Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'lcn'.
-
THE VINEWOOD STRIP: HOW THE MOB COLONIZED TINSEL TOWN By James Goldberg "The Founding Fathers" from left to right: Gregory Palermo, Richard Castellani, Nicholas Saviano, Jason Marcelli, Daniel Ricci. Artist unknown. PROLOGUE Tucked away in North Vinewood, Clinton Avenue has all the makings of a varsity nightlife spot. Right off Vinewood Boulevard, highway access, plenty of venues, and a quiet, unassuming nature that makes it an amenable destination to both citizens and shady characters alike. Only those intimate with the city's underbelly nature, however, understand where the power in this quaint little block of tinsel town truly lies. To understand how the Vinewood Mob got their stranglehold on the Vinewood Strip, we first must travel to Kansas City, Missouri. Based out of KC, The Civella Crime Family were themselves a product of westward expansion. Hoping to capitalize on similar endeavors by Chicago and Milwaukee, the KC Mob kick-started a satellite crew in Vinewood. Under the thumb of figures such as Roy Capra, the crew eventually known as the Los Santos Crime Family quickly grew in both power and scope. After a series of indictments dissolved the family, newly inducted member Peter Conti was all that remained of the old guard, and he wasted no time establishing a foothold in the husk of his family's former home. The Conti Crime Family, as it'd later be called, has enough of its own lore that even briefly summarizing it would fill a novel. Conti's alumni included infamous west-coast heavyweights such as John Capra, Dominic Altomare, Joseph Campagna, and of course, in its later years, Gerald "The Garbageman" Marchetti and Leonard "The Sandwich King" Campese. Within the annals of Conti history, we find two remarkably similar men whose paths could not have been more different. In many ways, Richard Castellani and Nicholas Saviano are cut from the same cloth. They share a charismatic disposition, a knack for diplomacy, a sharp wit, and a superficial obsession with their appearance. Where the two men differ, is in their stories. Castellani was the Golden Boy, a hardworking up-and-comer who cut his teeth in the Pizzaria business. He quickly established himself as a capable earner and charming socialite; he won over the Conti bosses with a lethal combination of charisma and competency and rose up the ladder with alarming speed. The rumor mill claims that Castellani was inducted within the Conti inner circle, and in no time at all, was given his own crew. Castellani's tenure as a Conti management figure was characterized by a no-nonsense approach focused on pragmatism. By the time the family dissolved in the early 2020s, Castellani was reportedly the number two guy, and had regardless cemented himself as a legendary (alleged) organized crime figure. Saviano, on the other hand, came up in Northern San Andreas, with a long unsubstantiated history of organized crime ties stretching back as far as the 1990s. Saviano was already thirty-seven years old when he first began working for reputed made-man David Pillini. Saviano's age, experience, and OC past made him an invaluable worker, and his effortless navigation of the LS underworld produced results that were hard to ignore by the LS bosses. Saviano eventually earned his own button and seemed to be on an upward trajectory, but then it all abruptly came to a stop. Interested more in enjoying the perks of his newfound influence, coupled with a tendency to disappear for long stretches, Saviano lost favor with upper management and was often thought of as an unreliable piker. As Saviano's peers quickly overtook him in both rank and status, he was resentful, and thus, his relationship with leadership deteriorated even further. Eventually, the Conti Crime Family dissolved much as those before it had, with most of its constituency either dead, behind bars, or on-the-run. But for those who remained, there were still bills to be paid. And so Castellani and Saviano picked up the pieces, and got back to work. CHAPTER I: THY HOLLOWED REMAINS To be Written Mirror Park Examiner Article discussing Castellani's case being thrown out in the Summer of 2023. CHAPTER II: THE PIZZA CREW To be Written Alleged Audio Recording of a Phone Call between Gregory Palermo and Nicholas Saviano. ((OOC INFORMATION)) The goal of this faction is to portray a realistic criminal operation based out of North Vinewood with the sole objective of making money. The crew consists of a group of ex-criminals with decades of experience between them, as well as mid-level criminals that have moved away from more strict hierarchical syndicates, street gangs, and other foreign organized crime organizations––all of which have banded together to pool resources, experience, and knowledge, in order to collaborate and make money. This crew's culture and structure is deeply rooted in LCN tradition, however -- anyone, regardless of race or ethnicity, is welcome to join the faction, and will be afforded the same respect as any other member should they be able to pull their weight. We refuse to let “character development” and “roleplay quality” simply be buzzwords in our faction. Instead, they will be the core principals in which we operate and recruit. We will not hesitate to remove people for poor quality portrayal, or badly researched, stereotypical caricatures. We would rather have ten-guys who can provide a quality experience than forty who we constantly have to babysit out of fear that they’ll embarrass us or undermine our faction’s OOC purpose. Feel free to message @Rickaroni or @NickyW with any questions. ((WANT TO JOIN?)) Recruitment of course is always handled IC'ly, however, we understand that it can be difficult to know where exactly to begin when it comes to joining a faction, especially when it comes to lining up time-zones, figuring out how to introduce yourself, etc. If you're interested in joining the faction, dm me on discord, and we'll get you pointed in the right direction discord: nickywofficial
-
Originally from Philadelphia, we were a tight-knit crew running a small-scale vehicle theft operation. Everything fell apart after a sting operation set up by the local police led to several arrests, including Nicholas Amato, who was alleged to be the leader of the group. Despite the allegations against Amato, the authorities were unable to pin any incriminating evidence on him. Even though one of his crew members turned informant, the testimony fell apart in court—the snitch was a known drug addict and was caught lying during the hearing. Amato's lawyer capitalized on this, discrediting the witness and securing his release. After months of courtroom battles, Nicky walked free. With the heat in Philadelphia making, it impossible to continue, Nicky and the remaining crew decided it was time for a fresh start. Los Santos became the destination—new opportunities, new connections, and a chance to rebuild what was lost. (If you're interested in joining, feel free to send me a private message @Dizaster)
-
Richard 'Dicky' Monti Richard "Dicky" Monti's life was a symphony of chaos, set against the unforgiving backdrop of New York City. Born into a close knit community, is early years were a blend of intoxicating smells and sounds—freshly baked bread, bustling markets, the melodic hum of his grandmother's old record player. Yet, behind the laughter and the Sunday gatherings, the Monti family was barely scraping by. Dicky's father, a man once full of dreams, had fallen into the grip of heroin addiction. The substance had turned him into a shadow of his former self, leaving a void in the family that no amount of love or effort could fill. This dark presence loomed over Dicky's childhood, shaping his perception of the world and his place in it. When Dicky turned fifteen, the Montis packed their lives into a beaten-up van and headed west to Los Santos, hoping to escape the relentless grind of New York. But Los Santos was no paradise. It was a sprawling mess of neon lights and broken dreams, where the rich flaunted their luxury and the poor fought to survive. Dicky soon found himself adrift in this new world. The friends he made weren’t the kind to invite home for dinner. They were streetwise, hardened by the city's dark underbelly. Alcohol and cocaine became Dicky’s new companions, numbing the ache of displacement and the weight of his family's expectations. His descent was swift. What started with minor hustles—lifting wallets, selling hot goods—escalated into more dangerous territory. Dicky had a knack for deception, a silver tongue that could charm or threaten, depending on what the moment demanded. He became a known figure in the seedy circles of Los Santos, a small-time crook with big-time dreams, always teetering on the edge of a bad decision. Despite his addictions, Dicky had ambition. He wasn’t content with petty crime; he wanted to climb the ranks, make a name for himself in the underworld. But every step forward seemed to pull him two steps back, the ghosts of his choices haunting his every move. His nights were a blur of neon and narcotics, his days a haze of regret and resolve. One night, Dicky found himself at a clandestine rave, deep in the industrial heart of Los Santos. The warehouse was alive with energy, a throbbing pulse of electronic beats that echoed through his veins. Strobe lights flickered, casting sharp, fleeting glimpses of a crowd lost in the ecstasy of the moment. The air was thick with sweat and the sweet, acrid scent of synthetic highs. This was Dicky's escape—a place where time seemed to stand still, and the pressures of his reality melted away into the bassline. The music was relentless, each beat a jolt that kept his heart racing and his mind spinning. Here, among the neon-soaked bodies and euphoric faces, he felt a fleeting sense of belonging. But even in the euphoria of the rave, the shadows of his life lingered. Deals were made in the corners, whispers of bigger scores and riskier heists. Dicky couldn't resist the allure of the underworld woven into the fabric of these nights. It was here, in the pulsating heart of the rave scene, that he plotted his next moves, fuelled by the high and driven by desperation. As the music crescendoed and the night wore on, Dicky