CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Geez,” said the driver as he and a bodyguard stood at their SUV, “this is a lot of fucking transportation. And they’re still coming in!”
They were on the tarmac of the private Philadelphia airfield as a long line of SUVs continued to arrive. “What’s going down?”
“Either it’s a family reunion,” the bodyguard said, “or they’re preparing for a mob hit.”
“Must be a reunion,” said the driver as they watched the private jets roll in. “They wouldn’t bring their wives and kids to no mob hit.”
“They’re bringing them to something!”
“A reunion like I said.”
But the driver was shaking his head. “They don’t look like they’re going to no reunion to me. Because when everybody’s showing up? And I mean everybody? It’s usually something bad.”
It was beyond bad to everybody that dropped everything and made their way to Philly as big jets started coming into the Philadelphia airspace one after the other one. Each had two SUVs waiting: One for their families, and one for their capos.
And it was like a roll call for the driver and the bodyguard as they stood there amazed:
Business mogul and mob enforcer Tommy Gabrini and his family flew in from Seattle.
Former mob boss and major casino mogul Reno Gabrini and his family, along with Sal Gabrini’s family, flew in from Vegas.
Mob boss Sal Gabrini and his underboss Robby Yale, who had been in Philly earlier that day but had flown to Chicago to handle some syndicate business, flew back in from Chicago.
And as evidence of the seriousness of the situation, all of Big Daddy’s sons, from Brent Sinatra and Tony Sinatra to Bobby Sinatra and Donald, flew in with their families from Maine.
They were never allowed to be a part of the Sinatra and Gabrini mob world, and that was the main reason they often didn’t accompany their father when situations went down.
But this was different. Mick was down. And not just down, but nearly out. This felt different.
And the roll call continued:
Trevor Reese flew Big Daddy’s daughter Carly in from Boston.
Monk Paletti flew Big Daddy’s daughter Ashley in from Jersey.
Even billionaires Alex Drakos and his brothers Oz and Marcellus Drakos flew in with their families, along with Mick’s daughter Gloria and her and Oz’s child.
Amelia Sinatra, Mick and Big Daddy’s half-sister, flew in with her children from Montreal. Her children’s father, former CIA Director and current head of all government special operations Hammer Reese, was out on critical assignment and was not reachable.
Big Daddy Charles Sinatra, the patriarch of the Sinatra/Gabrini clans, who had been in New York on business, flew to DC to personally pick up Jackie, and then they flew to Philly too.
It was astounding to the driver. “I’ll say it again,” he said, “something’s up. And for whatever reason Mick the Tick is at the heart of it. And it ain’t no reunion. It ain’t nothing good. I’ll bet my life on that.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” the bodyguard said. “That’s one of their guys.”
When the driver saw who he was talking about, he didn’t hesitate. “Hey Drake!”
Drake was laughing with another SUV driver when he heard his name. When he saw who it was, he walked over. “What up?” he asked as the three men shook hands.
“What’s going on, man?”
“Major shit going on. That’s what.”
“Involving who?”
Drake hesitated.
“Come on, man. Who we gon’ tell?”
Drake leaned in closer to them. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Boss got smoked.”
They were stunned. But the driver wanted clarity. “When you say boss, are you talking Teddy or his old man?”
“His old man.”
“Motherfuck! Are you for real? Who would smoke Mick the Tick?”
“Hell if I know. But it’s going down if he recovers. And if he don’t recover, it’s really going down.”
“So he ain’t dead yet?” the bodyguard asked.
Drake and the driver looked at him. “Well damn,” said Drake. “You make it sound like it’s a foregone conclusion. No he ain’t dead yet. Let’s pray he don’t die period.”
All three men, all Catholics, did the sign of the cross.
“Who’s behind it?” the driver asked.
“Don’t know,” Drake replied. “We don’t know nothing yet. Not even the details.” Then a worried look appeared on his face. “All we know is that it’s bad.”
The driver glanced at the bodyguard. He didn’t want to say he told him so. But he told him so.
They instead watched in a way that felt surreal to them as all of those millionaire and billionaire Gabrinis and Sinatras, along with all those who married into the family, continued to deplane, with their capos and security surrounding them with blankets of protection, as they headed their way.