Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

06 | Daughter of the Mob

"I think I realized early on that my family wasn't like other families." — Victoria Gotti

New York City, Brooklyn, October 1954

CARLOTTA ISABELLA MANCINI stared lovingly at her bedroom wall.

A photograph of her mamma and papà when they had married was situated atop the mahogany dresser, guarded by a cracked china vase of wilting flowers.

Her then twenty-three-year-old mamma was the incarnate image of an angel with her pinned up curls, her grandparents on either side of her youthful looking padre, as if to intimidate him. It was captured in Milazzo, five years before Mussolini and his fascist regime had risen to power. Her parents had made a pilgrimage of sorts, travelling back to Italy to celebrate their union with a traditional Italian wedding. Her mamma had recalled that day fondly, gushing about the towering wedding cake and how the town folk had encircled them as they played traditional flutes and jaw harps until the scorching Sicilian sun slipped beneath the horizon, winking stars dancing in the sky.

Had her grandparents intimidated papà that night?

Carlotta giggled aloud at the absurdity of the thought. Nobody could intimidate the Don Roberto Mancini, the man who single-handedly operated rackets all over New York City and silenced his enemies with just a look.

Did her papà frighten her?

She had never believed that her father was capable of any form of evil when she was a child. In fact, he had been the epitome of goodness. He had coddled her and indulged in her every ridiculous girlhood whim. He had made her believe he could give her a shooting star if she asked.

She remembered one distinct occasion, when he had taken her on the ferry over to Staten Island. He had bought her cotton candy from one vendor on South Beach and insisted that his entourage walk slightly behind them so that their presence didn't encroach on his family time.

Back then, she hadn't been puzzled by the crush of cologne-drenched men that had continuously chaperoned their family wherever they went. They were Papa's friends. They cared about him, mamma, and the others, so they were her friends too. She loved making them laugh with the faces she made, pestering them until small dimples formed in their cheeks.

That day on the beach, Carlotta had joined another group of children in a sand castle building contest. At eight years of age and with a severe lack of experience, she had been thoroughly impressed with the citadel she constructed out of sand.

However, another little girl and her brother were rewarded with the prize of the shiny new portable electric phonograph. Carlotta had bawled her eyes out until her papà had stormed over to the judges, convincing them that his daughter had been unfairly critiqued and demanded a recall.

Or, at least, that was what he told her.

Her father and his men had coolly accompanied the judge to the back of the Beachland Amusement Arcade. When they had returned, the judge was red and flustered, his palms open in defeat. An unexplainable bloom of crimson had painted the right side of his face—a detail Carlotta had not understood in her childhood and yet remembered for years after.

Mysteriously, the dishevelled judge had changed his mind, and Carlotta returned to her mamma with the pretty new phonograph, being convinced it was her sheer talent that had outshone the devastated little girl.

Carlotta rocked her head at the memory, her eyes flitting across the room to land on another portrait of her father.

She had always been proud of her father, as any proper Italian daughter ought to be. He was wise, brave, and he provided for their family in how only a good padre could. He tickled her and bought her presents. She read him the newspaper in the mornings and brought him his espresso at night. They waltzed together in the living room to Frank Sinatra, whirling, until the two were paralyzed by their howls of laughter.

When Carlotta had found a gun in the bottom shelf of her mamma's bedroom drawer, she hadn't been particularly startled. She had made a casual inquiry to her parents, but they had informed her that the gun was only there for safety reasons. After all, Brooklyn was crawling with petty criminals, hooligans, and thieves. Her papà simply wanted to protect them if some troublemaker wandered into their home somehow.

In fact, she had been oblivious to the business until her eleventh birthday, when she was on the cusp of adolescence. Her father had called her into his office, territory she had never been allowed to explore before, and asked her what she thought he did for a living.

She had felt so small in that room, her head barely reaching the top of her armchair, and her papà gazing down at her from the comfortable view his six foot four frame provided.

Carlotta had hesitated, petrified by the prospect of disappointing him with a wrong answer.

"No need to be timid, little Carlotta." Don Roberto released an intermingling of smoke and peppermint with his somehow unsettling words.

"I haven't really thought about it." She had swallowed, her fear hardening in her throat. "The business, I mean."

"Have the other kids talked to you about me? Any of the neighbours? Your teachers?"

Carlotta shook her head, clamping her hands together on her lap. Maybe one or two of her classmates had made silly allegations about her father—that he was in trouble with the police or that he was an illegal immigrant, but Carlotta always dismissed them as sheer nonsense.

"Carlotta, I have sacrificed my life for you and my family. I was only a young man when I left Milazzo." He had stroked his chin thoughtfully, lighting another cigarette from the half empty paper box on his desk as he did so. "You will hear questions. About me, about the Family, about my business. But, you must know, figlia mia, that my business is meant to protect you. Back in Sicily, we practised the old ways. We fought for each other, we protected each other. Here, in America, we must continue to do the same."

Carlotta had been pleased to know that she was being watched out for, like how her mamma had told her that the Lord Jesus looked after them even when she didn't realize it.

However, she had taken her father's words with a grain of salt when she began junior high school.

Her classmates had fathers with jobs that they could talk about, while all she could say was that hers worked in construction, with his hand in the olive oil industry in Italy. He even possessed a fake business card to authenticate his fake address of employment. He brandished the forged rectangular paper to all of her teachers and the parents of her friends, almost as though he had been proud to lie about his profession.

Carlotta sighed, attempting to release the heavy weight within her.

Her room was like any other young woman's bedroom, with a floral quilt and a tall, white vanity pushed against the wall. It had changed little since her teenage years. Framed photographs of herself and her school friends lined the shelves. Posters of her favourite Hollywood actors hung above her bed like a shrine. A stack of unreturned library books were forgotten in a heap on the floor, and the phonograph from the beach supported a menagerie of records in the middle of her desk. Pretty colourful frocks dangled in her wardrobe.

Her papà had spoiled her. There was no doubt about it.

Around her, he was kind and generous, showering her with presents and attention whenever she wanted them. Yet something felt shallow about his type of love. It had outgrown her as one outgrows an old blouse or frayed dress.