The Mafia Hit Man's Daughter by Linda Scarpa

He was so happy and there was so much love in his eyes. I still cry when I watch that video.
    It was a really great party, too—held at La Mer in Brooklyn—except for the fact that not many of my friends showed up. They were scared away by my father’s reputation. I had given invitations to a lot of the kids in school—guys and girls—and they all said they were coming. But although all the boys came, only a few girls attended. My friends Justine and Melissa were there.
    But there was a whole table that was empty that was supposed to be for the other girls. I felt terrible that they didn’t come, like any kid would feel if people didn’t show up to her party. My parents asked me where they all were. All I could say was that they probably weren’t coming. I was embarrassed. My father told me not to worry about it and just to have fun. He said the people who came were my real friends, but I still felt bad.
    None of those girls ever told me why they didn’t come. I just stopped talking to them after that because it was apparent that they weren’t really my friends. Although I was a loner in a lot of ways, I was still always trying to fit in.
    But there were a lot of made men and family there to help me celebrate. My Sweet Sixteen was beautiful. I had a Madonna look-alike there, a Michael Jackson look-alike and break-dancers. They did shows. I had these big, really cute dolls with balloons on them propped on the tables. Guests could take those dolls home. It was a very extravagant party.
    Growing up, I was spoiled somewhat. My father didn’t always give us everything we wanted, but we did have a lot. We definitely had more things than other kids had. We had the nicest cars and the nicest clothes.
    I got my first fur coat when I was six. It was a rabbit coat, but I felt funny wearing it because none of my friends had anything like that. I told my mother that I didn’t really like it. Of course, she said it was beautiful.
    â€œBut it’s a rabbit. Did they really kill a rabbit?” I asked.
    I was a kid and I was really confused about the rabbit thing; nobody else had anything like it. I was six, wearing a fur coat and diamond stud earrings.
    I loved my father so much. I used to love looking at him, just his presence in the room, and listening to his voice. He had a deep voice. Singer Barry White was big in those days and my dad’s voice sounded just like his. Sometimes when Barry White’s songs would come on the radio, my father would start singing and tell us that was him on the radio.
    He sounded so much like Barry White that when he used to imitate him in front of us, my brother and I would look at each other and then ask, “Is that really you?” We didn’t know for sure, especially when he sang “You’re the First, the Last, My Everything.” He would do his voice exactly.
    One day I was watching him as he sat at the kitchen table, talking to my mother, my aunt and a couple of his friends. I thought, God, what would I do without my father?
    I always wanted to be around him, to be with him. If I was sitting next to him, I’d be almost on top of him. Our feet would even be together. He’d beg me to give him some room, but he loved having me with him.
    â€œLook at our feet. We got the same feet. You got the same feet as me,” he’d tell me.
    That’s how close we were. That’s the kind of relationship that we had. My mother used to ask why I never sat next to her. It’s not that I didn’t love my mother, but I was completely a daddy’s girl. Joey, though, was totally a mama’s boy.
    My father had this very, very soft side, especially when it came to me. I was his baby girl. He was so affectionate and loving. I was his little girl, and that was it. As I got older, I sometimes took advantage of that.
    When we moved to Eighty-Second Street, I was still in high school, and I really didn’t have any