A Young Gang Tried to Tax Gambino’s Streets — They Were Found Cemented Into the New Highway Bridge

June 3rd, 1963, 6:47 a.m. Construction workers arriving at the Verzano Narrows Bridge site in Brooklyn noticed something wrong with the concrete in Pier 4. The mixture looked darker than usual, irregular. When the foreman, a man named Eddie Torino, got closer, he saw what looked like fabric. Then he saw a hand. By 7:15 a.m.

, the NYPD had cordoned off the entire construction zone. By noon, they’d identified three bodies encased in the concrete foundation. Michael Mikey Shoes Delano, 23, Anthony Russo, 21, and James Carpetti, 19. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell.

 All members of a small crew that had been operating out of Benhurst, all missing for exactly 72 hours, the police report would officially list their deaths as mob related homicides. What the report wouldn’t say, what the newspapers couldn’t print, was exactly why three small-time hustlers ended up as part of New York’s most ambitious infrastructure project.

 To understand that, you need to go back 3 weeks to a conversation that sealed their fate before they even knew they were dead men walking. Carlo Gambino, in 1963, wasn’t yet the boss of bosses, but he was close. At 61 years old, he’d spent four decades building power quietly, carefully. While other mobsters made headlines, Carlo made money.

 He controlled the Brooklyn Waterfront, significant portions of the garment district, and had his hands in every major construction project in New York City. The Verzano Narrows Bridge was his crown jewel. The bridge project authorized in 1959 was the largest suspension bridge in the world. 320 million in contracts, thousands of workers, millions of tons of concrete and steel.

 And Carlo Gambino had a piece of every single transaction. Not through violence, through strategy. His people controlled the unions. His companies supplied the cement. His trucking operations moved the materials. It was the kind of operation that generated 50,000 a week in clean money. Money the government couldn’t touch. Money that didn’t require a single bullet.

 But in May 1963, something changed. Trucks started arriving late. Cement deliveries were interrupted. Union workers called in sick in coordinated patterns. Someone was disrupting Carlo’s operation. And in Carlo Gambino’s world, disruption meant disrespect. Disrespect meant war. The someone was Mikey Shu Delano.

 Mikey had grown up in Bensonhurst, three blocks from where Carlo had lived in the 1940s. He’d watched the old mobsters his whole life, seen their cars, their clothes, their power, and he decided he wanted a piece. Mikey wasn’t stupid. He knew you couldn’t challenge the Gambino family directly. But he’d noticed something.

The bridge project was so big, so complex that maybe, just maybe, there was room for a small crew to carve out a little territory. His plan was simple. Tax the independent contractors, not the union guys, not the big operations, just the small businesses that supplied materials to the bridge site.

 5% off the top protection money. Most of these contractors weren’t mob connected. They were just trying to make a living. They’d pay rather than fight. For two weeks, it worked. Mikey and his crew collected 3,000. To them, it felt like a fortune. To Carlo Gambino, it felt like a declaration of war. The message reached Carlo on May 14th through a cement contractor named Sal Pvenza.

 S had been paying Mikey’s crew $150 a week to avoid problems. But S had been paying the Gambino family for protection since 1957. He couldn’t pay both. So, he went to the person who actually mattered. S met with Paul Castellano, Carlos under boss and brother-in-law at a social club on 86th Street.

 “There’s a problem,” Sal said, hands shaking. “Some kids, they’re collecting from the bridge contractors. They hit me up last week. Said if I don’t pay, my trucks don’t make deliveries.” Paul lit a cigarette. What kids? Mikey Deleno’s crew from 18th Avenue. Three of them. They’re young, early 20s. Paul was quiet for a long moment.

 Then he asked the question that mattered. Did you pay them? S nodded. I paid them, but I’m telling you now because I don’t want problems. I’m with you. I’ve always been with you. Paul stood up. You did the right thing coming here. Don’t pay them again. If they approach you, you tell them you’re already protected. You tell them to talk to me if they have questions.

 And if they don’t listen, S asked. Paul smiled. But there was nothing warm in it. Then they’ll learn. May 16th, 1963, 2:30 p.m. Mikey Shoes was having lunch at Lion’s Italian. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Heroes on 18th Avenue when two men walked in.

 He didn’t recognize them, but he recognized the type. Expensive suits, confident walk, the kind of men who didn’t ask for things they told you. The larger of the two, a man named Tommy Botti, sat down across from Mikey without invitation.His partner, Frank Diko, stood near the door.

 “Mikey Dano?” Tommy asked, though he clearly already knew. “Who’s asking?” Tommy smiled. “I’m asking.” On behalf of people who were concerned about your new business venture, the bridge contracts. Mikey felt his stomach tighten, but he kept his face neutral. He’d known this conversation was coming eventually. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Sure you do, Tommy said. You and your friends Anthony and James, you’ve been collecting from contractors. Small amounts. Nothing crazy. 5% here, a few hundred there. Smart. Keeping it small, keeping it under the radar. He leaned forward. Except it’s not under the radar. You’re operating on Carlo Gambino’s territory.

