“Last one. That’s the last one I’ll ever have to make. I was arrested on May 18, 1998—my eighteenth birthday. Letty was only seventeen and scared out of her mind. Age eighteen and the Capadonno family had put a contract on my head. I had to choose between the women I loved and the men I served. Part of the code is that if the Capadonno family needs you, they expect you to turn your back on the world.”
Miles pulled a photograph from his pocket. He stroked the old polaroid as if it was his most prized possession. Anyone that knew Miles Capadonno well knew that his only photograph of his mother Andie was extremely important to him.
“Nothing else matters. Not your girl. Not your own mother. My mom, Andie Cormack, was not a well woman. A week before my eighteenth birthday, she took a turn for the worse. Her ovarian cancer had become stronger than she was and that was saying something. Andie Cormack was the strongest person I knew—male or female. My mother was the perfect combination of spitfire and sugar, honey and hell.”
Miles continued to glance down at the photograph. There was a pain in his eyes that was palpable.
“In my father’s youth, he had hooked up with my mother and quickly became the brunt of his brother’s jokes. Why? Because my mother wasn’t Italian-American. She was, however, a smart, beautiful, Irish-American woman with a heart of gold. He married her despite the jiving. They had six kids together, but among their three oldest kids, I was the only one that rushed to her side. My mother was a saint and I had to watch her die.”
Miles’s face fell into his hands for a moment. Emotion filled him and he needed a moment to swallow it down. Letting a sharp breath escape his lungs, Miles continued.
“I had to choose between being by my sick mother’s side and running jobs for the Corellis in Philly. Loyalty won. I was the good son. The Capadonno’s didn’t quite see it that way, though. The Corelli’s were short a man, got their panties in a bunch, and sent Nico Firenze, fresh off the boat from the boot, to kill my uncle Sonny. Nico failed to kill him, and got deported shortly after. In retribution, Uncle Sonny sent a guy to ice Giancarlo Rigatti. They whacked him at a bar near the Navy Yard in Philly, and sent my father, the “Butcher” his body. Rumor is that he turned Giancarlo into Vienna sausages which were delivered to his grandfather, Nunzio Rigatti, boss of the Rigatti Crime Family up in New York. Problem was, rumor got out that the guy who whacked Rigatti was me. After that, they were all gunning for me. The Corelli’s. The Capadonno’s. The Rigatti’s. Even my own brother. There was only one thing to do. I had to get out of Carrion. I had to get miles away.”
Miles tucked his photograph back into his shirt pocket. Unfolding himself from the chair, he stood up to his full height. His presence was commanding. Surely much more commanding than the kid he was when he entered Franklin Correctional Facility all those years ago.
“See, there’s no loyalty where there’s no money involved. I had to learn the hard way. Now, not only is the Coalition pissed because they received chopped up bits of Giancarlo Rigatti served up on a platter with a letter with my name on it, but the Capadonno’s are pissed because I put someone else before them, putting them in a tight spot. Lord only knows how many hits were put on my head.”
An unseen reporter cleared his throat. “Tell me about the Coalition, Miles…”
“The Coalition. That’s like the league of nations of the mafia families. If you wanna know more, maybe you should set up a fuckin’ interview wit’ them…” Miles spat, giving the reporter a nasty look. “I ain’t a rat.”
“Sorry, Miles. Continue…” the reporter said apologetically.
“Now seventeen years later, after spending half my life in this shit hole, the great state of Pennsylvania has deemed me fit for civilization. Imagine that. Freedom. What the hell would I do with it?”
Casting a dark look out of his cell, the edges of Miles’s lips turned up just slightly. With a voice ripe with assurance, Miles said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”
CHAPTER TWO
“FUCK YOU, CAPADONNO!” Vic Schiabetta screamed from his cell as Miles was ushered through D Block by two armed prison guards. Vic gripped up the bars as he bared his ugly stained teeth.
Fuck… That breath! Miles thought.
Vic’s years of meth abuse didn’t do him any favors. Not that he was ever a looker anyhow. He was known for his particular set of skills. Skills that didn’t involve the use of soap, water or a toothbrush.
The only thing that keeps me from knocking Vic into next week is the fact that no matter how bad I beat ’em, he’ll never get any uglier.
As they cut through the rows of cells, the grisly population of D Block voiced their disgust that Miles was breaking free of this hell hole, and they were stuck to serve out the rest of their terms. With a cocky smile on his face, Miles smirked at all of them.
What do I care? They had never did me any favors, anyway.
“They’re gonna get you, Cap! They got a bullet with your name on it!” Vic screamed.