The Heart of an Assassin (7 page)

“Whoa, where’s the dough?” asked Blackie.

“In the van, where else did you think it
would be?”

Blackie was always quick in understanding a
situation and realized this was bad. Killing a cop or a relative of
a cop was bad, real bad. “Okay, okay, we go now,” he ordered.

They rushed out of their hangout and on to
the street. The stranger got into the driver’s seat while the
leader jumped into the passenger side. “Hey, man this is a fucking
paddy wagon,” Blackie remarked.

“It’s the best I could muster in such a short
time,” Malco responded.

The rest of the gang piled into the back,
complaining that it was packed and crowded. “It’s a short trip,”
Malco shouted back to them.

Next to Blackie was a bag and in it was the
twenty-five thousand. “Hey, guys, we got the money up here,”
Blackie shouted back to his gang. There was a cheer from the back
of the van. “Where you taking us man?” asked Blackie.

“To a hideout in New Jersey, where you can
lay low for a couple of days, and then it’s up to you where you
go,” replied the stranger. Within minutes, they were on their way
out of Manhattan, heading toward New Jersey.

They crossed over the George Washington
Bridge and turned right toward Englewood Cliffs. After a mile, they
headed toward the Englewood Cliff Park. They continued down to the
picnic area of the park running alongside the Hudson River. They
could see the George Washington Bridge in the near distance,
looming above them. “Man, this is a cool place,” Blackie
remarked.

Malco pulled the van a few feet from the end
of the pier overlooking the river. He whipped out a silenced pistol
and fired into Blackie’s head. The he pulled an automatic from
under the seat and grabbed the bag of money, leaving a few loose
bills on Blackie’s lap. Stepping out of the van, he placed a brick
on the gas pedal and put the van in drive. He moved to the rear of
the van as it slowly moved forward and he began emptying the
automatic into the back of the van. He could hear shouts and
screams as the van hit the water. He stood there for almost a
minute as the van sank into the Hudson River. After he watched the
van sink out of sight, he followed the thousand steps up toward the
top of the cliffs and disappeared into the dead of night.

July
9, 1964 (5:30 a.m.)

Lefty tried to peer out the side-wired window
of the van as they reached the bottom of Englewood Cliffs. It was
dark when they stopped for a brief moment. Then the van started
moving forward again. All of a sudden, bullets began to riddle the
back of the van. Louis Sanchez caught one in the chest, Nelson was
hit in the leg, and Russell caught one in the stomach. Everyone
dropped to the floor. There were screams as bullets were flying
around them. Suddenly they felt the van tilt forward, and they
piled toward the front of the van.

The van plunged into the cold Hudson River.
Water began to seep into the van as it slowly descended into the
river. Screams could be heard from inside the van.

“What the fuck!” someone screamed.

“You fuckin’ bastard!” someone else
screamed.

“You motherfucker,” screamed Loco as he took
a shot to his neck.

The water continued to seep into the van as
it descended into the Hudson River. Lefty, realizing the situation,
quickly crawled toward the back of the van. Feeling his way in the
dark, he moved as quickly as he could. Among the screams, the
blood, and the water rushing in, he made his way to the backdoor.
Lefty pushed as hard as he could while he watched the surface
quickly disappearing as the water engulfed the van.

As the water filled in from the back, Kenny
once more pushed as hard as he could, managing to open the backdoor
enough to slip through. It appeared as if one of the bullets hit
the lock and damaged it, allowing Kenny to get it open. As the
water rushing past him help push the door open, Kenny swam out. He
glanced behind him and saw the van’s door shut, sealing the fate of
his comrades. Kenny then swam forward and upward, thinking back to
when he was on the swimming team in high school; what seemed to be
a lifetime ago. Holding his breath and swimming he felt as if his
lungs were going to burst. He stayed below as long as he could
until finally he could not hold it any longer. When he surfaced,
there was no one to be seen. Also floating to the top were some
bills adding up to a few hundred dollars, enough for Lefty to get
out of town.