knew that this momentary escape would always end. The harsh light of day would bring back the reality he tried so hard to forget. But for now, amidst the chaos and the rhythm, he was just another lost soul, dancing on the edge of oblivion. As the sun rose over Los Santos, casting a harsh light on the city’s hidden corners, Dicky found himself trapped in a vicious cycle. His current situation was a far cry from the hopeful dreams his grandparents had when they first set foot in America. Dicky lived in a cramped, one-room apartment in a rundown neighborhood. The walls were thin, stained with the residue of countless arguments and broken promises. His meager belongings were scattered around haphazardly, a testament to a life lived on the edge. The constant hum of the city outside served as a reminder of the opportunities just out of reach. Money was always tight. Dicky took on whatever odd jobs he could find, from washing dishes in greasy diners to running dubious errands for shady characters. The work was inconsistent, the pay meager, and the danger ever-present. Each paycheck barely covered his rent and a few basic necessities before disappearing into the haze of his addictions. Despite the bleakness, Dicky held onto a flicker of hope. Every so often, he’d catch a glimpse of the life he could have had—one where he wasn’t bound by his vices or haunted by his choices. But for now, he was just another lost soul in the city, surviving day by day, paycheck to paycheck, always chasing the next high. Dicky's story is one of struggle and survival, of a man caught between the shadows of his past and the harsh light of his present. In the sprawling chaos of Los Santos, he remains a figure of raw ambition and enduring desperation, forever teetering on the brink of redemption or ruin.
- 61 replies
-
- 2
-
-
- lsdelivery
- drugs
- (and 1 more)
-
OOC: This faction aims to portray a network of Italian-American career criminals that mainly indulge in white collar crime. Do not hesitate to contact anybody that regularly posts on the thread for help on how to join.
- 697 replies
-
- 36
-
-
-
-
January 7, 2025—After a seemingly endless night, the first rays of sunlight began to appear. Jimmy Fritz had not contacted any associates since orchestrating the assassination of Philly Vigs alongside Nestor Lara and Scott Colosimo, under orders from John Nuzzi. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion, as if time itself had lost its momentum, plunging everything into in a state of delirium. One thing was certain: a move had been made, and other pieces had been shifted without their consent. Everything was forced back to normal, as if nothing had happened. For others—associates, onlookers—it seemed like nothing had changed. But for Jimmy, his world was upside down. The change had come abruptly, though he had seen it coming for a long time. Yet, even now, he could hardly believe it. His plan was clear: rebuild and salvage whatever could be saved from the sinking ship. Jimmy was a visionary, the kind of person who never gave up easily, who found the strength to move forward even when it felt like the ground beneath him was collapsing. Despite the chaos and turmoil, he knew that to stay alive in this world, he had to keep pushing, rebuild what was broken, and ensure that the crew would stay afloat through whatever came next. One thing was certain: Rome wasn't built in a day, and Jimmy knew it would take time for everything to return to normal. He understood that questions like "Where is Philly?" "When will he return?" and "What happened?" would persist for a while. But he was prepared for the long haul, knowing that the dust had to settle before things could truly move forward. The hard work of rebuilding would take time, but Jimmy was determined to see it through, no matter how long it took. — April 2025 Scott wasn’t the most feared, nor the loudest voice in the room. But he was smart, patient, and most importantly... he understood Nuzzi’s greatest lesson: Power lasts longer when nobody has to die for it. One by one, Scott sat down with the other crews. He didn’t come with threats, he listened. He reminded them of the profits they’d stacked under Nuzzi’s unity, of the respect they earned when they weren’t busy tearing each other apart. Sure, some were skeptical. But within months, the crews were working together again. Money flowed smoother than ever, and the cops were more clueless than before. Scott got his button after a long wait. He stepped up, took over John’s old crews, and made sure they survived the quiet times. Now? They all moved as one... his crew.
- 581 replies
-
- 22
-
-
-
- lcn
- mission row
- (and 2 more)
-
This thread follows the development and showcases the RP of Samuel Capano & Carmine Sambuco. Follow their story as they carve out their piece of the city.
-
This topic is literally the backstage of Jonathan Casasanto, a young Italian-American who, from a young age, was involved in small-scale crimes, including drug dealing and petty theft. We begin with his release from prison and his reintegration into society, as he seeks to return to the street game and claim his way.
