"I don't know."

I would receive five coded messages from Dad smuggled out of FCI Milan. The first one read: Smile, have Sadsack till [tell] NFy to meet Smile by the Church near Smile. At night. He will have to see Smile on Thous 10 Truck Louds [loads] per week. Curly same thing. Have Joe OL the guy who sells goods to rests [restaurants]. Get him or you. SONO will have Joe see smile. Smile can till [tell] Joe what day he would like to see Curly! The Farther [father] by the [way] will be happy if Smile will do this for him. All so have Smile go and see Cop-Ten ware he wonts to pick up food for the Priest every month. Father will like this. Ask Sadsack how much food he got from him, When he was going there. You keep 10 box's of spam ham for your self every month [one thousand dollars]. Do this right away, if you can't, see them anyway to see what they have to say. Then I will have some one come to see you and you can make him meet them whit [with] you. I would like to see you do it. Think [thank] you I love you very much, give kids kiss for me. P.S. hope to see you soon.

While my dad was an extremely poor speller and writer, the depth of his criminal cunning can be seen through the intentional gibberish.

The translation: Frank senior wants Frankie to be his eyes and ears on the street. Find out what's going on and report back. Smile is Frankie. Sono (or Sano) is his reference to himself. Sadsack is Kurt. Cop (or Cap) is Captain D, Donald DiFazio, who ran Connie's Pizza, a small local pizza chain my father had the arm on, collecting $500 a month in street tax. Curly is Ralph Peluso, who was paying Dad $1,000 per week. NFy is short for Neffie or Nephew, his code for Michael Talarico, Angelo LaPietra's nephew. Talarico put another $1,000-a-week street tax into Dad's pocket. Connie's Pizza, a small local pizza chain my father had the arm on, collecting $500 a month in street tax. Curly is Ralph Peluso, who was paying Dad $1,000 per week. NFy is short for Neffie or Nephew, his code for Michael Talarico, Angelo LaPietra's nephew. Talarico put another $1,000-a-week street tax into Dad's pocket.

By my calculation, my father was pulling in $110,000 annually on these three accounts. Who knew what else he had going?

My father had everything worked out. His plan was to a.s.sign me these three customers: Captain D of Connie's Pizza, Mike Talarico, and Ralph Peluso. According to the note, I was to keep $1,000 a month for myself, a pittance considering that he was grossing at least $10,000 a month while sitting in prison. Another $700 a month was to go to "Skins," the code name for my mother.

The contents of the note didn't shock me as much as they revolted me. I was free again, and my father was willing to risk my freedom and Kurt's by pulling us back into the same activities that had got us locked up-for a mere $1,000 a month.

After Ronnie was shot, who was next in line? Uncle Nick inside prison? Kurt? If word got out about my cooperation with the FBI, my life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel on the street. Was anybody really really safe from my father or the Outfit? To get a better grip on my situation, I tried thinking like my dad. safe from my father or the Outfit? To get a better grip on my situation, I tried thinking like my dad.

After Ronnie was shot, I figured Dad needed to regroup quickly. If he could get me back working the streets, he'd have eyes and ears he could trust on the street plus a nice little stash waiting for him once he got out.

I now had a new dilemma: how to juggle three secret lives.

Before prison, I had led a dual life with my family and my father. Now I was living a triple existence. First, I was starting over at age forty, living the straight life in an effort to win my family back. Second, I had my father believing that he had won me back and I now worked for him again. Third, I had to continue working with the FBI until my mission was complete.

When I left the halfway house in February 2000, I had two goals. First, finish the fight against my father, even if it meant working undercover for the government. Second, rebuild my life by winning back Lisa and the kids.

I knew there was a good chance that we would not get back together. I wanted to repair my relationship with Lisa, but I needed things to be cordial so that I could spend time with the kids. I knew she was dating, and although I went out when I first came home, it was infrequent.

Although I was working with the FBI, there were parole conditions I had to abide by. Release from prison requires a convict to be on constant call for parole check-ins and random drug tests. I was no exception. One of the terms of my release was to meet with a drug counselor twice a month for a year. My parole required me to call in daily for possible urine tests. If my "color" came up, I had until the end of the day to report to a designated place for a pee test.