July
11, 1964

It was a rainy, hot Saturday morning as the
long line of limousines took Don Bolnaldo to his final resting
place. Tony Costellino, his brother Bolnaldo Junior, Clemente
Marino, and Malco Lombardi eulogized Bolnaldo Costellino Senior at
the church. Everyone praised them for their eloquent words.

After the funeral services, they all gathered
at La Ristorante for breakfast. There were about 250 guests, most
were members of the Costellino family.

“I will destroy what is left of the Giordano
family,” Tony said, revenge coursing though his veins.

“Easy, my brother, we will deal with them
shortly,” responded Junior.

“I heard they had a private funeral for their
family at the estate. Also heard that it was Erin Romano who hit
Twelfth Street,” Clemente said.

“Erin called me,” said Tony
Costellino.“They’re scared shitless and want to show their
sincerity by offering some of their locations, merging our
enterprises. What do you think, Clemente?”

“You got to be kidding,” Clemente
replied.

“Well, I decided to meet with them and, when
the time is right, take them to an open field in New Jersey and
bury them alive,” responded Tony.

“They are going to learn what it’s like to
mess with us. Just like the Don said,” added Malco. Clemente raised
his glass of wine and said, “To Don Bolnaldo Costellino. May his
death be avenged. Salute!”

July
11, 1964 (07:00 a.m.)

Felicia Giordano, her brother, Fabio, Leo
Russo, John De Luca, and Erin Romano sat at the Hampton estate
having an early breakfast. Although Fazio was gone, the family was
still intact, in spite of what Tony Costellino thought.

The funeral parlor had three caskets
delivered, one contained Fazio Giordano, and the other two were
empty. The news media outside the estate took pictures and
speculated as to the contents of each casket. Their spirits were
high with another great news story in the making. Blood was an
expendable commodity within the families on the streets of New
York.

.Felicia knew that in order to win this war
once and for all, she, her brother, John De Luca, and Leo Russo had
to remain out of sight. When she got the news that Bolnaldo had
been taken out, she knew they now had a shot at taking them all
out, especially since they thought the Giordano family had been
eliminated.

Felicia ordered Erin to call the Bolnaldo
family and to ask for a truce. The hit on their father was already
in the works and could not have been stopped. An eye for an eye,
thought Erin. They were sorry for their loss, and enough blood had
been shed. Erin referred to Tony Costellino as the don, which
pleased Tony significantly. No one would challenge the new don. But
Tony did not know his intoxication with power would end with the
ultimate hangover.

“We would like to make amends,” said Erin,
“and maybe have a meet with Tony Costellino, the don of the family.
We are prepared to turn over Giordano’s financial interest in
exchange for our lives.”

Upon Bolnaldo Costellino’s death, Felicia
ordered that the information dropped off for Nick had been picked
up. She wasn’t too surprised when she found that the one in the
library was not there. She had already deduced that it was Nick
Costello who had dealt with the visitors that night. Additionally,
she realized Nick had saved her and Fabiano’s lives. Lastly, she
decided to pay Nick not only what he was contracted to do, but
would provide an additional $100,000 for a job well done. It was
unfortunate that he didn’t act sooner; it could have saved her
father. But she was her father’s daughter; and this fortuitous
incident, however sad, had propelled her into the most enviable of
positions. Whether anyone else realized this twist of fate, she was
now the “don” of the Giordano family. She also realized that Nick
had proven to be invaluable.

Felicia and the rest of her guests retired to
the living room and turned on the television to watch the news
channel. They chatted about their future, and about how things were
going to be once she took over all of the Costellino family’s
enterprises.

Felicia watched in anticipation, wondering if
her orders had been carried out by her two spies in the Costellino
family. Approximately two hours later, her curiosity and
anticipation were satisfied when a special news bulletin came over
the airways and confirmed it. It appeared as if more than a hundred
people had to be rushed to nearby hospitals because of food
poisoning.