-
This thread follows the development of an in character waste management company called American Waste Services, ran by George Manna.
- 52 replies
-
- 20
-
-
-
- aws
- waste management
- (and 2 more)
-
OOC --- This thread will follow our portrayal of aged, sleazy, mostly independent white-collar men adapting to a criminal underworld that has long since moved past them - in cinematic fashion. Cheers, lay back, and enjoy the show.
- 14 replies
-
- 15
-
-
-
-
Image above: William Amuso, circa 2024 Los Santos, SA — William Amuso, 35, an alleged associate of the D’Amico Crew, is now eligible to apply for parole after serving a fraction of his sentence at the San Andreas Correctional Facility. According to a Federal Bureau of Prisons spokesperson, if Amuso’s parole application is approved, he will be placed under home confinement, assigned to a work placement, or monitored with an electronic bracelet until the end of November. Amuso was initially indicted on several counts of drug trafficking and one count of money laundering after his arrest at his Downtown Los Santos apartment. He was part of a larger group of Los Santos-based mobsters caught in a sweeping crackdown on narcotics distribution in the region. Authorities have closely connected Amuso to Victor “Slick Vic” Fusco. Amuso’s eligibility for parole raises questions about the future of organized crime activity in the region, as law enforcement continues to pursue leads on Fusco and other key figures.
-
- 41 replies
-
- 18
-
-
Leonida, Alderney & the Agrigento Network by Eric Stonefelt Vice City, Leonida. 1988. Outside the Sons of Sciacca Social Club, various Italian-American men from across the United States gathered for the funeral of Joseph Malgeri, son of a former caporegime within the New Orleans Crime Family. According to surveillance gathered by the FBI, these men included Charles "Chuckie Blue" LoCicero and Giacomo "Jimmy Ears" Torelli of Alderney; from New Orleans, Paul "Little Paulie" Sferra, Michael Fontana, and Francis Pioli; from Leonida, Agosto Cantavespre, Jr., George Asaro and Robert Bruno. These men represented what became known to organized crime researchers as the Agrigento Network, a clique within the American Mafia that has existed since its earliest inception. Since at least the 1930s, the Agrigento Network has played a pivotal, yet hidden role in solidifying Cosa Nostra's power in the southeastern United States. It began around the turn of the century in New Orleans. In the 1870s, driven by economic decline, the first members of Sicily's Fratellanza began to appear. With an economy based heavily in agriculture and sulfur mining, and in opposition to economic oppression from mainland Italy, these rural bandits created a de-facto feudal system and governed themselves with violence. One of the original hubs of Fratellanza activity was the Ribera commune of Agrigento, on Sicily's southern coast. By the 1890s, the ports of New Orleans were opened to immigration and hundreds of Riberesi began pouring into the city's ghetto, which later became known as Little Palermo. From the ruins of various Blackhand organizations, Fratellanza compaesano Carmelo Malgeri rose to prominence alongside other New Orleans gangsters and filled his own share of the underworld's power vacuum. According to researchers, much of his crew's early members were Riberesi, including long-time soldier Antonino "Nino" Sferra who operated his businesses out of Carmelo's Cantina Italiana in the French Quarter. Their activities included extortion and contract murder, and they often absorbed smaller Sicilian gangs into their network, taking a percentage of their earnings as tribute, and paying their way forward to bigger fish in what would later become known as the New Orleans Crime Family. 1959 FBI document describing an earlier meeting of Malgeri's network, based on witness testimony. Around 1900, a meeting took place in Alderney City between future New Orleans soldier Carmelo Malgeri and protégé Vittore "Vito" Fontana, and Vittorio "Old Man" Torelli, a powerful information broker with ancestry in Messina. Torelli, who played less of a role as an active member of a borgata and instead made his fortune selling information to likeminded criminals, held connections with several prominent agricultural institutions in Cuba, as well as gangsters in Algonquin, Liberty City. In the years that followed, Malgeri's crew cooperated extensively with the Cubans to import cigars and alcohol into the United States through the ports of New Orleans and Vice City. This contraband was distributed in the northeast by Sicilian mafiosi in Liberty State and Alderney. This powerful network, headed by criminals of Agrigentino origin, played a pivotal role in the formation of the North Alderney Crime Family, as well as the Vice City Crime Family. Michael "The Lion" Gentile, who was the president of Local 394 Hod Carriers Union in Tudor, Alderney in the 1960s, held ancestry to Ribera through his mother Constanza Longo (who was interestingly cousins with Joe N. Scarzo, a powerful Algonquin-based member of the Amato Crime Family in the 1970s.) Giacomo "Jimmy Ears" Torelli (born 1908, claimed to be of Sicilian nobility, nephew of the Old Man) was a prominent soldier in the North Alderney Crime Family until his later RICO indictment. He once described Gentile and his out-of-state associates as "those Ribera guys" to Lombardo crime family heavyweight Charles Giacomello in a 1964 wiretap. 