My parole officer was one of the very few people cleared to know that I was working with the FBI. My PO met regularly with the Two Mikes and the judge for a status update to make sure I wasn't being taken advantage of by the government.

I had the burden of what to do about the cryptic notes from my dad, who was anxiously waiting for my Milan visitation rights to be cleared.

Tell Mish [Frankie] to see Sanno [Frank senior] ias [sic] soon as posible [sic] about Skins [Dolores].

Or: Put everything in an envelope, put for lawyer on it give it to skins and have skins give it to who gave you this paper. You keep 1-B every month for yourself.

And: Hi Smiley! I know you're much happier where you're at. Sano would like you to find out about her girlfriend with the long curly hair. Tell her she knows where she belongs and you are there talking to her for Sano and listen to whatever she has to say and tell her afterward that you'll be getting back to her....

And finally: The recipes you get from Cap-put them in a big book, put book in big envelope and live [sic] it next door for my wife to pick up-put for Tony [bulls.h.i.t name] on outside of envelope.... There should be a 11-months [money from Captain D] of cooking in there, total of 65 recipes...when you go see Sanno he will tell you about it all.... 11-months [money from Captain D] of cooking in there, total of 65 recipes...when you go see Sanno he will tell you about it all....

I had to try and find a way to communicate with my father that didn't involve Diane. After she gave me the notes, I told her that I had questions that needed answering. Whom could I talk to? She told me to call Mike Ricci. I wore a wire on him when we met. Those meetings with Ricci proved extremely productive. They established that Dad was still active, and that Ricci and Twan Doyle were helping him.

I looked over the list of the men I was expected to collect from. I liked Donald DiFazio, known around the neighborhood as Captain D. He was a good guy. Then there was Ralph Peluso, whom I'd had run-ins with in the past. I disliked Peluso, though not enough to wish my father on him. And there was Michael Talarico, whom I regarded as family. Talarico was admired by almost everyone who bet with him. He ran "a great book" and had a reputation for fairness. He didn't threaten anybody, and took more than his share of flak. When Michael mentioned leaving the street business behind, he was beaten up by my dad and Ronnie Jarrett in front of a neighborhood bar down the street from his house.

As I received the notes from Dad I would turn them over to Mike Maseth. A meeting was set up with the Two Mikes on the top floor of a shopping center parking lot on Harlem Avenue and Irving Park Road to discuss following up on the three street tax contacts from which I was to collect.

We met at different locations on the West Side of town. It's difficult to be anonymous on the street, so we would meet in cars in shopping centers. Because I'd worked the streets so long, it was likely that I would run into people that knew me or my father. The Two Mikes didn't look like regular FBI agents; they looked and dressed like a lot of my friends. Maseth blended in by looking preppy. Had I met with, say, Mitch Mars, Bob Moon, or John Scully on the street, that would have been a different story. Those were high-profile guys. Scully on the street, that would have been a different story. Those were high-profile guys.

After the clandestine shopping center meetings, I agreed to meet with extortion victims Donald DiFazio and Ralph Peluso, plus Mike Ricci. If I wore a wire, I would remain focused on collecting information on my father. I had no interest in targeting other street crews; I wanted to a.s.sist victims of my dad, so I refused to wear a wire on Michael Talarico. He was a decent man, and what Talarico did on his own was his business.

I could have busted gangsters running their scams, but it wasn't my job; I wasn't a G-man or a cop. I focused on people who were close a.s.sociates and victims of my father. The FBI went along with my decision.

After I left the halfway house, I moved in with my mother. My dad called the house regularly. "Did you see the recipes or talk to the chef?" My mother caught wind of the calls and picked up the phone, only to be cut short by him. She knew that her ex was up to something. She handed the phone to me with a curt warning: "You best not be doing anything wrong with your father."

"I can guarantee you, Ma; I'm not getting into trouble again."

Technically I was telling my mother the truth. Yes, I was working with him, but no, I wasn't going to get into trouble. I couldn't risk letting my mother or Lisa in on what I'd been up to over the past months. Who knew how they'd react? Secrecy was important to ensure my safety. After letting him off easy with the divorce, Mom grew weary of Dad's promises of support that never materialized. Watching two of her sons do prison time was heartbreaking enough.

