Son of the Mob Read Free Page B

business, stopping to smell the roses, blah, blah, blah. Uncle Sal recently died (actually, I think he had help) and it reminded Dad that life is short.
    So my father took up woodworking to relax him. He threw himself into his new hobby with the intense determination that characterizes everything else he does. And he has to be maybe the lousiest carpenter on the planet.
    But he doesn’t know that. He’s Anthony Luca. Who’s going to tell him? I’ve seen some of the toughest wiseguys in the tristate area oohing and aahing over a napkin holder that would languish on the shelf of the 99-cent shop.
    â€œSo,” he begins, “you’re not interested in the vending-machine business.”
    I start to argue, but decide, What’s the point? We both know what we’re talking about. “Yeah, vending machines,” I say. “It’s a little tough for my tastes.”
    Dad breathes a heavy sigh. He knows I don’t approve of his line of work, but I think he always hoped I’d grow out of it. As if obeying the law is a silly phase some crazy kids experiment with, like smoking cigars or racing motorcycles. “A man has the right to choose his own destiny,” he acknowledges. “So now we know what you don’t want. Tell me what you do want.”
    My mind goes blank. He smiles, as if he’s expecting that. “When I was your age, Vince, we had nothing. So I was the most motivated guy in the world to get out there and do better than my old man. With you it’s different. You’ve got a great deal here—nice house, room service, new car….” I drove a Porsche back then (sixteenth-birthday present) until the cops came and took it away to give back to the guy who really owned it.
    â€œI’ve got ambition,” I interrupt. “I just haven’t figured out what I’m ambitious about yet.”
    â€œThe law’s a nice career for a kid with the gift of gab,” he suggests. “You can never have too many lawyers.”
    â€œYou’ve got Mel,” I remind him. Mira’s husband. He just started working for Dad.
    My father shrugs. “Mel’s my son-in-law. You’re blood.”
    â€œYou don’t get it,” I insist. “I don’t want to be involved, period. I don’t want ‘vending machines’ touching my life in any way.”
    He looks amused. “Too late. You think we’d live the way we do if I was in any other business? You’re already in it, Vince. Right down to the clothes you wear, the food you eat, your allowance…” He pauses. “What you say makes sense. If you’re not motivated by what I do, then fine. But you’re seventeen years old now. It’s time to get motivated about something. ”
    That’s classic Dad—reasonable, sensible, supportive. People who meet him outside of business find it hard to believe that this classy, soft-spoken gentleman is who he is. It only becomes clear when you see how the uncles tiptoe around him, the fear in people’s faces when they hear his name, the scrambling that goes on when he asks for something. It’s only at those times that I realize the great guy I call Dad is a man who runs a criminal organization that operates by means of violence and intimidation. And I really, truly, honestly want nothing to do with it.
    The funny thing is that, for a Mob boss, my dad is considered the most ethical and trustworthy man alive. He really is Honest Abe Luca—although I don’t know if our sixteenth president would have appreciated the comparison.
    Tommy says the word on the street is if you deal with Anthony Luca, you’ll never get ripped off. Conversely, if you rip off Anthony Luca, you’ll never deal again anywhere. Not in this life.
    The word on the street is very important in that business, especially for a guy like my dad, who isn’t famous at all outside his own circle. He keeps a pretty low