1964 FBI wiretap transcript between LCN member Giacomo "Jimmy Ears" Torelli of Alderney City, and Liberty City heavyweight Charles Giacomello. The Vice City family's longtime leader, Agosto Cantavespre, Jr., held a relation to Agrigento through his father, who immigrated from the commune of Cianciana. This link proved to be fruitful for the network, and the ports of Vice City were utilized heavily for narcotics trafficking in the 1970s. According to turncoats and wiretaps, both the New Orleans and Vice City families controlled vast portions of the southeastern United States' cocaine market during this time, trafficking much of their product along Interstate 95 northbound, and Interstate 459 westbound. Several years prior to his death, Joseph Malgeri was indicted for the 1981 bombing of the New Spot Lounge in New Orleans - a business that was competing with his hugely successful Joey's Go-Go Club in the French Quarter. The case, which included witness testimony from several former associates of the New Orleans family, crippled Malgeri's empire when it revealed his collusion with other Agrigentino cocaine traffickers, as well as his role in profiting from contracts between the state of Louisiana and San Andreas-based insurance companies. Over five soldiers were indicted and given lengthy sentences. The investigation eventually led to the disclosure of Malgeri's association with mobsters in both Alderney and Leonida, forcing much of the Agrigento Network underground. The Bastille Bar & Grill in the French Quarter, a popular hangout for the Malgeri network, pictured in 1993. In the modern era, the remnants of the Agrigento Network are only a shadow of its former status within Cosa Nostra. However, it is believed that those connections - crippled as they may be - still remain between aging racketeers in New Orleans, mobsters in Vice City and Alderney, and various wealthy Cuban families who are now based in mainland America. The criminal activities of this network, if any, remain largely hidden from the public eye and from law enforcement. The "old guard" has passed away, leaving room for their heirs to take over. What use they've made of these connections, however, will remain unknown for as long as they uphold the principles of omertà. By and large, the New Orleans family is now considered defunct, with the Vice City family hot on its heels. However, according to organized crime researchers, it is believed that the remnants of the Agrigento Network in Vice City have dispatched several of their young associates to San Andreas. These men are rumored to be on assignment to establish connections with the Cosa Nostra presence on the west coast, a relationship that has been nonexistent for nearly half a century. The extent of their relationship, if any, remains a mystery - much like the overall status of the modern Los Santos Crime Family. It seems only time will tell what remains of this dying network.
- 7 replies
-
- 13
-
-
-
-
- lcn
- southerners
- (and 4 more)
-
Organized crime is the dirty side of the sharp dollar. - Raymond Chandler Roy Paul Gullo was born on August 14th, 1990, to Reginald and Maria Gullo in Kansas City. Reginald Gullo was a long-time associate of the Civella Crime Family, a criminal organization based out of Kansas City. He was involved in petty crimes and minor tasks after his discharge from the U.S. Army. Although Reginald was not a remarkable man, he was a provider and did his best to offer a stable environment for his wife and children. Maria Gullo, a local schoolteacher and disciplinarian, was dedicated to educating her children, with Roy being no exception. Following in his father's footsteps, Roy enlisted in the U.S. Army at the age of 18 and received basic training at Fort Riley in his home state of Kansas. During his time in the Army, Roy worked his way up the ranks to Corporal and received an honorable discharge for his service, along with an Army Commendation Medal (ACM). Upon his return to civilian life, Roy settled down, got married, and had a son. He worked tirelessly as a construction worker and eventually started his own construction firm, GCC. Despite maintaining the appearance of living the "American Dream," Roy struggled deeply with his vices, particularly alcohol. His drinking escalated to the point where it became a dependency. After countless arguments and fights, his wife left him, taking their son with her and filing for divorce. Shortly after the divorce, Roy was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. The doctors attributed it to a range of lifestyle factors, but for Roy, it felt like the beginning of the end. Having lost his family and, in his eyes, his health, Roy fell into a pit of