Being back out on the streets wasn't without temptation. When word got out that I was back collecting, offers came from a new generation of characters. There was a line waiting to replace gangsters like Angelo LaPietra, Johnny Apes, and Jimmy DiForti, who died between 1999 and 2001.

I had guys ask me to get into offsh.o.r.e gambling, sports betting, and poker machines. While creating the impression that I was still a gangster, I told them I wasn't interested, and politely thanked them.

Under the FBI's watchful eye, I met with Captain D to collect the extortion payments. The new agreement was to meet and collect every two months instead of monthly. One of those meetings occurred on the street in Chinatown. DiFazio was too nervous to get out of the vehicle and barely cracked his car window open. At the time, I didn't know why DiFazio was nervous about his payment arrangement. Originally, Connie's Pizza money had gone to Angelo LaPietra. After Angelo pleaded guilty and went to prison for skimming Vegas casinos, my father switched the terms and pocketed the proceeds for himself. But with Dad in prison and Jarrett and Angelo dead, Captain D was without "protection" and was being hounded by Anthony "the Hatchet" Chiaramonti. Connie's was opening another restaurant in the southwestern suburbs. The Hatchet was squeezing the pizzeria chain for additional street tax. DiFazio asked me to let my father know, so he could call off the Hatchet. I promised that I would explain the situation as soon as I saw him.

(In 2001 "Hatch" Chiaramonti parked his new BMW in front of Brown's Chicken and went in to use the pay phone. When he walked back to his car, a van pulled into his path, and a pa.s.senger exited and chased the Hatchet back toward the restaurant. As he entered the restaurant vestibule, Chiaramonti was shot five times: he took one bullet in the chest, one in the arm, and three fatal slugs to the head.) I ran into Captain D at Bella Luna. He handed me an extra payment that was due. I put the cash in my pocket. At the time I was struggling financially, making only three hundred dollars a week while having to pay rent to the halfway house and provide more money for Lisa and the kids.

I went home, put the money on the dresser, and just stared at it. Part of me wanted to keep it, knowing the FBI would never find out. The other part of me loved my new life. While it was difficult, it was a tremendous feeling, not having to look constantly over my shoulder. I stashed the money in a drawer. it was a tremendous feeling, not having to look constantly over my shoulder. I stashed the money in a drawer.

A couple of months later, I confessed to the Two Mikes.

I knew I had to tell them and that they'd have to file a report, though I hadn't spent a penny. If I kept the money, what would set me apart from my father? Turning the cash in wasn't about preserving the integrity of the case but about preserving my character. I needed needed to turn in that money. to turn in that money.

Once I handed over the money, Hartnett blew his stack. After the money was logged in and the paperwork was filed, I stayed clean, if almost broke, for the rest of the investigation.

With Ronnie Jarrett dead, the streets were changing in Chinatown. Not having Ronnie around eliminated a huge threat. Ronnie had been a primary concern for me because of his "killer" status. His death meant one less person to worry about. I visited Jarrett's widow, Rosemary, a friend, while wearing a wire. The purpose of my visit was to try and find out who might have killed Jarrett. At first the family was cautious, as was everyone that I approached. Even from prison, my father's menacing aura loomed over the streets of Chicago. Not long after Ronnie's death, the Jarrett family were approached by a.s.sociates of my father about cash and jewelry that Ronnie had been holding. They were reminded that they had a "responsibility" to give back the money and the jewelry.

I was appalled to see Ronnie's family shaken down by my father's a.s.sociates, especially after the death of his loyal lieutenant. A short time after Jarrett was gunned down, Rosemary contacted me, asking if we could meet at her mother-in-law's house on South Lowe in Chinatown. It was the same house where we had done our bookwork. Rosemary had sold the house and didn't want to talk on the phone, but she had some things she wanted me to take away. I set up a time to meet her with my pickup truck.

With Ronnie's murderers at large, red flags popped up. Was the meeting a setup, a ruse to get me alone? Was Rosemary being squeezed like me to do favors for the Outfit or my dad? It wouldn't be uncharacteristic for the Outfit to use a woman to set up a kill.