 You’re taxing his operations, and that’s a problem. Mikey had prepared for this moment. He’d rehearsed what he’d say. With respect, these aren’t Gambino operations. These are independent contractors, small guys. Nobody’s protecting them. We’re just filling a gap. Tommy laughed genuinely amused. Filling a gap. I like that.

 You hear that, Frank? They’re filling a gap. Frank didn’t respond, just watched. Tommy’s smile faded. Here’s what you don’t understand. Everything connected to that bridge is Gambino business. the unions, the suppliers, the contractors, the guy who sells coffee to the construction workers, everything. You’re not filling a gap. You’re stealing.

We didn’t know, Mikey said, which was a lie. He’d known exactly whose territory he was operating in. He just hoped he was too small to notice. Now you know, Tommy said, “So here’s what happens next. You stop today. You return any money you collected. You apologize to every contractor you approached. And then you disappear.

 You find some other way to make a living, far away from anything involving Carlo Gambino. Mikey should have agreed right there. Should have nodded, apologized, disappeared. But he was 23 years old. He’d been collecting money for 2 weeks and felt powerful for the first time in his life. And young men make stupid decisions. What if we don’t? Mikey asked.

 The room went cold. Tommy Botti stood up slowly. then you’ll have a conversation with people much less patient than me. And that conversation won’t happen in a sandwich shop. He dropped a $20 bill on the table. That’s for your lunch. Consider it a severance payment. You’ve got 24 hours to make this right. After they left, Mikey’s hands were shaking.

Anthony Russo, who’d been sitting at a nearby table pretending not to listen, came over. What do we do? Anthony asked. Mikey stared at the $20 bill. $20? like they were children being dismissed. “We keep going,” Mikey said. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re not touching their operations.

 We’re just collecting from independent guys. They can’t kill us over a few thousand.” It was the last major decision Mikey Shoes would ever make. What Mikey didn’t understand, what he couldn’t understand because he’d never operated at that level, was that this wasn’t about money. Carlo Gambino made 50,000 a week from the bridge project alone.

 Mikey’s entire operation was pocket change. This was about respect, about precedent, about what happens when someone challenges the established order. If Carlo let three kids tax his territory, even small-time contractors, what message did that send? How long before others tried the same thing? How long before his actual operations were challenged? Carlo Gambino had built his empire on a simple principle.

 Challenges are met immediately and decisively. Not with emotion, not with anger, but with calculated response that served as permanent lesson to anyone else considering similar action. May 18th, 2 days after Tommy Botti’s warning, Sal Pvenza reported that Mikey’s crew had approached him again. They wanted their regular payment.

 When S told them he was protected by the Gambino family, Mikey had laughed. Tell Gambino we’re not touching his operations. We’re just working the gaps. That message reached Carlo within the hour. He was at his home in Brooklyn having dinner with his wife Catherine. When Paul Castellano called the Delano kid didn’t listen, Paul said he’s still collecting.

 He told Prevenza to tell you he’s just working the gaps. Carlo was quiet for a moment. Set up a meeting. Tell him we want to talk business. Tell him maybe there’s a way we can work together. You want to bring him in? Paul sounded surprised. I want him to think we’re bringing him in, Carlos said. Get all three of them.

 Make it seem legitimate somewhere quiet. When? Tomorrow night. The sooner we handle this, the sooner we send the message. Paul understood. I’ll arrange it. Carlo hung up and returned to dinner. His wife asked if everything was okay. Just business, Carlo said. Nothing important. May 19th, 1963. 9:15 p.m.

 Mikey, Anthony, and James arrived at a warehouse in Red Hook. They’ve been told this was a sitdown, a meeting to discuss territory arrangements. Tommy Botti had called Mikey personally. Mr.Gambino wants to meet you. Wants to hear your perspective. Maybe there’s a way everyone makes money. Mikey had been suspicious, but also excited.

 A meeting with Carlo Gambino himself. That was respect. That was legitimacy. Maybe they’d found a way to work together. The warehouse was dark except for a single light in the center. Paul Castellano was waiting with four other men. No, Carlo. He’s running late, Paul explained. He asked me to start the conversation.

 The three young men sat down at a folding table. Paul offered them coffee. They accepted. So Paul began. You’ve been doing some work on the bridge contracts. Just independent contractors, Mikey said quickly. We’re not interfering with family operations. I know, Paul said. That’s smart. Shows you understand the rules. But here’s the thing.

 Those independent contractors. They exist because we allow them to exist. They operate because we protect the environment they work in. You understand? Mikey nodded, though he wasn’t sure he did. So when you tax them, you’re taxing our protection. You’re profiting from the stability we create, and that’s not how this works.

