stated.

"WHAT?! No way! All of it? I'm not about to give up my whole haul! You're crazy!", he begged.

Chubby shook his head and said disbelievingly, "Jeeez, get a load of the balls on this guy! Looking down the barrel of a gun and trying to weasel out a deal."

Sticks pipe in, saying in warning, "Louie, McGuire said to wack him, no if's, and's or but's."

I walked over to the window and turned, hands behind my back and said "You can't make any money off the dead. Can you, Gapper? So, do we have a deal?"

Mahoney gulped, took a deep breath and lowered his eyes. He nodded in agreement and said, "You guys ain't nuthin' but a bunch of damn crooks!"

"Thanks!", I said walking out of the door. Chubby turned to him and said "One more thing, Gapper. You hit any of our joints again, your life won't be worth a plug nickel. Don't forget it."

               ------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the last few years, Chubby and I had formed an everlasting bond. We had listened and learned everything Colin McGuire and Edith the Hawk taught us. Edith told me once that I had innate talent for this life-I was fearless, never shirked a job, and I was good at planning out a job, even anticipating all the things that could go wrong. I had no qualms about using force, but would rather settle things through business. She said the one thing that impressed her the most was my talent of turning an enemy into an ally, and that would help me to extend my life in this business more than most people.  I came to understand that a mobster's survival depended on the strength of his friends, not his enemies.

to be continued...

Louie, your an excellent wirter. And I like to say that you should keep doing what your doing. And if you get a bad comment. Ignore it and keep going.

I am sure your experience of growing into the person you now are, is mirrored by many other members of our society. Whether we as individuals choose to share those experiences, is entirely the choice of the person concerned.

I am pleased however that you chose to share this with us. Your ability to capture the history of your life and convey this so eloquently is testament itself to the obvious impact it has had on your character.

I look forward to hearing further installments of your varied and colourful upbringing.

 After several tumultuous weeks of moving our new family to St. Louis, me and the boys settled in to our new spot, the Big Muddy Social Club in downtown St. Louis. Once we got the place set up and running, we resumed our usual spot at a table on the sidewalk. soaking up the hot, humid air of this fair city. A fresh bottle of wine rests on the table as we shoot the breeze, talking about all the new sights we've discovered since we arrived. We greet Sal, -iocaste- and Cherokee as they pass by us to enter the club. Of course, Sal grabs a couple of cannolis off the table as he walks by. Tommy finally asks me to resume my story where I left off. I am feeling amicable thanks to several glasses of wine, so I decide to indulge these eager minds.

Chapter 8

  Strolling down the sidewalk towrds the Lexington a few weeks later, I notice a crowd gathered around the open door. I rush towards it, sweat beading on my forehead as I elbow my way through the gawkers and gasp at the scene on the floor of the cafe'. Edith the Hawk was lying in a pool of blood on the floor in front of the bar as Chubby was on his knees, holding her head in his lap. An unknown man lay sprawled over a table near the door, dead, a gun at his feet and two bullet holes through his back. It was obviously a hit. I rushed over to Edith and knelt near her as she grasped my hand. I fought back tears as I watched her gasp for breath, blood leaking out the corner of her mouth and a red stain blooming over her stomach.

"Louie and Chubby, listen close since I don't have much time" groaned Edith the Hawk. "I guess I'll be pulling up stakes soon, so I have one last thing to give you two. In my drawer under the bar, there is a deed to a house with 5 acres and a bunch of fruit trees in upstate New York my grandpa left me some years back. I was gonna move there someday. Its yours." Edith gulped and gasped for air, her face paling as the life began draining from her.

"What about the cafe'?" asked Chubby, choking back tears as his voice quivered.

"Its yours too, boys. I signed it over yesterday. If you run it right, it should clear you a good $250 a week." Edith whispered.

"We don't know anything about running a cafe!" I mumbled.

"Either you learn or hire somebody that can run it." she murmured. She looked at Chubby and me in turn then said "I did the best I could for you boys. I taught you all I know. From now on, its up to you and don't forget to look out for each other."

I held her cheek in my hand. Edith was the closest thing to a mother I'd ever known. "Thank you", I replied.

"What? For helping turn you into a gangster?" she smiled. "One day, you'll despise me for it."

"That will never happen" I stated matter-of-factly. Chubby and I stayed there, holding Edith the Hawk between us as she left us for the last time.

           --------------------------------------------------------------------

 It was the spring of 1924. Chubby and I are making our way across town in my new car, a Chrysler, to meet with a rival of Colin McGuire. His name was Joe Masseria, known as "The Boss". He was a young up-and-comer, holding most of the action coming in and out of the Bronx. He greedily wanted to expand into the other 4 burroughs, but knew he'd have to deal with McGuire first. He knew in order to do that, he'd have to get Chubby and me to switch loyalty. McGuire would not give up hs territory without a fight. And so, one of his bodyguards approached us and ask us to meet him informally.

Chubby looked over at me in the car and asked "So, why did you even consider meeting with this thug Masseria? Everybody knows we are perfectly content with McGuire."

"Chubby, he's a patient and savvy businessman", I explained. "He knows one of these days, we're gonna think about moving up. Maybe he's just trying to speed up that process. Let's just listen to what he has to say. It would be good to get an early warning if he's going against McGuire. Now, no matter who's in the room, only talk to Joe. Watch his eyes. We'll be able to tell what he's thinking by the way his eyes move. Well, we're here. Let's go. Stay sharp." I park over near the curb across the street from Little Sicily restaurant. Chubby and I get out and walk across the street, loosening our pistols as we walk.

 No matter what people say, us mobsters live for action. The closer to death, the more alive we feel. Most of us would rather die in hail of gunfire than wither away as a frail old man. Gangster become addicted to the adrenaline of action and the possiblity of certain death than other more attractive temptations. Every gangster knows that in this life, you can die any day. Most of us feel comfortable with this possibility. Colin McGuire once told us that as soon as you enter this life, there's a bullet somewhere with your name on it. When that day comes, it is not a shock. You can't be successful in this business if you're nervous about getting wacked. If you want to be successful in this thing, you can never be afraid to die.

Wow looks like you've had a really eventful life... So what happend with Masseria?

Have patience, my friend. That will be revealed in the next chapter of my saga...to be continued...

Leaning on a building next to a group of huddled gangsters, Diego listens on as Louie tells his tale.

I can't wait to hear the next chapter of your life.  Maybe after your done, I can tell you my story.

extremey interesting so far, looking to hear more.

that sounds really interesting i have heard of a guy called Masseria wasnt he shot just before the Bonnano family came into power?

that sounds really interesting i have heard of a guy called Masseria wasnt he shot just before the Bonnano family came into power?