The Vulture's Game Read Free

emotions, there was never a doubt that beneath the relaxed facade resided the brutal rage of a man who took a back step to no one.
    I was always aware of his power. He never spoke of it, never made a show of it. He didn’t have to. His was a power so present it was nearly tangible. Initially, I admit, I was frightened to be in his company, never sure what to say in response to a question, not certain how to react to one of the many stories he shared with me and Jimmy, often late in the evening, a bottle of expensive wine on the table, each of us with a glass. Over time, however, I began to grasp the complexity of the man. In the process, I also found out something about myself I had long suspected but could never quite get a handle on.
    I loved the feeling of power that emanated from him, and the fear and control that came with it. I was too young to understand the destructive force such power possessed, to know when to let it go, when to put it to use. Even so, I was addicted to its appeal.
    And let’s be honest here. What young man my age wouldn’t be? Prior to Uncle Carlo’s entry into my life, I had only read about powerful men in books, and few of those titans bore any resemblance to him. The men in those books built their power on greed and avarice and on the sweat and stains of others. They never got their hands dirty, never ventured out into the darkness unsure of their return, never fought against the odds and somehow managed to come out on top. They left the blood work to others.
    To men like my Uncle Carlo.
    He was a physically imposing man, strong upper body honed by his boxer’s workout, pounding at a heavy bag he kept in his basement every day. His dark hair, touches of gray at the edges, was combed straight back, and he was always stylishly dressed, though never in a flashy way. He was ruggedly handsome, Russell Crowe without the accent and minus a few inches in height. He had a flash temper but also a great sense of humor, as quick with a joke as he was with an order to kill.
    Looking back now, it should have been clear to me that I was being prepped and groomed to replace my uncle when his time as the head of New York’s branch of the Camorra came to an end. I was given books to read that detailed the history of the organization from the thirteenth century, when its objective was to help the poor survive the onslaught of taxes placed on them, up to the current day, when Carlo’s group ranked in the top echelon of powerful crime syndicates. Combine the reading with frequent trips to Italy and long walks and talks with Uncle Carlo on the beachfront adjoining his property, and my education in the ways and means of organized crime was well under way. I had been given access to a secret world lived out in plain sight, a sinister place held together by rules and bylaws in existence for centuries, a dangerous corner where betrayal marched hand in glove with loyalty. As the years passed, there remained only two questions I needed to answer, and Uncle Carlo clamored to know:
Did I want a place at the table?
And,
Would I survive if I took one?
    And that’s where Frank Scanlon enters the picture.
    Among his many vast legal holdings, nothing earned my uncle more than his investments in Manhattan real estate. Through the unions, he was able to dictate the budgets of most of the new construction going up throughout the borough and then skim both from the top and from the cost overruns to ensure a profit. He took a fifteen percent commission on all supplies, from wood to windows to nails. He took advantage of owners late on mortgage payments, first coming in as a benevolent partner and then, over time, taking full control of the property, either buying out or taking out the now ruined landlord. He took over tenements simply to secure their air rights, which he then sold to the highest bidder for millions, walking away from each deal with a padded wallet and a wide smile. “Never let anyone tell you this isn’t a