I contacted the Two Mikes, who wired me with a listening device and surrounded the area. I met Rosemary in the same garage that my father, my uncle, and Ronnie used to kill Paul Haggerty and John Mendell. Twan Doyle had already taken the cars out of the garage, but there were a couple of old guns and some boxes of paperwork left behind. I contacted the Two Mikes, who wired me with a listening device and surrounded the area. I met Rosemary in the same garage that my father, my uncle, and Ronnie used to kill Paul Haggerty and John Mendell. Twan Doyle had already taken the cars out of the garage, but there were a couple of old guns and some boxes of paperwork left behind.

I threw the stuff in the back of my truck and drove downtown, followed by the FBI. The paperwork was later tied to the crew's bookmaking a.s.sociates, who included Philly Tolomeo.

While working with the FBI in 1999, wearing a wire, and collecting for my father, I thought it might be safer if I left my job at Bella Luna. While I wanted to stay in Chicago and complete my work with the Two Mikes, I decided to take up a new career as a truck driver.

I needed a backup career. I was a good driver, so I thought I'd give it a try. I ran into Jimmy Marcello's nephew, Sammy Galioto, over at Kurt's house. When he heard I wanted to drive an eighteen-wheeler, he got on the phone with-of all people-d.i.c.kie DeAngelo, the same guy who killed my father's first business partner, Larry Stubitsch, back in the early sixties. He now owned a trucking company. d.i.c.kie's advice was to get my learner's permit and come see him.

I pored over the books and manuals and pa.s.sed each of my driving tests, quickly earning the necessary licenses. DeAngelo had trepidations about hiring me until he was a.s.sured that I had no interest in avenging the death of Stubitsch. DeAngelo put me on the street the very next day hauling twenty-seven- and fifty-three-foot trailers for a project at the old McCormick Place.

In between trucking a.s.signments, I worked with the Two Mikes compiling the Milan prison yard tapes for court. I'd work four twelve-hour days for d.i.c.kie, and then I'd sit down with the Two Mikes for twelve hours on a Friday working on the tapes. If I had any more time off, I'd do more work on the tapes.

Because of their legal significance, a precise transcription was necessary. Since I couldn't be seen anywhere near the FBI OC1 squad room in the Dirksen Federal Building, many hours were spent cooped up in suburban FBI branch offices twenty-five miles out of Chicago. Getting the conversations word for word on paper, I explained what my father was referring to in his mysterious narration. For weeks, I alternated between tape transcribing and truck driving. Soon, the FBI and the a.s.sistant U.S. Attorneys acc.u.mulated a wealth of information about the 26th Street Chinatown crew and how it operated. OC1 squad room in the Dirksen Federal Building, many hours were spent cooped up in suburban FBI branch offices twenty-five miles out of Chicago. Getting the conversations word for word on paper, I explained what my father was referring to in his mysterious narration. For weeks, I alternated between tape transcribing and truck driving. Soon, the FBI and the a.s.sistant U.S. Attorneys acc.u.mulated a wealth of information about the 26th Street Chinatown crew and how it operated.

One day I got a call on the highway. It was Mike, and he was driving the Crown Victoria right behind me.

"Frankie! I thought thought that was you. You're doing a h.e.l.l of a job driving that rig." Mike a.s.sured me that I wasn't under surveillance. that was you. You're doing a h.e.l.l of a job driving that rig." Mike a.s.sured me that I wasn't under surveillance.

"That's okay," I said. "You can follow me whenever you want. That's the joy of not doing anything wrong."

While I was working with the Feds transcribing tapes, Maseth and Hartnett had their sights set on Uncle Nick, who was serving his time for racketeering in FCI Pekin, Illinois. Armed with evidence from my prison yard tapes and the visiting room videos Maseth filmed with my father, Doyle, and Ricci, the Two Mikes were ready to use the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves to smoke out my uncle.

In mid-1999, Hartnett and Bourgeois had already journeyed to Pekin to serve a search warrant on Uncle Nick, to conduct a DNA swab, and to X-ray and photograph his left arm. They were trying to match his DNA with the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves, and the X-ray could reveal any bullet fragments that might be embedded in my uncle's left forearm.

Hartnett and Bourgeois waited in the examination room as the door opened. In walked a very jumpy Nicholas Calabrese. He submitted to the X-ray of his left arm. After the medical examiner took the exposures and went off to develop the film, Hartnett collected Uncle Nick's DNA by swabbing the inside of his mouth.

