The Prince (49 page)

Sante knew that nobody would be able to stop Prince Ferdinando Licata. Sooner or later he would avenge the killing of his grandniece and his own attempted murder.

Tom Bontade's days were numbered, but how long would the blood feud last?

Sante Genovese had to put a stop to it at all costs. He had to reconcile them, no question. He had to get them to sit down at the negotiating table. Tom Bontade had to give Licata something to settle the score, and then everything could be resolved with a handshake.

If Bontade wouldn't agree to a truce with Licata, then Sante would threaten to tell Lucky Luciano everything, since he still held the power of life or death over the Cosa Nostra families, even though he'd been locked up for some years in a maximum security prison.

Jack Mastrangelo, as promised, brought Saro to the prince's bedside. Struggling to speak,
u patri
told Saro what he wanted from him. He knew he was a good kid and that he'd worked hard in America, though without much luck. He wanted to give him the chance he'd been missing until then. Saro would become the right-hand man to Mastrangelo, who would now become Licata's consigliori.

Mastrangelo was more astonished than Saro. He wasn't expecting that investiture from the prince. Him, consigliori! He didn't think he was worthy of the honor.

“You're the only person on earth whom I trust unreservedly,” Licata told him. “I've seen how you work, and I've come to know you, Mastrangelo—or, rather, Jack. You have a few years on you by now; you can't keep being a maverick. It's time you settled down.”

Mastrangelo didn't know what to say. The scars on his face trembled with emotion. Essentially that was what he'd always dreamed of: to be the consigliori of a big boss. He didn't know if he should kiss the prince's hand in gratitude. He'd never done that in his life, and he didn't want to start now.

Licata seemed to read his mind and closed the subject: “It's all right, I understand.” Then he turned back to Saro.

“As for you, I know there's a dark hole in your life.”

Saro looked up and met the prince's eyes behind the bandages. Was it possible he knew about the Blue Lemon?

“Don't worry, you're among friends. We'll never betray you. Instead, you should thank Jack Mastrangelo for getting you out of trouble.”

“What trouble?” Saro asked innocently.

“Poor girl. You went off like a maniac,” Mastrangelo remarked.

So they knew everything, Saro thought, bowing his head.

“You battered them mercilessly,” Mastrangelo went on undeterred.

“I don't remember anything about that night,” the young man mumbled, trying to justify his actions.

“You were filled to the gills with alcohol.”

“What happened?” asked Saro hesitantly.

“I was going to see one of Marta's coworkers; she has a room on the same floor. I heard the scuffle—or, rather, the bloodbath—the door was open. You were like a lioness who's had her cubs taken away. You wouldn't stop! Then you collapsed on the bed, nearly comatose. Marta was on the floor, and so was her client. So I picked you up, loaded you in the car, and dumped you far away from there.”

“I can't thank you enough—”

“Don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to pay off your debt. You're one of us now; you heard what
u patri
said, right?”

“It's an honor for me.”

“Okay, enough of these compliments; let's get to work,” said the prince. “I've had word from Sante Genovese that Tom Bontade wants to talk to me.”

To avert another war between the families, Sante Genovese had persuaded Tom Bontade, with arguments he could not ignore, to apologize to Ferdinando Licata for what had happened and to compensate him and his family for the loss of the child by giving him total control of the slot machine business.

At first Bontade refused to submit to Sante's insistent urging, but as soon as Genovese threatened to get Luciano involved, he quickly became more reasonable. He agreed to offer Licata an apology, but, he objected to handing over the slots, which seemed an excessively harsh punishment for his family.

They reached a compromise: Bontade would renounce his interests for two full years, and then he would be allowed back in, for a percentage to be decided with Licata.

Bontade had no choice but to accept the terms.

Sante Genovese told him that he would get in touch with Licata and establish the details of the peace offering. Genovese stressed that the interests of the families had to be upheld above all other considerations. “That fucking attack,” he repeated again, “was a bad idea. It stirred up the police and paralyzed our business. And all for what?”

The reproach stung Tom Bontade more than the failure of the Saint Ciro attempt. Nevertheless, he had to agree to be completely amenable to anything that the
Cupola
, the top-ranking circle of Cosa Nostra bosses, might order him to do.

