On Halloween night in 1975, six men stood before the acting boss of the Colombo crime family to take the oath that would make them official members of Cosa Nostra. Among them was twenty-five-year-old Michael Franzese, the son of Sonny Franzese, a powerful figure locked away in Leavenworth. For Michael, the ceremony marked the end of a long apprenticeship and the beginning of a life with much heavier responsibilities. His introduction to organized crime had not been easy.
By the age of twenty-two, he had been indicted four times on charges that included grand larceny. He stood trial four times. Three times the jury deadlocked, and once the case was dismissed for lack of evidence. Looking back, he believed his father’s notorious reputation had made him a target.
But he did not dwell on it. He understood that his father had built a name for himself and that the consequences of that fame reached into his own life. At the time, Michael was still in school, but that changed after a visit to see his father at Leavenworth. Sonny Franzese was furious.
Standing in the visiting room, he pointed out that his son had more cases by twenty-two than he himself had ever faced. The older man made his position clear: if Michael wanted to help him, the best way was to become part of his world. He offered to sponsor his son for membership. Shortly afterward, Michael was summoned.
The acting boss, Tommy DeBella, received him in a meeting attended by Andrew Russo, who was serving as the de facto second-in-command in the absence of the imprisoned family boss. Tommy asked Michael directly whether he wanted this life. Michael answered that he did, if that was what his father wanted. Tommy’s response cut through any assumption of special treatment.
He had not asked what the father wanted, he said. He was asking what Michael wanted. After the young man confirmed his choice, Tommy laid out the terms: from that moment on, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Michael belonged to the Columbus family. Even if his mother were on her deathbed and he was at her side, if the family called, he had to leave and answer the call.
When the family judged him worthy of the honor of membership, they would tell him. Andrew Russo added a simple instruction: be on Carroll Street the next morning, wearing a suit. For the next two years, Michael lived as a soldier, the entry-level rank for a man in his position. He was required to appear on Carroll Street every day, where the family kept its social club.
He learned by watching and listening. Because he was not yet a made member, he was often not allowed to sit at the table during conversations, but he was present, and he absorbed what was said. He had grown up observing the rule his father had taught him: listen before you speak. That discipline made him a good listener, and both Tommy and Andrew took a liking to him.
They often had him drive them around, and they trusted him with their movements and their discussions. During those years, Michael was also broke. The four trials and their costs had drained his finances. No one handed new men money, and no sudden wealth came from entering the life.
He had to make his own way. He ran an auto body shop, bought and repaired wrecked cars, and sold them at auction. Through a Colombo associate named Vinny Vingo, he began working a flea market on Long Island on weekends, where he started lending money at interest with Vingo’s permission. These ventures brought in several thousand dollars a week and slowly restored his footing.
His daily routine as a soldier was demanding. He would drive from Long Island to Brooklyn, spend his time in the social club, run errands, and take whatever assignments came his way. In that life, discipline was strict. A mistake brought a harsh rebuke, and the proper response was silence.
He learned to accept criticism without defending himself, to absorb it, and to avoid repeating the error. He also kept his eyes open for legitimate opportunities. He sold cars to made members, telling anyone interested that if they gave him the cash and drove him home, the car was theirs. He never became attached to a vehicle.
He wanted money, and he worked constantly to make it. Then came the night he was made. By his own account, he had been a member only about two years when the decision was made to induct new men. For roughly twenty years, the family had closed its doors to new members, and many older men had been waiting to be recognized.
Michael’s promotion meant he passed over others who had served far longer. He acknowledged the resentment that followed. Some men were unhappy that a young man with only two years in the ranks had been pushed ahead. But the decision belonged to the leadership, and respect for his father played a role.
Michael had proven himself, and the invitation came. The night was marked by a banquet after the oath. All the crew leaders were present, along with the acting boss and Andrew Russo. One soldier, Little Joey Vitacco, asked permission to attend even though he was not a made member.
He arrived carrying a brown bag. He walked in and asked, jokingly, whether he should hand the new members their money bags now. The moment carried an irony Michael never forgot. People assumed that a man entering this life would be showered with cash.
In reality, it was the opposite. The new man had to produce wealth, not receive it. Unless someone was handed a no-show union job with benefits, there was no sudden fortune. Success came from proving oneself as a money earner, and in this world, money was power.
Michael often pointed to Frank Costello as the example of the pure racketeer, a man who rose the hard way, was arrested early in life, and then stayed out of trouble for thirty-seven years by building political connections and focusing on legitimate earning. After being made, Michael became a full soldier under Andrew Russo as his capo. He was expected to report to him two to four times a week. Everything he did in the street had to be logged, even legitimate business, so that if trouble came from another family or someone tried to interfere, the matter was already on record.
Nothing was written down. It was all kept in memory. Michael had a near-photographic recall for names, faces, and phone numbers in those years. He supported the arrangement because it protected his interests.
Life did not slow down. Michael was still expected to do whatever was asked of him. When he traveled to Florida, California, or Chicago for family business, he sometimes needed permission and sometimes simply logged the trip. At the same time, he was building his own crew, gathering men from his neighborhood and from the course of his work.
He was highly social and aggressive in business, and people came to him. On Long Island he became a known figure, helped by his father’s reputation but also by his own success. His businesses grew. He owned a Mazda dealership, then a Chevrolet dealership, a leasing company, an office building, and a production company.
A typical day began early, around five-thirty in the morning. He would head to his offices to make sure everything was running, then drive to Brooklyn to meet Andrew Russo, report, and take direction. In the evenings, he tried to be home for dinner with his first wife and children, but most nights he left again, spending six nights a week in nightclubs. He invested in these establishments, lending money and taking a cut.
He was involved in a club called Jupiter’s and another called Le Jardin. He would stay until two, three, or four in the morning, sleep a few hours, and start again. He admitted that during those years he did not give his family enough time. His ambition was to be the best earner he could be, and he was determined to help his father get out of prison.
Sonny Franzese had been sentenced to fifty years, which Michael described as effectively a death sentence unless he could be freed. Working on that case demanded tremendous effort. In 1980, Michael became a capo himself. The promotion changed his daily existence.
As a captain, he had men under him who reported directly to him, and they had to come to him first rather than to the boss or the underboss. He described it as being a boss of the street, responsible for a crew of soldiers, many of them, including Russians who worked with him. His routine shifted. He still woke early, had coffee with his wife, fed the children, and took them to school.
He went to his office, managed his businesses, and traveled frequently to Florida and California. He dealt with his crew’s problems and attended constant meetings. It was exhausting work, but he was young and absorbed by it. Trouble also multiplied.
He was indicted seven times, faced two federal racketeering cases and one state racketeering case. Between street work, Cosa Nostra obligations, legal businesses, and the constant fight in courtrooms, he was stretched thin. The balance he tried to maintain between the criminal life, his legitimate ventures, and his family did not hold, and he later expressed regret over how he handled those responsibilities. The demands of being a captain, he said, were so consuming that he wished some days had five or six extra hours.
He was, in his own words, completely immersed in that life.