Hartnett had never administered a DNA test before, and while one or two swabs would have sufficed, he was anxious not to screw up and placed eight eight finished swabs inside the evidence container. finished swabs inside the evidence container.

A few minutes later, the X-ray technician returned and slapped up the finished exposures onto an X-ray reader on the wall. The film revealed bullet fragments in Uncle Nicky's forearm.

"We need to talk," Hartnett said solemnly. "We've got you on the Fecarotta murder. You can choose to help yourself."

Nick bowed his head in anguish. Without admitting guilt, he asked the FBI to supply him with a list of lawyers he could trust and to arrange a visit with his wife and children under the pretext of "medical considerations."

Two weeks later, Nick received an unannounced follow-up visit from Hartnett and Police Detective Bob Moon. They informed my uncle that while they were awaiting DNA tests on the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves, they were confident the results would link him to the 1986 murder of Big Stoop. The FBI's mission was to convince my uncle to cooperate and testify against his brother, to verify the information they had gathered with me from the Milan yard and the visiting room.

Hartnett and Moon met with a chilly reception. "Forget it," Nick told Hartnett. "I'm not interested. I got nothing to say to you."

Despite the discovery of the bullet fragments and a positive DNA test, he was still a loyal Outfit soldier who couldn't possibly rat out his mob family, no matter how much contempt he had for his older brother. rat out his mob family, no matter how much contempt he had for his older brother.

The trip proved to be a setback. Hitting Uncle Nick with a brash ultimatum may not have been the most effective strategy. Moon's presence had rubbed him the wrong way, as they had known each other from a previous arrest. Outfit mobsters had a history of not rolling over at the first sign of legal problems, and my uncle was no exception.

Nick was living under a dark cloud. He had been estranged from my father for four years, since 1995. The two hadn't spoken. My uncle had cut his ties by hiring a different law firm than the rest of us. He began to feel isolated and underappreciated. My dad was toying with putting the word out to Jimmy Marcello in Pekin through Mike Ricci, Mickey Marcello, and Ronnie Jarrett to keep an eye on my uncle. Mickey and Ronnie were alerted that Nick had a potential problem with a murder beef. Uncle Nick's allegiance came with a price. Back in 1997 Jimmy had already arranged for the Outfit to pay Nick's family four thousand dollars cash every month to keep him quiet.

Law enforcement authorities suspected that Nick's life was in danger at Pekin, being close to Marcello and Harry Aleman. At one time, Harry and my uncle were cellmates, but once Nick was linked to the Fecarotta hit, the Feds issued a separation order and transferred Aleman out of Pekin.

When the FBI showed up a third time, it was to obtain a handwriting sample to connect my uncle to the Cagnoni bombing. Marcello was in a nearby room visiting with Mickey when he spotted the agents meeting with Nick. Nick did the writing sample without uttering a word to the agents. Then he abruptly left the room.

Another potential breach of security occurred when the Feds suspected there was a plan to murder my uncle inside FCI Pekin.

The warden called Hartnett and told him about a letter that had been hand-dropped in the prison's SIS office. It said that Nick was under investigation for a Chicago murder and that the Outfit was concerned he was going to flip, which would hurt Jimmy and Mickey Marcello. The note was completely specific and on point-a pretty serious threat. and Mickey Marcello. The note was completely specific and on point-a pretty serious threat.

A young inmate from Cicero jailed on drug charges and eager to gain status with the Outfit boasted to a cellmate that he knew about a gun that was smuggled inside to kill my uncle. After the young inmate's cellie slipped a note to a guard, correctional officers moved Nick into protective custody, while Jimmy Marcello was ushered into lockdown. Questioning his safety, my uncle realized he should seriously consider cooperating.

Another potential problem arose when Mike Maseth received a call from a captain at FCI Milan: an "interesting piece of paperwork" had crossed his desk. "Why is Nick Calabrese being transferred to Milan?"

Mike was stunned. Nick was en route to Milan and would be in the same prison with my father. After a few desperate phone calls, he was taken off the transport flight and detoured to the federal prison in Ashland, Kentucky.