An hour later, there was an update to the
news broadcast. The special report now was saying that most of the
people rushed to the hospital had died. Doctors were initially
unable to determine the cause of their death. However, given the
circumstances, that only adults were affected, it was believed that
the wine may have been poisoned. Felicia stood up, smiling, and
raised her glass.“Salute.”

“Salute,” they all responded.

May
22, 1984 (New York)

Felicia Giordano announced her decision to
step down as the head of the Giordano family and turn over the
reins to her brother Fabio. Fabio and Felicia together had
successfully managed the family, resulting in the creation of one
of the biggest crime syndicates in the United States. Their solo
act of 1964 not only eliminated the Costellino family as a threat,
but in this single act, the heads of six Chicago crime families
also faced extinction. Within a week of what is now known as the
Last Breakfast at La Ristorante, Felicia mobilized her family and
took on the most prosperous locations of the Costellino family.
With the support and muscle from the Russo and Costa families of
San Francisco, they also attacked and severely crippled most of the
Chicago families. Almost every day the newspapers were either
reporting a mob hit or a funeral.

Around mid-September of that year, two agents
from the FBI were sent to visit Felicia Giordano. It was made clear
to her that they had made it a priority to bring her and her whole
organization down. Everyone had assumed the FBI and most government
agencies had been too consumed with the ongoing investigation of
the assassination of President Kennedy, which occurred in November
of the previous year.

Felicia felt a lot of dirt could be swept
under the rug without the FBI’s intervention at this time. However,
though Felicia and Fabio knew that the FBI could not pin anything
on the Giordano family, they decided to call for a truce with any
remaining families. “Why push our luck?” Fabio stated, with which
Felicia agreed.

While skeptical and mistrustful of the
Giordano enterprise, the truce was accepted by all. As a result,
the businesses owned by the Costellino family were turned over to
the Giordano family. The San Francisco families divided up the
businesses in Chicago, while the Giordano family took complete
control of the businesses in New York.

The family sold their East Hampton estate and
moved to Bristol, New Jersey, (approximately seventy-five miles
from New York) where they purchased fifty acres of prime real
estate. The new home was built with state of the art surveillance
equipment as well as a twenty-four-hour armed security force whose
numbers could only be estimated at fifty or better. Felicia knew
they had made a lot of enemies, and it would take some time before
they could root them out and/or turn them.

During that period, she had tried to
incorporate the help of Nick Costello. It wasn’t until the third
try that she finally got a response. Nick explained to Felicia that
he had been away on assignment and could not be reached. He also
told her that he would be unable to accept any assignments for a
few years because of previous commitments.

“Years!” shouted Felicia into the phone.

“Yes, I will contact you when I am once more
available. Good-bye,” Nick calmly responded and hung up.

Felicia was beside herself. She was used to
calling the shots, not being treated as if she didn’t matter, or
told what to do or to be. She gave the orders and people
jumped.

How dare he brush me away like that, she
thought. Could he have been hurt, or worse identified? What if he
was identified? No one would dare to come forward. Not if they
thought he was working for us. Who the hell is Nick Costello,
anyway?

Felicia decided to mount her own
investigation as to the real identity of Nick Costello. An
investigation that took five years only to find that there were a
few thousand Nick Costellos in the United States, not to mention
more than a few thousand out of Sicily and Italy. None of the
hundreds she pushed to investigate proved viable. Nick Costello
remained a mystery, a ghost or phantom who came and went as he saw
fit.

Though Felicia felt more secure in her
mansion, the thought that Nick Costello was still out there haunted
her for months afterward. She knew his style and technique were
beyond her ability and man power to overcome. He was fluid and
swift. He worked alone, thus, enabling him the ease with which to
move undetected and undeterred. The ball was and always would be in
his court, and she did not like the rules of his game. She wanted
to own, to harness, to control what was beyond her reach. She knew
too well that she needed, but could never trust, Nick Costello, the
bastard.