The Mafia Hit Man's Daughter

“A unique and riveting look at what life is really like inside a Mafia family . . . A fascinating story of life, love and betrayal told from inside the home of one of the most fascinating mobsters of the 20th century.”—George Anastasia,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Gotti's Rules

“Linda Scarpa brings readers into a world that outsiders rarely see. Her brave, candid memoir reveals powerful love in the midst of violence. Since I grew up in the same world, I can relate to her story. Linda shows what it's like for a daughter to love her father unconditionally—and to suffer the consequences of his actions.”—Karen Gravano, author of
Mob Daughter: The Mafia, Sammy “The Bull” Gravano, and Me!

“I read the book in one sitting. What an amazing story by a very brave Linda Scarpa. In the world of jealously, duplicity, hatred and betrayal, Linda Scarpa exhibits unconditional love with valor.”—Sal Polisi, author of
The Sinatra Club: My Life Inside the New York Mafia

“An edge-of-your-seat page turner! Linda Scarpa pulls no punches in relating her life as the pampered daughter of a feared mafia hit man. Her story is jaw-dropping, raw, and real. This book told me things that even I didn't know. I loved it.”

—Andrea Giovino, author of
Divorced From the Mob: My Journey From Organized Crime to Independent Woman

“Linda Scarpa's memoir is more than a mob book; it's a family book. Touching, moving, shocking, and revealing,
The Mafia Hit Man's Daughter
is right on target as it shows the mindset of the mob lifestyle and its devastating impact on an innocent young girl. Readers will relate to this excellent book.”

—John Alite, subject of
Gotti's Rules: The Story of John Alite, Junior Gotti, and the Demise of the American Mafia
by George Anastasia

“Linda Scarpa's clear and machine gun-direct prose depicts her journey from an innocent, sweet daddy's girl to a helpless and hapless victim of abuse and violence. Here is another contribution to the drama of the decline of the once mighty Five Families of New York.”—Marc Songini, author of
Boston Mob: The Rise and Fall of the New England Mob and Its Most Notorious Killer

 

 

 

 

THE MAFIA HIT MAN'S DAUGHTER

LINDA SCARPA WITH LINDA ROSENCRANCE

Foreword by Marc Songini

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

FOREWORD

Behind even the worst Mafia Capo or hitman are a loving and longsuffering wife and family that enable his violent, parasitic, and dangerous lifestyle. Young, pretty, and innocent Linda Scarpa found this out the slow hard way.

Greg Scarpa, the man she called lovingly “Daddy,” was justly renowned on the New York streets as the “Grim Reaper.” As Colombo family high lord executioner, he was possibly the most violent and ruthless killer inducted into the American Mafia.

In her memoir,
The Mafia Hit Man's Daughter
, Linda Scarpa's clear and machine gun-direct prose depict her journey from an innocent, sweet daddy's girl to a helpless and hapless victim of abuse and violence. One by one, her beloved friends and family members vanish into jail or the grave because of the Mafia's perverse codes. Here is another contribution to the drama of the decline of the once mighty Five Families of New York. In the end, despite the easy money and good times, Scarpa demonstrates Mafia daughters and wives end up just as lonely, loveless, depressed and broke as the rest of us—but with the threat of sudden death or maiming a permanent companion on the entire road there. The “Life,” as she says, is full of “misery, death and nightmares.”

Greg Scarpa claimed he stopped counting his hits after number 50. Scarpa should have included as victims his wives, daughter and other family members—they all suffered at his hands.

 

Marc Songini

CHAPTER 1

ONCE AROUND THE PARK

I was in my sophomore year at Bishop Ford Central Catholic High School in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, New York. I wasn't quite sixteen yet, but I was growing up a little bit too fast. Always dolled up and looking older than I was.

My younger brother, Joey, was a freshman. Every day we were taken back and forth to school by a car service. The same driver—a Spanish guy—picked us up every morning around 7:45. His name was Jose Guzman.

