John Rosselli (right) checks over a writ of ha...

Growing up the daughter of a gangster meant that I would remain a  little girl forever. My father died when I was 29, but emotionally I was still a teenager.

Had I had known that I was seated next to one of the most powerful and influential men in the  Mafia, Johnny Roselli,   then I would have listened with sharpened ears, and repeated bits of explosive headline blood curdling stories to my girlfriends. That would have placed myself, my father, Johnny and my friends in jeopardy. An informant from the government may tag me on the way home from school, or tag one of my friends,  or an enemy of the Boss, may pick me up from school and not bring me back.  Everyone is suspect: an informant, or weak enough to become an informant, a loose lipped wise guy, a bragging connected businessman, a friend of a friend, a cousin of a brother, and a daughter of a gangster. We are all potential targets of this organization known as the Mafia, Mob, syndicate, Costa Nostra, or our thing.  Growing up in this circle of gamblers, killers, fixers, enforcers,  bookies was like growing up in a novel, it was a fictional tale all the way, until the end of my father’s life.    There is a drop down board that appears every time I write about our family business that reads,

“ How dare you open my life to the world, what do you know? You know nothing little sweetheart, and that’s the way I planned it. “

“There’s no such thing as the Mafia! If you ever mention that word again, you’re leaving this house!”   I melted down to the floor, and he was ominous as God standing over me. I would never mention the word again, I promised, and I would never believe in the Mafia.    

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