A Contractor Used Cheap Brick on Gambino’s House — His Construction Fleet Was Blown Up at Noon

Tommy Brush’s hands were covered in mortar dust when he heard the first explosion. He was three stories up on a scaffolding in Queens, laying brick on a commercial building when the sound rolled across the city like thunder. Then came the second explosion, then the third. By the time the fourth one hit, Tommy knew exactly what was happening.

His construction. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. fleet, 12 dump trucks, four cement mixers, two excavators, and a crane was being systematically destroyed in the parking lot of his company yard in Atoria. Seven explosions in total, one every 30 seconds, perfectly timed, perfectly executed.

 840,000 worth of equipment reduced to burning metal in less than 4 minutes. Tommy dropped his trowel and climbed down the scaffolding so fast he nearly fell. His foreman, Jackie Russo, was already on the ground, face pale, pointing toward the black smoke rising in the distance. Boss, that’s coming from our yard. Tommy didn’t need to be told.

 He’d known this was coming for 3 weeks. Ever since he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, he’d cut corners on Carlo Gambino’s house. To understand what happened in that parking lot, you need to understand who Carlo Gambino was in 1967. He wasn’t just another mob boss. He was the mob boss.

 the boss of bosses, the man who controlled the Gambino crime family, one of the five families that ran New York. By 1967, Gambino had consolidated power after years of internal mob wars. He had outlasted Albert Anastasia, outlasted Veto Genevvesi, outlasted everyone who’d ever challenged him. He was 65 years old, soft-spoken, unassuming, the kind of man who looked like somebody’s grandfather.

 But beneath that quiet exterior was a mind that calculated revenge like a mathematician solving equations. And Carlo Gambino didn’t forgive mistakes, especially mistakes involving his home. 8 months earlier, October 1966. Tommy Brussia had been in construction for 20 years. He’d built half the commercial buildings in Queens, renovated dozens of homes in Brooklyn, and had a reputation for quality work at fair prices.

 He employed 40 guys, masons, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, all union, all professional. His company, Brussia Brothers Construction, was legitimate. Mostly legitimate. Like most contractors in New York in the 1960s, Tommy occasionally did work for connected guys. It was unavoidable. You wanted to operate in Queens or Brooklyn.

 You dealt with the families. Usually, it was simple. Build a warehouse or renovate a social club. Add a room to some capo’s house. You did good work. You got paid. Everyone was happy. But in October 1966, Tommy got a call that changed everything. The call came from Joseph N. Gallow. Not crazy Joe Gallow, but Joe N.

 Gallo, Carlo Gambino’s consiglier and brother-in-law. Mr. Gambino is building a new house in Masipequa, Joe said, his voice formal and careful. He’d like Brussia brothers to handle the masonry work. This is an honor, Tommy. Don’t disappoint him. Tommy should have been thrilled. A job for Carlo Gambino meant prestige, meant protection, meant future contracts.

 But there was a problem. Tommy was overextended. He’d taken on three major projects simultaneously. a shopping center in Forest Hills, an apartment complex in Flushing, and a factory renovation in Long Island City. His cash flow was tight. His suppliers were demanding payment. His crews were stretched thin.

 And now Carlo Gambino wanted a house built. And you didn’t tell Carlo Gambino you were too busy. The Masipiqua House was going to be substantial. Two stories, 4,200 square ft, brick facade, the kind of home that announced wealth without being ostentatious. Gambino had purchased the lot on a quiet street in Masipiqua, a middle-class suburb on Long Island where he could live like a respectable business.

 And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. This man, not a mob boss. The masonry contract was worth $45,000. Good money, but it required quality materials. Specifically, it required handmade Italian brick, the kind that cost 180 per thousand. Tommy had used this brick before.

 It was beautiful, durable, the kind of brick that would last a 100red years. But it was expensive. And Tommy was broke. So Tommy made a decision. He would use cheaper brick. Not garbage, not cinder blocks, but standard commercial brick that cost $85 per thousand. Visually, it looked similar to the Italian brick. Same reddish brown color, same rough texture.

Most people wouldn’t notice the difference. Tommy figured he could pocket the difference, about $12,000, and use it to keep his other projects afloat. Nobody would know. The house would look beautiful. Gambino would be happy. It was a calculated risk. March 1967. The construction took 5 months. Tommy’s crew worked carefully, professionally.

The foundation went in perfectly. The framing was solid. The brick facade went up beautifully. By March 1967, the house was 90% complete. Carlo Gambino visited the site twice during construction, both times accompanied by Joe and Gallo. He walked through the unfinished rooms, nodding approvingly.