One day Joey was sick and I went to school alone. That day I was wearing a button-up blouse, miniskirt, leggings and high heels—always with the high heels.

When the driver came to pick me up, I opened the door to hop in the backseat like we always did. But the guy said, “Oh, you're alone. Why don't you sit in the front with me?” I figured okay because I was used to him, so I sat in the front.

As he started to drive away from the house—we were living on Avenue J at the time—he said, “You know, if you don't mind, I have to pick somebody else up before I take you to school.” So I said sure, as long as I got to school on time. I was a kid; I didn't know what was going on. He said, “Oh, yeah. No problem. It's just going to take a couple of minutes.”

He took a left onto Coney Island Avenue and drove for about ten minutes. He got to a traffic circle and then headed into Prospect Park. I had no idea what was happening.

“Who do you have to pick up? You're going in the park?”

“Yeah, don't worry about it. I have to pick somebody up.”

He drove to a very secluded area in the park and stopped the car. Obviously, I knew something wasn't right. He started telling me that I was so beautiful, and that he couldn't take his eyes off me, and how much he was attracted to me—all this sexual stuff. I was so scared. I had to figure a way out of there.

“I really have to go to school.”

“Yeah, well, you're not going to school right now.”

“Listen, if you don't take me to school now, the school's going to call my house. My parents are going to know that I'm not at school.”

“Oh, don't worry about that—I'll get you to go school, eventually.”

Then he grabbed my hand, and—I'll never forget this—he put it up to his mouth. And he licked the crease between my index finger and my middle finger as if they were my legs.

“That's what I'm going to do to you, baby.”

And then as he was doing that, he ripped my shirt open. Then this big guy started coming over toward my side of the car, and I was in a panic.

“Oh, my God. You can't do this. I have to go to school.”

I was a kid and I wasn't thinking clearly at first about how to handle what was happening. When he was about to do whatever he was going to do to me, I said, “Listen, my parents are going to know. The school's going to call them. It doesn't have to be like this.”

He was kissing my neck. So I tilted my head back and I started to let him do it. Then he started grabbing me and pulling at me. Really getting into it, like he was ready to attack me. God only knew what he was going to do after that. All that was going through my head was that I was going to get killed—raped and then killed.

“It doesn't have to be like this. I'll meet you after school. Pick me up after school.”

Then he just stopped.

“What are you going to tell your parents?”

“I'll tell them I'm going over to my friend's house. We'll plan this. You could pick me up every day after school and we'll go somewhere. I'll make up something to tell my parents.”

I did everything I could to make him think I was into it as much as he was, so I could get myself out of there.

“Wow. Okay, that's great.”

I couldn't believe it. He actually thought that I was okay with it. So he tried to kiss me and touch me. My heart was racing and my stomach was churning. I just wanted to vomit. My whole body was trembling and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back.

“Calm down, everything is going to be okay. We'll have a great time. I'll pick you up after school. Just don't tell anybody. Be sure you don't tell anybody that I took you here.”

“No, of course not. I'm not going to tell anybody. I can't wait for you to pick me up. We're going to have a good time. Just get me to school before they notice I'm gone because if I miss my first period, they'll call the house.”

“Okay, okay, I'll get you to school. I'll be there—what time do you want me to pick you up?”

“Pick me up at two-thirty.”

“Okay, okay.”

He drove out of the park. On the way to school, I kept thinking that I got myself out of that—somehow I got myself out of it. He really believed me.

When he dropped me off at my school, he said, “Okay, two-thirty. I'll meet you here.”

“Okay, I'll be here at two-thirty.”

The minute I got inside the building, I ran to the bathroom. I tried to fixed my blouse and look presentable but I was shaking so bad, I was making it worse. So I just gave up. Then I ran to the pay phone down the hall to call my mother, Linda, who was known as “Big Linda.” Everybody called me “Little Linda.”

“Mom, pick me up. Now.”

“What happened?”

“Pick me up. Now.”

“Well, what happened?”

