The First Family: Terror, Extortion, Revenge, Murder and the Birth of the American Mafia by Mike Dash

door. When Ortoleva opened up, Vella launched into a sozzled tirade. The mayor’s son, he slurred, was out to deprive him of an honest living. He was a tool of Paolino Streva and probably a member of the Mafia himself.
    Thoroughly alarmed by this performance, Ortoleva told his visitor to leave and, when he would not, pulled a gun from a drawer and brandished it in Vella’s face. The Field Guard was not so intoxicated that he could not hear the anger in his rival’s voice. He reeled off into the darkness, unaware that his drunken visit had had the effect that he desired. Upset and just a little frightened, Ortoleva withdrew from the election next day.
    It was the worst news imaginable for the Fratuzzi, and Streva panicked. The vote was only a few days away, and there was no time to field another candidate. Vella, reelected, would soon complete his investigation of the cattle-rustling ring. He had to go, and quickly.
    The job of killing the Field Guard was passed by Streva to his deputy, Morello. Morello knew enough of Vella’s routine to feel confident that shooting him ought not to be a problem. Vella patronized the Stella d’Italia café in Corleone and could be found drinking wine there most evenings. Apparently secure in the belief that no one in town dared to touch him, Vella came and went alone. He was also in the habit of taking shortcuts through the backstreets when returning to his wife. Surveying the route, Morello concluded that his target would best be ambushed in an alleyway a few yards from his home.
    The Clutch Hand brought in another member of the Fratuzzi to help him—his associate’s name was never discovered—and chose a dark night an evening or two later. The two assassins waited at a spot that they knew, presumably from observation, Vella would have to pass on his way home. There was enough light by which to see their intended victim but plenty of shadows in which to hide.
    Vella spent that evening drinking at the Stella d’Italia with an old friend—the captain of the Corleone police—and several other public officials. By closing time, as usual, his head was swimming. Passersby watched as the captain rested against a lamppost for a moment and waved away a neighbor who offered to help him to his home. He stumbled through several deserted passageways unmolested and had almost reached his door when he all but walked into the two men waiting for him in the darkness. Stepping aside to let Vella to pass, Morello and his companion drew their guns. Both men were armed with large-caliber revolvers.
    It is uncertain whether this was Morello’s first murder, but the killing was so poorly handled that it seems likely it was. Taking aim at a range of only a few yards, the Clutch Hand opened fire; several shots rang out, but only one bullet hit Vella, piercing a lung. The Field Guard pitched forward and fell facedown on the cobblestones, his breath coming in wet gasps. Morello did not wait to administer the coup de grâce. The sound of two men running echoed down the alleyway and faded into the night.
    The next thing that the neighbors heard was a woman screaming. Vella’s wife peered out of a window to see her husband sprawled in the alleyway. Hurrying out, she threw her arms around him, cradling his head in her lap as she called for help. Shutters banged up and down the passage as other householders leaned out to find the cause of the disturbance. Someone ran for the police. By the time help arrived, the wounded man had been carried into his apartment, where his neighbors laid him gently on the bed.
    Vella was conscious but dying, blood seeping through his shirt to stain the sheets. It was clear to everyone in the room that he did not have long. His friend the carabinieri captain was the next man to appear; realizing that there was no time to waste, the policeman began asking what had happened. He could get little sense out of Vella. The captain appeared to be delirious and was plainly sinking