 “Beautiful work, Tommy,” Gambino said quietly. “You’re an artist.” Tommy felt relief wash over him. He’d gotten away with it. The house was completed in April 1967. Gambino moved in with his wife, Catherine, in early May. For 3 weeks, everything seemed fine. Tommy got paid his $45,000. He paid down his debts, caught up with suppliers, breathed easier. He dodged a bullet.

 But Carlo Gambino didn’t get to be boss of bosses by not noticing details. Late [snorts] May 1967. The weather turned rainy in late May. Nothing unusual for New York. just spring showers. But after a particularly heavy rain, Gambino noticed something. There was moisture seeping through the mortar joints on the eastern wall of his house. Not flooding, just dampness.

Small dark patches appearing on the interior wall. Gambino called his consiliier. Joe, there’s something wrong with the brick work. Get someone to look at it. Joe N. Gallow brought in an independent mason, a craftsman named Salvatorei Marino, who’d been laying brick for 40 years. S examined the wall for 30 minutes, then delivered his verdict.

This isn’t the brick you specified. This is commercialgrade brick. It’s porous. Over time, it’s going to absorb water, crack in winter, deteriorate. This brick might last 20 years. The Italian brick you paid for would have lasted a century. Joe and Gallo felt his stomach drop. You’re sure? I’m positive.

 Said somebody switched the brick and pocketed the difference. Whoever did this, they thought Mr. Gambino wouldn’t notice. They were wrong. That evening, Joe and Gallo sat in Carlo Gambino’s study and explained the situation. Gambino listened in silence, his face expressionless. When Joe finished, Gambino was quiet for a long moment.

 Then he said six words that sealed Tommy Brush’s fate. He stole from me. Make it clear. Carlo Gambino’s approach to revenge wasn’t emotional. It was mathematical. The punishment had to be proportional to the offense, visible enough to send a message, but calculated enough to avoid unnecessary law enforcement attention.

 Tommy Brussia had stolen approximately 12,000 and disrespected Gambino by thinking he wouldn’t notice. The response needed to hurt financially, humiliate publicly, and serve as a warning to every other contractor in New York. Gambino didn’t want Tommy killed. Dead men couldn’t suffer. Dead men couldn’t serve as examples.

 Dead men couldn’t spread the story of what happened when you disrespected Carlo Gambino. No, Gambino wanted Tommy broken, bankrupt, and permanently reminded of his mistake. Early June 1967. Gambino called a meeting with his capos. Present were Paul Castayano, his brother-in-law and future successor, Anelo Decroce, his under boss, and Joseph N. Gallo.

 The contractor who built my house used inferior materials and stole the difference. Gambino explained calmly. He eB thought I wouldn’t notice. He thought I was just another customer. This cannot stand. You want him gone? Delicrocei asked. No, Gambino said. I want him to understand the cost of disrespect. He stole 12,000 from me.

 His construction company is worth approximately 850,000 in equipment. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. And contracts. I want his equipment destroyed. All of it publicly at noon when everyone can see. I want every contractor in New York to hear this story.

 And remember, you don’t cut corners on Carlo Gambino. Paul Castellano, who ran the family’s construction rackets, volunteered to handle the logistics. We’ll need bombers, professionals. This has to be clean. No casualties, no civilians hurt, just equipment destroyed. Use Frankie’s crew, Gambino said. Frankie bombs. Abandono ran a small crew of specialists who handled the family’s explosive work.

They weren’t killers. They were demolition experts who’d learned their trade in the army during World War II. They planted bombs in buildings scheduled for demolition in cars and businesses. The family wanted to intimidate. They were precise, professional, and discreet. June 13th, 1967. Frankie Bombs received his instructions from Paul Castellano.

12 vehicles. Breia Brothers construction yard in Atoria tomorrow at noon. 30-second intervals between explosions. No people get hurt, just metal and machinery. Frankie studied the layout of the construction yard. It was a twoacre lot surrounded by chainlink fence located in an industrial area near the East River.

The equipment was parked in neat rows, trucks, mixers, excavators, all sitting idle for the night. There was a small office building, but Frankie’s orders were clear. Equipment only, no structures, no people. Frankie’s crew consisted of three men, Danny Marino, Carlos Shues, Vakaro, and Tommy Agro. They were all veterans, all experienced with explosives.

 That night, they entered the yard after midnight. The fence lock was cut quietly. They moved through the lot like ghosts, placing charges on each vehicle, C4 plastic explosive with timer detonators. The charges were small, just enough to destroy the engine blocks and fuel tanks, but positioned to create maximum visual impact.

 By 2KM, all 12 vehicles were rigged. The timers were synchronized to detonate at 12 RPM the following day with 30-second intervals. Frankie did a final check, then the crew disappeared into the night. By dawn, there was no evidence they’d ever been there. June 14th, 1967. Morning. Tommy Brasha woke up that morning with no idea what was coming.

