Calderone later recalled. “He came to my office for half an hour, enough time for us to have a cup of coffee together and for him to ask me if I knew any men of honor in Calabria. Violi was a native of Sinopoli, a small town in the province of Reggio Calabria, and he explained to me that he was the boss of a decina [in Canada].” ( Decina , Italian for “ten,” was a name for Mafia cells that were often divided into groups of 10 men. It is now more often used to denote any sub-group of mobsters within a family.)
Violi said his New York boss “didn’t want to hear anything, he just wanted dollars from his decina ,” Calderone said. “Violi could do as he pleased … but at the end of the year, Violi had to bring him cash,” he added. “Paolo Violi didn’t make a great impression on me. He was a braggart, a big, fat man who didn’t seem to have much upstairs. In any case, he was going to Calabria because he thought there were ‘men of honor’ there. Things are different, in fact, in America. American ‘men of honor’ aren’t just Sicilians, but even Calabrians and Neapolitans. It doesn’t matter,” the old don said. “The Calabrians would talk, talk, talk. They talked all the time. Not to others, of course, but among themselves. They would have endless arguments about their rules, especially in the presence of us [Sicilian] Men of Honor. They felt uneasy because they knew that in reality they were inferior to the Cosa Nostra [the Sicilian Mafia].
“We’ve always considered the Calabrians inferior, garbage. Not to mention the Neapolitans, who we’ve never trusted much.” These were harsh words that spoke volumes about the contempt some Sicilian mafiosi felt for their Calabrian counterparts. It was certainly a view held by many in the Sixth Family, even while they built alliances and close ties with those Calabrians powerful enough to aid their cause or dangerous enough to threaten it. Calderone’s thoughts on Violi would have mirrored—and perhaps even been tainted by—those held by friends of the Rizzutos. News could travel quickly through underground whispers and Calderone was not the only Sicilian Man of Honor Violi had met on his trip. In Agrigento, the heartland of the Rizzutos’ Sicilian base, Violi met with Giuseppe Settecasi, a meeting he requested as a way to personally and directly make complaints about Nick Rizzuto. Violi was aware of the sway the old don had with the Sixth Family.
Settecasi was an imposing presence; taking a complaint to him might have given most people pause, but Violi seemed excited at the prospect, apparently reveling in the idea that it was a meeting of minds, a gathering of two great mafiosi. It is doubtful that Settecasi shared his enthusiasm.
Settecasi avoided colorful or embarrassing nicknames during his life in crime. As a sign of his success at balancing extensive underworld activity with his public persona, he was invariably called “Mr. Settecasi” in and around Agrigento. He was a gentle-looking figure, but looks can deceive. In his younger years, Settecasi was the epitome of the peasant mafioso: quiet in demeanor, thoughtful in action. His violence was legendary, although police had little success proving any of it. His name was whispered in talk of murders, extortion, political corruption, mysterious disappearances and cattle rustling. In several decades as a member of the Sicilian Mafia, Settecasi reached the rank of capo - provincia , or boss of the province. For those living in the original hometowns of the Sixth Family, there were few higher authorities.
Settecasi’s business increasingly involved heroin. He appeared at meetings in Montreal, weddings in Toronto, conclaves in New York, underworld conferences in Palermo. Almost without exception, his contacts were fellow Sicilians of the expatriate Mafia—like the Rizzutos—who were stitching together a drug network across the Americas and across the Atlantic, regardless of conflict arising
Violi said his New York boss “didn’t want to hear anything, he just wanted dollars from his decina ,” Calderone said. “Violi could do as he pleased … but at the end of the year, Violi had to bring him cash,” he added. “Paolo Violi didn’t make a great impression on me. He was a braggart, a big, fat man who didn’t seem to have much upstairs. In any case, he was going to Calabria because he thought there were ‘men of honor’ there. Things are different, in fact, in America. American ‘men of honor’ aren’t just Sicilians, but even Calabrians and Neapolitans. It doesn’t matter,” the old don said. “The Calabrians would talk, talk, talk. They talked all the time. Not to others, of course, but among themselves. They would have endless arguments about their rules, especially in the presence of us [Sicilian] Men of Honor. They felt uneasy because they knew that in reality they were inferior to the Cosa Nostra [the Sicilian Mafia].
“We’ve always considered the Calabrians inferior, garbage. Not to mention the Neapolitans, who we’ve never trusted much.” These were harsh words that spoke volumes about the contempt some Sicilian mafiosi felt for their Calabrian counterparts. It was certainly a view held by many in the Sixth Family, even while they built alliances and close ties with those Calabrians powerful enough to aid their cause or dangerous enough to threaten it. Calderone’s thoughts on Violi would have mirrored—and perhaps even been tainted by—those held by friends of the Rizzutos. News could travel quickly through underground whispers and Calderone was not the only Sicilian Man of Honor Violi had met on his trip. In Agrigento, the heartland of the Rizzutos’ Sicilian base, Violi met with Giuseppe Settecasi, a meeting he requested as a way to personally and directly make complaints about Nick Rizzuto. Violi was aware of the sway the old don had with the Sixth Family.
Settecasi was an imposing presence; taking a complaint to him might have given most people pause, but Violi seemed excited at the prospect, apparently reveling in the idea that it was a meeting of minds, a gathering of two great mafiosi. It is doubtful that Settecasi shared his enthusiasm.
Settecasi avoided colorful or embarrassing nicknames during his life in crime. As a sign of his success at balancing extensive underworld activity with his public persona, he was invariably called “Mr. Settecasi” in and around Agrigento. He was a gentle-looking figure, but looks can deceive. In his younger years, Settecasi was the epitome of the peasant mafioso: quiet in demeanor, thoughtful in action. His violence was legendary, although police had little success proving any of it. His name was whispered in talk of murders, extortion, political corruption, mysterious disappearances and cattle rustling. In several decades as a member of the Sicilian Mafia, Settecasi reached the rank of capo - provincia , or boss of the province. For those living in the original hometowns of the Sixth Family, there were few higher authorities.
Settecasi’s business increasingly involved heroin. He appeared at meetings in Montreal, weddings in Toronto, conclaves in New York, underworld conferences in Palermo. Almost without exception, his contacts were fellow Sicilians of the expatriate Mafia—like the Rizzutos—who were stitching together a drug network across the Americas and across the Atlantic, regardless of conflict arising
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