despair. He continued drinking excessively as a way to escape his reality. One particularly dark night, while drunk, Roy climbed the fire escape steps of an old warehouse and stood on the ledge for several minutes, contemplating suicide. Though he never went through with it, that night turned out to be a turning point for Roy. He had fallen asleep on the very roof he intended to jump from. The next morning, he was awakened by the police, arrested for public intoxication, and charged. Luckily, Roy was recognized as Maria Gullo's son and, as a favor due to her role in the local community, he was returned home to her. Seeing her son in such a state, Maria pleaded with him to seek help, which Roy eventually agreed to do. Roy began attending a Veterans' Peer Support Group (VPSG), where he mostly listened rather than shared. However, through listening to others, he found comfort and began to realize that many people were struggling in ways similar to his own. Not long after, Roy started reading extensively to broaden his understanding of the world and to expand his knowledge. Reading became an escape in itself, serving as a distraction that helped him gradually wean off his alcohol addiction. Over the next year, Roy focused on improving his life and health. He became more mindful of the food he ate, reduced his alcohol intake, managed his stress, and began effectively managing his blood sugar. During this time, Roy also made efforts to reconnect with his estranged wife and son, who had moved to Los Santos. In an attempt to demonstrate his commitment, Roy uprooted his life in Kansas City and moved to Los Santos, hoping to rebuild his life and one day reunite with his family.
- 84 replies
-
- 17
-
-
-
-
Todaro family associate Anthony Lunetta (L), Todaro crime family soldier Edward "Eddie Moose" Carfara; Carfara's granddaughter's baptism, 2019 He's a sound technician by trade and a gangster by calling. Tutored by Todaro crime family's oldest and wisest, he's ready to take what he knows to the West Coast following a series of arrests and indictments back home. This thread will follow the story of Anthony Lunetta, a Buffalo mafia transplant to Los Santos' D'Amico crew.
- 52 replies
-
- 13
-
-
-
- lcn
- west coast delegation
- (and 1 more)
-
-
Joseph Bonomo's military portrait, circa 2019 | Joseph Bonomo didn’t give himself the name “Bones.” Nah, nicknames don’t work like that. It was somethin’ he picked up durin’ his time in the Army, and like most things with Joey, it wasn’t handed to him—he earned it. It started back in basic trainin’. Joey was a tall, lean guy—not the biggest, but tough as nails, ya know? He had this way about him, strippin’ everything down to the essentials. Didn’t matter if it was a drill, a problem, or a squad argument—Joey always got right to the point. “Bonomo always gets to the bones of it,” one of the guys said after Joey cut through some nonsense argument in the barracks, and that’s where it started. But the name really stuck durin’ a brutal field exercise. His unit was out on some overnight mission, hikin’ through mud and rough terrain, haulin’ gear till their backs were ready to snap. Most’a the guys were ready to drop, but not Joey. Nah, Joey kept pushin’, callin’ out to the others to stop complainin’ and keep movin’. “You gotta strip it down to the bones, boys!” he’d shout. By the end’a the night, half the squad looked ready to keel over, but Joey? He was still standin’ there, smirkin’ like it was just another Tuesday. The drill sergeant even gave him a nod—one of those quiet “you’re all right” kinda things. Then there was deployment, and lemme tell ya, that’s when the name got its real weight. Joey had this way of stayin’ calm when things got ugly. While everyone else was losin’ their heads, Joey kept it steady. Whether it was patchin’ up a busted Humvee or keepin’ his cool on patrol when things went sideways, Joey always got right to the core of what needed doin’. He’d cut through the chaos, focus on what mattered, and make sure his people got outta there in one piece. By the time his service was up, everyone knew “Bones.” It wasn’t just about him bein’ tough or lean—it was who he was. A guy who didn’t waste time with fluff, who focused on what mattered: loyalty, grit, and takin’ care of his own. So yeah, when Joey came back to Brooklyn and people called him “Bones,” it stuck. Not just ‘cause it sounded cool, but ‘cause it meant somethin’. It was a name he wore with pride, a reminder of what he’d been through and the kinda guy he was. This thread follows the development of Joseph "Bones" Bonomo | HIGHLIGHTS: FLASHBACK #1 ARMY #1
- 100 replies
-
- 15
-
-
- italian-american
- criminal
- (and 2 more)
-
-
"some rockstar shit" — Bruce Angelina to Vincent "Muddy Vince" Sisca when the streets call you must answer or someone else will
-
