The funeral of notorious mob boss Don Angelo Falcone took place on Tuesday, February 18, at Holy Name Cathedral, Chicago. Falcone, who was dubbed “The Angel-maker” due to his alleged position as a prolific Mafia career assassin, was gunned down at 11:00 p.m. on February 14.
Falcone was outside Gracewell’s, a local diner in the Cedar Hill suburb of Chicago, when he became involved in an altercation with the owner of the establishment. Falcone, who was unarmed, was shot twice in the chest. He died instantly. Michael Gracewell, proprietor of the diner, remains in custody and is awaiting trial. Despite Falcone’s position as a Mafia don, police do not suspect underworld involvement in his death.
Angelo Falcone has been well known to police since his ascendancy to the head of the Falcone crime family in the mid-1990s. Despite his arrest on several occasions, he proved questionably fortuitous in avoiding prison when key witnesses either disappeared or retracted their statements before trial. He is believed to be responsible for the recent brutal murders of two pivotal members of the Golden Triangle Gang, an infamous drug cartel based in the Midwest, among others.
Plainclothes police officers and members of the FBI were among the crowds outside Holy Name Cathedral on Tuesday. While trouble was not expected due to a tradition of respect shared by Mafia families during funerals, law enforcement officials attended to ascertain who might succeed Angelo Falcone as head of the Falcone Mafia dynasty. The identity of the underboss was unknown at the time of Falcone’s death.
Police believe that Angelo’s younger brother, Felice Falcone, may now succeed him. In a move that seemed to support this assertion, Felice Falcone (pictured above) briefly spoke to reporters while other mourners remained tight-lipped after the service.
The suspected current boss of the Falcone Mafia family said about the deceased: “Angelo was a true soldier of God. There is no doubt in our minds that he will be rewarded in heaven for his good work here on earth. He goes to Our Savior with honor and dignity, a clear soul, and a noble heart. We will miss him dearly, but he will never be forgotten.”
“The Angel-maker” was laid to rest in a black marble coffin in the family mausoleum in Graceland Cemetery.
He is survived by his wife — daughter of the rival Genovese mob clan — Elena Genovese-Falcone and their five sons, Valentino, Gianluca, Giorgino, Dominico, and Nicoli (pictured below).
I stared, unblinking, at the final image. In the foreground was Nic: a slightly younger, glassy-eyed Nic, wearing a black suit. His hair was shorter than it was now, absent of the stray, curling strands that fell across his forehead. He was less filled out, making his cheeks seem almost gaunt, and his mouth was pressed into a hard line. He was balancing the front of his father’s coffin on his left shoulder.
Luca was supporting the other side of the coffin, the same concentrated expression on his face, his eyes a haunting blue. Gino and Dom stood behind them on either side, their faces crumpled with grief. At the back, I recognized the tall, bald man from the restaurant and the unmistakable Felice, who wore a dark gray scarf and an equally grim expression. Valentino was at the bottom of the cathedral steps, his expression blank, his eyes empty. His mother — the tall, dark-haired woman from his portrait — stood beside him, a netted black veil covering most of her face. Her hand was clenched firmly on Valentino’s slumped shoulder as he watched his brothers carry their father away.
I clasped my hand over my mouth to try to keep from vomiting. There was so much to take in, but it was coming at me all at once, like bullets of reality. My father had killed the man in that coffin; he had widowed that weeping woman; and he had taken Nic’s father away from him forever.
But Nic’s father was a killer — a notorious mob boss, the angel-maker — whose legacy hung over his family like a black cloud. And now Felice was in charge, whatever being “in charge” even meant, and suddenly he didn’t seem harmless or quirky, but terrifying.
My thoughts began to spiral and before I knew what was happening I was sprinting to the bathroom. I stayed there for a long time — curled around the toilet, gasping as every heave shook me violently, as if trying to remind me that my understanding of life in Cedar Hill had changed forever.
I stood on the sidewalk, trying to pull my feet away from the mush that rolled over them. I was sinking. A falcon dropped from the sky, circling at close range. It pecked at my eyes until blood began to pour from my pupils, blinding me.
Ping! I blinked hard, and in the sudden darkness I saw my father, crumpled in a heap, his head cradled in his hands. I called out to him, but he was fading from me, and the harder I tried, the more my lungs burned.
Ping! I woke up, sweating and gasping for air. Behind my curtains, something was bouncing off the window. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and lit up the screen. It was 1:48 a.m.
Ping! I slipped out of bed and crept up to the window. A tall, dark figure bent low to the ground and picked something out of the untended grass. He lifted an arm into the air, taking aim at the spot where my head was. He paused when he saw I was standing where the darkened curtains had been just seconds before, then dropped the pebble from his hand.
I opened the window and a rush of warm summer air hit my face.
“Sophie?” He came closer, setting off the light sensor above the kitchen window.
“Nic?” I closed my eyes and flinched, remembering everything at once. The memory of the funeral photo flashed inside my head, along with the word “Mafia.” Nic’s father had killed people, and my father had killed him.
I wondered what good would come of me going to Nic, looking him in his dark eyes, and seeing the hurt behind them. Hurt he must truly hate me for.
“Sophie,” he said again. “I need to talk to you.”