 He drove to the job site in Queens, reviewed the day’s work with his foreman, and climbed the scaffolding to supervise his crew. It was a beautiful June day, clear skies, warm sun. At exactly 12 salad, the first charge detonated. The explosions were surgical. Every 30 seconds, another vehicle erupted in flames and twisted metal.

 Dump trucks first, four of them. their beds lifting into the air from the force of the blasts. Then the cement mixers, their rotating drums blown apart, concrete dust mixing with black smoke. Then the excavators, their hydraulic systems rupturing, diesel fuel igniting. Finally, the crane, its boom collapsing like a fallen tree.

 By the time Tommy reached his construction yard, it was over. Fire trucks were arriving, firefighters spraying water on the burning wreckage. Police were setting up barricades, keeping crowds back. Tommy stood at the chainlink fence, staring at the destruction, and he knew exactly who was responsible and exactly why. A detective approached him.

 Lieutenant Frank Maloney, NYPD, a 20-year veteran who’d worked organized crime cases his entire career. “Mr. Brussia, do you have any idea who might have done this?” Tommy looked at the smoking ruins of his business. “No,” he said quietly. No idea. Maloney studied him. This was professional.

 Military grade explosives, precise timing, no casualties. This was a message. What did you do, Tommy? Who did you piss off? Tommy said nothing. Maloney sighed. Let me give you some advice. Whatever you did, whoever you did it to, you need to make it right. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell because next time they might not just blow up your trucks.

After the police left, Tommy drove to a pay phone and called Joe and Gallo. I need to speak with Mr. Gambino, Tommy said, his voice shaking. I need to make this right. Mr. Gambino doesn’t want to speak with you, Joe replied coldly. But he wants you to understand something. You stole $12,000.

 He just destroyed 840,000 of your equipment. That’s the interest rate on disrespect. The principal is still owed. What does he want? Tommy asked. He wants you to rebuild his house properly with the correct materials at your own expense. And when it’s done, he wants you to remember this day every time you see that house.

 Do you understand? Yes, Tommy whispered. I understand. July 1967, 3 weeks later. Tommy Brussia filed for bankruptcy. His insurance company refused to pay. The policy didn’t cover organized criminal activity and the evidence of professional bombing was overwhelming. His contracts were cancelled. His crews found work with other companies.

 Brussia brothers construction ceased to exist, but Tommy kept his word. He took out personal loans, borrowed from family, and spent the next six months rebuilding Carlo Gambino’s house. This time he used authentic handmade Italian brick imported directly from Tuscanyany. He personally supervised every aspect of the work.

 The new facade was perfect, waterproof, durable, beautiful. When the work was completed in January 1968, Tommy requested a meeting with Gambino. They met at the house standing in front of the rebuilt eastern wall. Gambino ran his hand over the brick. “Now this is quality,” he said quietly. This is what you should have done the first time. I’m sorry, Mr.

 Gambino, Tommy said. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again, Gambino looked at him. No, it won’t because you don’t have a construction company anymore. But you learned something valuable, didn’t you? You learned that shortcuts have consequences. You learned that some people notice everything. And you learned that my reputation for fairness goes both ways.

 I pay for quality, but I punish disrespect. Gambino handed Tommy an envelope. Inside was 15,000 in cash. For the rebuilding work, I don’t cheat contractors who do honest work. You did honest work this time. Take the money, start over, do it right from now on. The aftermath. Tommy Brussia never worked in construction again.

 He used the 15,000 to open a small hardware store in New Jersey. He lived quietly, paid his bills, and never spoke about what happened in June 1967. The story, however, spread through New York’s construction industry like wildfire. Every contractor heard it. Every mason, every plumber, every electrician. The message was clear.

 You don’t cut. Corners on mob work. You don’t assume they won’t notice. You don’t disrespect Carlo Gambino. The Masipiqua House stood for decades. Carlo Gambino lived there until his death in 1976, dying peacefully of a heart attack at age 74, having never spent a day in prison. The house with its perfect Italian brick facade became a symbol not of criminal power but of something more subtle.

 The consequences of assuming someone won’t notice your shortcuts. Years later, a construction foreman named Mike Romano told his crew the story while they worked on a product. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Project in Brooklyn. You see that brick we’re using? He said that’s the spec.

 That’s what the contract says. And you know why we’re using exactly what the contract says? Because 30 years ago, a guy named Tommy Brussia thought nobody would notice if he used cheaper brick. At noon on a June day, 12 explosions reminded him that somebody always notices. Quality isn’t expensive. Shortcuts are.

 The crew laid the brick exactly to specification. They always did after hearing that story. Because in New York construction, everyone knew the lesson Tommy Brussia learned.