The words stuck in my throat.

“Please, just pick me up. Just pick me up. I'll tell you when you get here.”

Then I went back and waited for a while in the bathroom until I figured she'd be outside. I never went into any classrooms.

She got there really fast, even though the school was in the Prospect Park area. I jumped in the car. My face was flushed. My blouse was all untucked; my skirt was wrinkled. I was a mess. As soon as my mother saw me, she knew something bad had happened.

“The guy who drove me to school took me to the park and he tried to have sex with me. He tried to rape me.”

She flipped out. Went totally crazy. Crying. Screaming at the top of her lungs in the car. Pounding on the steering wheel.

“What? That motherfucker. That motherfucker!”

Yelling. Totally insane. It was the ride home from hell. All I wanted to do was get to the house. The minute she got in the house, she called my father. He told her not to leave the house.

“Fuck you,” my mother told him.

She was crazy. She didn't care what anybody said. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a huge butcher knife. She raced back out to the car and went to the office of the car service. She told the dispatcher there who she was and asked for the address of the guy who took me to school that day. He told her that he didn't have his address. He said he didn't even know his name.

My mother pulled out the knife and put it to the guy's throat. She told him again she wanted the driver's name and address. The next thing she knew, my father and a couple members of his crew showed up. They beat the shit out of the dispatcher until he gave up the driver's information.

When my mother got home, she told me everything was going to be okay. He was never going to come near me again. She said she was going to take me to school from then on.

I went nuts. I started screaming.

“I'm not going to school. I don't want to go to school. He's going to come after me.”

“Nobody's going to come after you—relax.”

Just then my father came home with his crew. He got all emotional—he was an emotional guy, especially when it came to me.

“Oh, my God. What did he do to you? I want to know what he did to you.”

I told him exactly what had happened.

“He's fuckin' dead. This guy is dead.”

I was in total shock. I wasn't thinking about what he was saying. I just wanted to be safe in my house. Before I knew it, my father and his crew left. When they came home, my father told me they went after him and gave him a beating.

But for the next few days, what Guzman had done to me—and what he could have done—was weighing on my father's mind. And he wasn't satisfied with just giving Guzman a beating. He was also afraid that Guzman would retaliate and come after me. Who knows what he would have done to me? Especially since I had told him I would never tell anybody about it.

So my father and his crew went back to Guzman's house. They rang the bell. When he opened the door and saw them, he ran. But he didn't get too far. They shot him in the head.

After they killed him, they came back to the house. My father said, “Listen, this guy is an animal. He got what he deserved. He'll never be able to touch you or anybody else.”

He tried to rationalize murdering Guzman by telling me that I would have been dead or raped and in a hospital somewhere if I hadn't been able to get myself away from him.

“And God knows if he's done this to other people.”

By telling me that I had actually saved other girls from being raped, my father was trying to make me feel better about the fact that they killed this guy. I was just sitting there looking at my father and listening. I was in total shock. Finally, as horrifying as it was, I began to understand.

“Oh, my God. He's dead. The guy is dead. You killed him? Dad, really, you killed him?”

“Yeah, he's dead. You'll never have to worry about him again.”

I felt so bad. I was just a kid.

“Dad, did you have to kill him? Did you have to kill him?”

“Linda, if I didn't do this, who knows if he would've tried to hurt you again? Or, if he would've tried to hurt somebody else. We don't know if he's done this before.”

It was crazy. He was trying to rationalize to a kid why he had to kill the guy. I didn't want to believe it.

But the next day I read about Guzman's murder in the newspaper and I knew it was true. The article said he had a lot of money on him when he was murdered. When my father read that, he said, “I wish I had known he had all that money on him. I would have made them take the money after they shot him.”

I ripped the article out and kept it in my wallet. Every once in a while I'd take it out and look at it. He had kids and I felt so bad and guilty about him getting killed. But what was I supposed to do, not say anything?

Who knew why he tried to rape me? I could only think he didn't know who my father was.