M
ike Genna, Sante Genovese's consigliori, was charged with setting up the meeting between representatives of the two families.

Since Ferdinando Licata was confined to bed, he would be represented by Jack Mastrangelo and Saro Ragusa. In keeping with Mafia rules, Tom Bontade, as a family boss, could negotiate only with someone of his own rank; therefore he would send Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna to the meeting.

All week long, Genna ran back and forth from family to family, attempting to mediate and trying to pin down the fine points of the agreement. He had arranged for the meeting to be held in a restaurant in Greenwich Village, but at the last minute, Mastrangelo had it moved to La Tonnara, the trattoria owned by the parents of little Ginevra, who had been sacrificed by Bontade's senseless fury. It was a gesture of respect that the Bontades owed the Licata family.

Vanni reluctantly agreed to the demand, but he insisted that before entering, his men be allowed to search the place for any hidden guns.

When the evening chosen for the meeting arrived, Bontade's men, under the watchful eye of Mike Genna himself and members of Licata's team, began searching the trattoria.

Barret and Joe Cooper, who were Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna's bodyguards, entered the place and carefully checked for possible hidden weapons, even searching the sole waiter.

After a good half hour of thorough probing, they agreed that the place was clean.

It was okay for Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna to enter. They were frisked in turn by the two soldiers sent to protect Mastrangelo and Saro Ragusa: Lando Farinella and Bobby Mascellino.

Mike Genna invited the two groups to sit at a table that had been specially set for them. He took his place at the head of the table, while Jack Mastrangelo and Saro sat down to his right. To his left were Carmelo Vanni and Vincenzo Ciancianna, who, despite the others' dark faces, kept up a cheerful patter.

“So, what are we eating tonight?” Ciancianna began in an attempt to break the mood of uneasiness and suspicion, as he settled his impressive bulk in a chair.

The bodyguards stationed themselves behind the families' respective representatives.

Genna, taking the role of moderator seriously, began by saying, “Our thanks to our hosts this evening, Prince Licata's niece Betty and her husband Nico.”

Mastrangelo interrupted to point out the woman's state of mind. “The
signora
has not gotten over the death of her daughter. Nevertheless, she's provided us with a cook and a waiter, so we would have everything we need.”

“I remind you that the purpose of our meeting here is to resolve all the differences that may still divide your two families. I represent the Genoveses and thus indirectly Mr. Luciano. Please keep the tone within proper bounds,” Genna advised patiently.

“And now let's eat,” the jovial Ciancianna concluded with a hearty laugh.

Nico had prepared typical southern Italian dishes that could easily be reheated. The menu included lasagna, eggplant parmigiana, zucchini frittata with potatoes and prawns, and, finally, ricotta and spinach calzones. All accompanied by catarratto, a white wine with a bouquet of orange and prickly pear that recalled Sicily's beautiful lands.

The waiter brought the wine first. Mike Genna tasted it and then nodded for him to serve the others as well. Next came the lasagna, at which point Carmelo Vanni started unburdening himself.

“Tom Bontade sends word,” he began, cutting a steaming wedge of lasagna, “that he is sincerely sorry for what happened at the feast of Saint Ciro.”

Mastrangelo replied, “Prince Licata accepts Bontade's apology.”

The script had to be performed through to the final lines. Everyone knew what he had to say and how the others would respond. Mike Genna had spent the previous week shuttling back and forth from one family to the other to calibrate the apology and pardon word for word. Nonetheless, the rules required the one who had done wrong to express his regret in a ritual that had been repeated almost identically for decades.

“Unfortunately, there was a mishap—a variable that was impossible to foresee,” Carmelo Vanni went on. “We never would have thought that the prince would use his niece as a shield.”

“Let me clarify,” Mastrangelo broke in, his patience wearing thin already, “Prince Licata did not use his niece as a shield.” Then addressing Mike Genna directly: “I would point out, Mr. Genna, that this was not supposed to be the spirit of this meeting. Is Vanni now insinuating that the prince is a coward and that he hid behind a little child? If those are his intentions, we won't listen to any more of it.”