The first years of my life were spent on the wrong side of the South Street Bridge in Philadelphia, in a place they called the Devil’s Pocket. That name always sounded funny to me, but I only truly understood it when my father explained why. We were sitting in the same kitchen I’d watched become more and more vacant over the years. “Kid, you wanna know why this place is called what it’s called? A long time ago, before your ma and I were even born, a pastor lived here, just a couple houses down the street.” I remember feeling the tension in the air; my father was always a good storyteller—God rest his soul. “Back then, it was our people and the micks. And when they weren’t working in the factories, they were always up to something. One day at mass, this priest condemned our neighborhood, because the kids were so rough that if they had the chance, they’d steal from the Devil’s own pocket.” That was around the time I started realizing why things were the way they were around me—why Georgie down the street was always on that same corner, outside Novelli’s, our local bar, every day and every night. And with Georgie there were others, most of them my father’s friends, who more often than not stood on that corner too, instead of being with their families. My mother—God rest her soul—was named Louise. She had a pale complexion and the most beautiful blonde hair. Back in the day, the Irish boys in the neighborhood were always after her, according to my father. I was born just like her—pale, with golden hair. People always said I looked exactly like my mother, but deep down, I knew I was more like my father. At first, that struck me as a compliment, but as time passed and I started to figure things out, that feeling changed. It was a cold winter night, and I must have been about eight years old. I was lying in bed, tucked in and safe from the monsters kids my age feared. That’s when the hum of the streetlights echoing in the silent streets was shattered by the roar of an engine, followed by three thunderous cracks and flashes that lit up my bedroom window. Then came the screams—three of them—and the engine’s roar faded into the distance. Within seconds, half the houses had their lights on, and everybody and their mother was looking outside. Out there in the snow, right in front of Novelli’s, lay Georgie and my father, Michael. I was barely tall enough to see out the window, but I’ll never forget the sight of them writhing on the bloody, icy ground. My eyes widened; my pupils shrank. All I could do was gasp. Georgie didn’t move—he looked frozen. My father crawled into Novelli’s, and men rushed out to help him. All I could make out was a dark pool forming under Georgie’s head, and a crimson trail behind my father as he dragged himself away from his friend’s lifeless body. That night changed the way I looked at the world forever. The monsters got to my father before they could get to me. I never truly understood why it all happened, and no one ever gave me the chance to figure it out. My mother, Louise, did her best to protect me from the ugly truth. From that day on, the kitchen felt emptier. The food we ate never tasted the same again. I don’t blame her for anything she did after that night. As the years passed, her melancholy only grew, fueled by her inability to cope on her own. Now a single mother and a widow, she self-medicated, and her beauty faded with every swig from the bottle. Even so, I always looked out for her the best I could. From a very young age, I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, like I had to become something and provide for my mother. The tables had turned. I started stepping out in the street more, coming home later and later—sometimes not at all. My adolescence was shaped by the roughness around me. I became one of those kids the priest had talked about in my father’s story. I had a little posse in the neighborhood. There was Jimmy Cuts—Georgie’s son and my partner in crime. We’d both gone through the same kind of loss, and our mothers grew close over the grief they shared. Then there was Arnie, the youngest of us. He was a good kid, and smart, too—always thinking light-years ahead of everyone else. We also had Big Andy. His name didn’t do him justice: he was so tall and broad that he towered like a skyscraper whenever we hung out. And then there was me, Henry. But my friends called me Blondie. Like any dumb teenagers in the ’90s, we always found new ways to stir up trouble. Eventually, it caught up to us—but we were lucky some of my father’s old friends were still around. They were older now; some had moved out, and some wore suits and ties. I never understood how these guys from bum-fuck Devil’s Pocket ended up looking like congressmen, but they watched out for us, especially me and Jimmy. One of them stood out: Old Carm, who seemed to be in charge. Everyone listened to him. Old Carm was a special kind of guy—like a second father to me, though he was much rougher. I can’t recall how many times he pulled us by our ears for the dumbest crap we pulled back then. By the time I was eighteen, same as Jimmy, we were constantly fighting with the neighborhood Irish kids, competing for the market at our local high school. What market? Anything we could turn a profit on. When we realized we could buy grass by the ounce from Gino down the street, we