As Nick settled in at FCI Ashland in northeastern Kentucky, on January 15, 2002, the FBI arranged another visit through his counsel. After a great deal of back-and-forth communication, my uncle surmised that he was out of options and that his situation with my father and Marcello was only going to get worse. He made the fateful decision to turn against his brother, although how cooperative he would be-and exactly how much he knew-was yet to be determined by the Feds.

"Until he actually starts talking," Maseth told his fellow agents on the squad, "we don't know if he has anything or not."

It was dangerous for the FBI to debrief potential inmate witnesses inside their own prison walls, so a predawn rendezvous was arranged at a nearby Bureau office. Waist-chained and cuffed on the pretext of being sent out for medical treatment, my uncle was escorted from FCI Ashland under cover of darkness.

Maseth, Hartnett, Bourgeois, and a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney Mitch Mars drove their anonymous rental car into Ashland, a small Kentucky town nestled on the banks of the Ohio River.

There was eeriness in the air. In the predawn darkness, the first sight that caught Maseth's attention was Ashland's towering oil refineries. It was a scene straight out of the movie There was eeriness in the air. In the predawn darkness, the first sight that caught Maseth's attention was Ashland's towering oil refineries. It was a scene straight out of the movie Robocop Robocop as tall orange flames shot out of ominous industrial smokestacks that peppered the mudflats of the turnpike. as tall orange flames shot out of ominous industrial smokestacks that peppered the mudflats of the turnpike.

The rental carrying the lawmen zoomed down the pitch-black highway. They were driving so fast that a Kentucky cop came out of a roadside doughnut shack, chased them, and pulled them over. As the policeman approached the driver's side, Hartnett reached over from the front pa.s.senger seat and slapped his FBI ID up against the window. Because the Two Mikes were in plainclothes and they'd been traveling seventy-five in a twenty-five-miles-per-hour zone-and carrying guns-there was a real chance of a blue-on-blue shoot-out.

Standing by the driver's-side window, the cop yelled, "Do you know what the speed limit is?"

Hartnett and the police officer exchanged cold stares. Then the cop blinked. Looking down at Hartnett's creds, he answered his own question.

"Well I guess you do. Listen, you guys be careful out there."

As the officer waddled back to his cruiser, the agents spun gravel and sped back onto the highway toward the tiny courthouse office a few miles away.

Once Nick arrived, he was shuffled in, accompanied by the heavy jangle of chains and shackles. He was escorted into one of the smaller rooms. In a separate office, Nick's lawyer, John Theis, met with a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney Mars and Agent Bourgeois and hammered out last-minute details of their agreement. The Two Mikes joined Nick in the cramped room. There was an awkward silence. Suddenly, my uncle sprang out of his chair and bellowed, "That's it! I can't do this. I just can't do it!"

Hartnett abruptly stood up and yelled, "Sit down!"

From that point on, Uncle Nick wouldn't respond well to Hartnett and his by-the-book style. But with Maseth, it was a different story. After a few minutes of quiet, Mike calmly asked him, "Is there anything you need, Nick? Can I get you something?"

"It's just my back. It's killing me. I've always had problems with my back."

Mike explained to Nick that as a young boy, he had undergone fusion surgery on his his back. The two exchanged tales of chronic pain and lumbar stiffness. It was clear that if Uncle Nick was going to make a deal with the Feds, he would be most comfortable working with Maseth. Nick later told Mike that Hartnett's outburst reminded him of his brother, Frank, who would scream at, slap, and humiliate him in public. back. The two exchanged tales of chronic pain and lumbar stiffness. It was clear that if Uncle Nick was going to make a deal with the Feds, he would be most comfortable working with Maseth. Nick later told Mike that Hartnett's outburst reminded him of his brother, Frank, who would scream at, slap, and humiliate him in public.

Mars, Bourgeois, and Nick's attorney emerged from their conference. It was agreed that if Uncle Nick told the FBI the truth and it resulted in substantive convictions, the Feds would go to the judge and explain that he had been helpful and would subsequently put in a good word for him regarding his sentencing.