Genna stepped in, trying to tone things down: “Of course not, Mastrangelo, I'm sure they weren't Vanni's intentions. He just meant that there was an unforeseen circumstance, represented by his niece.” Having said that, he spoke directly to Vanni: “Let's not digress. Say only what there is to say.”

“I felt it was important to point out, though, that, if a mistake was made, it wasn't our fault,” Vanni insisted.

Vincenzo Ciancianna looked up from his plate. Vanni's attitude was clearly confrontational.

“Carmelo Vanni, do I have to go on listening to your bullshit?” Mastrangelo set his fork down on the table, imitated by Saro.

Genna promptly intervened. “Gentlemen, let's calm down. Let's enjoy this fine meal, and let's stick to the subject. Go on, Vanni.”

“Tom Bontade is sorry about the accident,” Vanni continued solemnly.

Vincenzo Ciancianna relaxed and started in on his second portion of lasagna.

“He calls it an accident, does he?” Mastrangelo muttered sarcastically. “Let's call it what it was: murder. Let's say that Tom Bontade is sorry for killing a little seven-year-old girl!”

“That's it, enough! Stop it! We can't continue like this,” Genna said heatedly, rising to his feet. “Let's go back to the reason why we're gathered here. I promised Sante Genovese I'd get you to make peace, and I'll do it even if I have to blow your goddamn brains out.” The antagonists finally fell silent. Genna sat down again. “Let's go, Vanni. For the last time, let's hear Bontade's apology and his proposal.”

“You got it,” Vanni said quickly. “Bontade, as a testament to his good will and to put this
accident
behind us for good—”

“No way!” Mastrangelo exploded, turning to Mike Genna. “He's still fucking with us!”

With those words, his hand smacked the glass of wine, which went tumbling to the floor. It was the agreed-upon signal. Mastrangelo's guard Lando Farinella dashed to the wall where a fishing rope hung, grabbed it and yanked. Barret and Joe Cooper, Bontade's bodyguards, were focused on the glass, which cost them dearly. The large fishing net plunged from the ceiling, falling heavily over the table companions.

Saro and Mastrangelo had quickly sprung away from the table to avoid the trap. Mike Genna, Ciancianna, and Vanni, however, were caught by surprise. In the blink of an eye, Saro seized a harpoon from the wall, used for catching swordfish, and Mastrangelo grabbed an oar, while Barret and Joe Cooper were still trying to disentangle themselves from the net's heavy mesh.

Vincenzo Ciancianna instinctively leaned back, but the legs of his chair gave way, and he crashed to the floor.

Bobby Mascellino, Mastrangelo's other bodyguard, snatched a second harpoon from the wall, while Mastrangelo swung the oar and with its full force struck Carmelo Vanni's skull. Cooper, who by now had managed to free himself from the net, lunged at Mastrangelo with his bare hands. Saro raised the harpoon, ready to strike Cooper, who noticed it and swerved at the last moment. But Saro aimed again, hurling the barbed spear right through him. Without loosening his grip on the rope, Saro pulled on the harpoon to have it rip through the man's guts, but Cooper lunged sideways, seizing the spear with both hands, and knocking Saro to the floor.

Mastrangelo was quick to raise the oar and bring it down on Barret, who was still struggling under the net, and struck him with the sharp edge of the blade, smashing his skull and spattering the walls and floor with blood. Joe Cooper was still on his feet, trying hideously to pull the spear out of his chest, though obviously it was hopeless. He kept on with a strength born of desperation, releasing bits of gut along with blood. Saro, still on the ground, watched in horror.

Mike Genna had finally managed to disentangle himself from the net, beneath which only the moans of Vincenzo Ciancianna could be heard. Bobby Mascellino did not hesitate. Despite the fat man's innocuous nature, he threw the harpoon, aiming straight for the heart. A second later, Ciancianna lay still under the fishing net.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Genna shouted, stunned by the slaughter. “This was all premeditated, right?” he yelled at Jack Mastrangelo.

“Blood for blood,” Licata's man replied calmly. “The offense is avenged. Tell Genovese. Prince Licata is now at peace with himself and therefore with all those who want to be at peace with him.”