started our own little business. The money started rolling in, and soon we were counting more cash than we’d ever dreamed of. Sure, it was small-time stuff now that I look back on it—but at the time, no other kids carried that kind of money around. With the money came the girls, and every night we partied at Jimmy’s place, smoking our brains out with Black Sabbath blasting in the background. We thought we were small-town rock stars. And when we weren’t making a buck, we were partying hard. That’s also when I got introduced to other vices, and found the clientele for them too. By the time I was twenty, me and the boys were basically the kings of our little castle: grass, party pills, and the occasional stepped-on coke if we had our hands on it. I made a living off that hustle for a couple of years. The kids grew up, some turned into addicts, and those addicts eventually became dealers themselves. We had our own little network in the heart of the neighborhood. One Thursday night, we went to pick up our weekly supply because Fridays were party days, and we had to be ready. By then, we were getting our dope from a group of Cubans who lived about half an hour away. The plan was simple: go in, grab our stuff, get out—like always. It was me and Jimmy in the car, with Jimmy driving. We got in and out just fine, but on the way home, crossing the South Street Bridge, an unmarked vehicle started tailing us and flipped on its siren. One car turned into three. Jimmy began to panic, sweat running down his face as I argued with him about what to do. He wanted to pull over, but I knew better. An unmarked car with backup wasn’t some run-of-the-mill traffic stop. Jimmy led them on a brief chase through the neighborhood, and that’s when I made the biggest mistake of my life. When we turned a corner, I told him to stop. My plan was to bolt through the alleyways I knew by heart, maybe hide out at a friend’s place. There was no way we were outrunning them in our beat-up car. I stormed out, backpack in hand, running for my life—literally. I never ran so hard, and for a moment I thought I’d lost them. But suddenly, I was staring down the barrel of a gun. “Freeze,” they yelled, and that’s all I could do. I had so much dope on me, they probably threw a party back at the station. Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility became my home for eight long years. The judge really threw the book at me. I went from the Devil’s Pocket straight into the Devil’s belly. It was my alma mater, you might say—that’s where I went to “college.” I met all kinds of folks in there: drug dealers, violent criminals, truly nasty types. And now, I was one of them. I’d been locked up for about a year when I got the news: Old Carm came to visit me, which was strange, because it was usually my mother who came. He didn’t look good. I didn’t like it one bit. That’s when he told me my mother had passed. I guess she just couldn’t handle it anymore—no husband, and her son behind bars like some animal. Old Carm didn’t get specific, but he said they found her in that same old kitchen, bottles of liquor on the table. I figured she must’ve passed out and choked to death. A deep depression sank in. I loved her so much; I would have done anything to stop that. Part of me blames myself. I carry that guilt and pain with me to this day. Maybe that’s why I’m so messed up inside. One day I got a letter from my grandmother, who lived in San Andreas. I’d visited her once before, and I loved the West Coast. She and my grandfather had moved there because he couldn’t find work in Philly. My parents stayed behind, because that was the only life my father knew, and my mother always did whatever my father wanted. In the letter, my grandmother told me I’d always have a place with her if I needed it. I thanked her and thought hard about that offer. After all, I had nothing left in Philly. Jimmy was locked up elsewhere, and Arnie had moved out of the city after our operation fell apart. So after eight years, I decided to leave too. The day I walked out of those concrete walls, I felt a gratitude I can’t even describe. I sold my childhood home and used the money to stand on my own two feet for a while. That’s when I made the move. Los Santos. This is where I’m writing this journal right now, sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. I like this place. I like the sun.
- 11 replies
-
- 16
-
-
-
- lcn
- italian american
- (and 1 more)
-
This Thread goes over the life of Nathan "Cap" Capelli, an Italian 22-year-old high school graduatefrom Tulsa . Capelli moved to Los Santos to start a career, holding some money from his college account he never used, along with money his mother sends him
-
this thread will showcase the development of simon ferrigno and the roleplay surrounding him and the illegal activites he will get up to.
- 34 replies
-
- 9
-
-
- organized crime
- clinton avenue crew
- (and 2 more)
-
- 19 replies
-
- 9
-
-
- la cosa nostra
- profile pictures
- (and 5 more)
.thumb.jpg.39f035e127df1cb494845e897d8520c9.jpg)
.thumb.gif.1a845053f069a75300c8d4bef241cc2e.gif)
