Chapter 8
Giuseppi Marano, ruling patriarch of the Marano crime family, sat in the parlor of his 10,000 square foot house in the southwest end of Little Italy. With him were Frankie Marano, his son, and Carmine Lippenzo, the new underboss of the Marano family. The atmosphere was tense, and Giuseppi was worried.
“Who the fuck did this?” Giuseppi asked both Carmine and Frankie in his gravelly voice.
“I don’t know, Papa”, Frankie said.
“My guess? Maybe the Marretti’s”, Carmine offered. “You know there’s been unrest with some of them ever since we folded their family into ours.”
“No, it’s not them. Antonio Marretti gave me his word”, Giuseppi said.
“Maybe the Disciples, Papa?” Frankie asked.
“No”, Giuseppi said again. “It’s not them. They would have waited in vans on the street, twenty of ‘em, and then jumped out and sprayed the whole fuckin’ building with bullets. This was a solo shooter. Acting alone.”
“Well, Papa, I thought mayb-“ Frankie started, but Giuseppi cut him off.
“I said it’s not them. But, we do need to talk to them.”
“What for?” Carmine asked.
“Because they got hit, too. Last night. Same style – a solo gunman, acting alone. Took out three of their high-ranking guys with three shots.” Guiseppi looked at Carmine. “I wanna know if they know anything.” Then he stared hard at both Carmine and his son. “Someone’s after us. All of us. And if we don’t figure this thing out soon, we’ll all be fuckin’ dead. Capiche?”
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Kody Mitchell walked into the room and slammed the door shut. Mitchell, who resembled an NFL linebacker, was the reigning king of the Chicago Disciples. He had consolidated most of Chicago’s street gangs under his umbrella, and he was, in his words, the “hawdest muthafukka around in this town”. At thirty-three years old, he was a living legend and a senior citizen in the Chicago gang world, having survived more than a quarter century of fist fights, knifings and drive-by shootings. Now, he had called a meeting to discuss the slayings of Ramon Cruz, Jason Chang, and DeShawn Williams that had taken place last night at Mother’s. He and his remaining top lieutenants – Dominik Lancaster, Felipe Sosa and Terrell Jackson – were sitting in a private room in Club 361, a regular Disciple hangout on the south side of Chicago. The atmosphere was tense, and Mitchell was nervous.
“So, what the fuck happened last night? Kody asked in his menacing baritone voice.
“I don’t know, man”, Dominik said.
“My guess? Maybe the Vice Lords”, Felipe offered. “You know they’re the one gang we haven’t been able to fold into our ranks.”
“No, it’s not them”, Kody said. “They’re too far up north. No way they would have come all the way down to Rush and Division to start shit.”
“Maybe the Maranos?” Terrell asked.
“Maybe”, Kody, “but I don’t think so. Costello and Pazzarelli got hit the same way last week. Same M.O. – lone gunman, one kill shot per guy. I don't think this is them.”
The room was silent for a minute, then Dominik asked, “So, what do we do?”
Kody thought for a minute, then said, “We need to talk to the Maranos.”
“Why the fuck do we want to talk to them?” Terrell asked.
“Because they got hit, too”, Kody said. “I wanna know if they know anything.” He stared hard at his lieutenants. “Some motherfucker is after us. All of us. And if we don’t figure this thing out soon, we’ll all be fuckin’ wasted.” He looked at Felipe and said, “Set up a meeting.”