Starting that January 15, to Mike's amazement, my uncle provided the FBI with names, precise dates, and lurid details about a variety of unsolved gangland slayings, beginning with the Fecarotta murder. There was the killing of Emil Vaci in Arizona. The Ortiz-Morawski Half and Half Murder in Cicero. The Tony and Michael Spilotro executions in DuPage County. Nick supplied information that pumped new life into another long-dormant case: the 1974 cold-blooded hit on businessman Daniel Seifert. The Seifert murder involved Tony Spilotro, John Fecarotta, Jimmy LaPietra, Chinatown Outfit a.s.sa.s.sin Frankie "the German" Schweihs, and another slippery, colorful Grand Avenue mob boss, Joey "the Clown" Lombardo.

The FBI was caught off guard. The Bureau had been completely unaware that this una.s.suming, b.u.mbling lackey had been privy to dozens and personally involved in fourteen hits. It was clear to the Two Mikes and prosecutor Mitch Mars that their latest star witness would serve up a bounty of substantiating information that implicated high-ranking Outfit kingpins-like Lombardo and Calabrese senior-plus a host of top earners and soldiers, and a couple of dirty cops.

After their first twelve-hour debriefing session, Maseth and Hartnett were exhausted. They were astonished that Nick's memory was so precise. His inside knowledge of the Outfit and Calabrese crew murders was vast. And my uncle was a made guy. The so-called mob experts had categorized Nick as merely a gofer and a driver for my father. The Two Mikes' fledgling Operation Family Secrets investigation had taken a major turn, first with me opening the door, and now with my uncle Nick kicking down the walls. memory was so precise. His inside knowledge of the Outfit and Calabrese crew murders was vast. And my uncle was a made guy. The so-called mob experts had categorized Nick as merely a gofer and a driver for my father. The Two Mikes' fledgling Operation Family Secrets investigation had taken a major turn, first with me opening the door, and now with my uncle Nick kicking down the walls.

Operation Family Secrets was about to rise to a much higher level and into the realm of a major organized crime inquiry. For the unprecedented information that my uncle gave up, the Two Mikes had to chase down and substantiate every detail. It was time to put together a crack investigative team that would, for the first time since Elliot Ness, put the entire Chicago Outfit on notice.

After Maseth and Hartnett flipped Uncle Nick in the tiny courthouse office in Ashland, Kentucky, the Two Mikes were overwhelmed with what lay ahead. Both agents were blindsided by my uncle's dramatic admissions. Before going to prison in 1995, Nick had only one prior: a weapons charge that was dropped.

They didn't know that the Calabrese crew was also Angelo LaPietra's murder squad, and they didn't know that my father's crew had a higher purpose inside the Outfit. They understood we were a prominent street crew and we had a good juice loan business and would resort to violence. But the FBI didn't know our crew were that my father's crew had a higher purpose inside the Outfit. They understood we were a prominent street crew and we had a good juice loan business and would resort to violence. But the FBI didn't know our crew were the the go-to guys when Angelo LaPietra wanted someone murdered. When Angelo was tasked by the bosses to hit someone, these were his guys. go-to guys when Angelo LaPietra wanted someone murdered. When Angelo was tasked by the bosses to hit someone, these were his guys.

Keeping off the FBI's radar was an indication of how careful, low-key, intelligent, and at the same time treacherous my father was at conducting business. Until Pandora's box was opened, n.o.body figured my soft-spoken uncle was a serial hit man like my father. Nick's information reinforced and corroborated my father's prison yard admissions on the Ortiz-Morawski, Dauber, and Albergo hits. Nick also linked him to the Michael Cagnoni bombing by recounting an incident when he had injured his hand by testing explosive devices.

With devastating testimony from my uncle and me, Operation Family Secrets opened the door for the FBI to prove that the Outfit functioned as a criminal enterprise whose reach extended well into interstate commerce. If the Bureau and the DOJ could indict Outfit bosses, made guys, and soldiers for a series of murders, gambling, juice loans, street tax, obstruction of justice, and crimes linked to interstate commerce, the results would be devastating for organized crime.

To be found guilty of racketeering under the RICO Act, as established in the U.S. Code, t.i.tle 18, Chapter 96, a person must have committed two of thirty-five listed crimes within a ten-year period. Twenty-seven of the cases related to the Outfit were federal, with the other eight being state crimes. In the past hundred years of the Outfit's existence, this would be the first time it could be indicted for violating RICO statutes. And the first time a made member was held accountable.