 Paul pulled out an envelope. Here’s what Mr. Gambino wanted me to propose. You’ve collected what? $3,000. About that, Mikey admitted. You give that back to the contractors you took it from. You apologize, and then we bring you improperly. You work for us legitimate positions in the unions. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell.

 Steady money, good benefits. You do this right, you could have real futures. It was a generous offer, more generous than they deserved. Anthony and James looked at Mikey, waiting for his response. Mikey should have taken it, should have seen it for the lifeline it was, but he’d spent two weeks feeling like a boss, feeling powerful. And that feeling is addictive.

What if we just move to a different territory? Mikey asked. Queens, maybe. Or Manhattan, somewhere we’re not stepping on toes. The temperature in the room dropped. Paul Castellano set down his coffee cup very carefully. You think geography is the issue here. I’m just saying Brooklyn is your territory. We respect that.

 But New York is a big city. Maybe there’s room for everyone. Paul stood up. Excuse me for a moment. I need to make a call. He walked to the back of the warehouse. The four other men who’d been standing silently moved closer to the table. Mikey suddenly realized none of them had names. Nobody had introduced them.

That’s when the first wave of real fear hit him. Paul returned 5 minutes later. I spoke with Mr. Gambino. He appreciates your entrepreneurial spirit, but he wants to make something very clear. There is no territory in New York where you operate without his permission. Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, the Bronx, all of it is connected.

 All of it has relationships. And you can’t understand those relationships because you’re not part of them. He sat back down. So, here’s the final offer. You take the union jobs, you return the money, you apologize, and this conversation never happened. Or he let the word hang in the air. Or what? James asked. It was the first time he’d spoken.

 Paul looked at him with something like pity where you become an example not because Mr. Gambino is cruel but because examples are necessary because when someone challenges the order of things everyone needs to see what happens next otherwise the whole system falls apart. Mikey felt trapped. Every option seemed wrong.

 Take the offer and admit defeat, refuse and face consequences he couldn’t fully imagine. Can we have time to think about it? Mikey asked. “No,” Paul said simply. “This is a right now decision. You either walk out of here as part of the family or you don’t walk out at all.” The room went silent. Mikey looked at Anthony, at James. They were scared.

 He could see it in their eyes. They wanted to take the deal, but Mikey’s pride, his stupid, stubborn pride, wouldn’t let him. “We can’t give the money back,” Mikey said. We already spent some of it and we um can’t apologize for doing what any businessman would do. We saw an opportunity. We took it. That’s not wrong.

 Paul Castellano sighed, a heavy sound. Then you’ve made your choice. He nodded to the four unnamed men. What happened next took less than 3 minutes. No speeches, no drama. The four men moved with practice efficiency. Mikey, Anthony, and James never made it to the door. By 9:45 p.m., the warehouse was empty again, clean, like the meeting had never happened.

 May 20th, 1963, 1:30 a.m. A cement truck arrived at the Verzano Narrows Bridge construction site, Pier 4. The night shift supervisor, a union foreman named Gino Martino, had been told to expect a special delivery. The truck backed up to the forms for the Pier Foundation. The concrete was already mixed, already setting.

 Gino knew better than to ask questions. He had worked Gambino connected jobs for 15 years. Specialdeliveries happened sometimes. Equipment that fell off trucks. Materials that didn’t appear on manifests. This was different, but the principle was the same. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Collect your paycheck. The concrete poured into the forms.

 Gino made sure it settled properly, that the mixture was even. By 3:09 a.m., the pore was complete. By 6:9 a.m., it was already hardening. By 6:47 a.m., when Eddie Torino noticed the irregular color and found the hand, it was too late to do anything except call the police. The NYPD investigation was thorough, but ultimately fruitless.

Detective Frank Serpico, who would later become famous for exposing police corruption, was assigned to the case. He interviewed over 200 construction workers. None of them had seen anything. The concrete supplier’s records showed a standard delivery. Nothing unusual. The truck driver who made the late night delivery.

 He’d quit 3 days later moved to Florida. Nobody knew where. Serpico knew it was a mob hit. The evidence was obvious. Three young men with known criminal associations. No signs of struggle. Elsewhere, bodies disposed of with professional efficiency. But knowing and proving were different things. Without witnesses, without physical evidence beyond the bodies themselves, there was nothing to prosecute.

 The case remained officially open but practically closed. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. The families of Mikey, Anthony, and James held funerals for empty caskets. They knew what had happened. Everyone in Bensonhurst knew, but nobody talked. That was the rule. You didn’t cooperate with police investigations into mob business.

 Not if you wanted to keep living in the neighborhood. Carlo Gambino never publicly acknowledged the incident. He didn’t need to. The message had been sent the moment those bodies were discovered. Every small-time hustler, every wannabe gangster in New York heard the story within 48 hours. The details spread through social clubs, barber shops, street corners.

 Three kids tried to tax Gambino’s territory. They ended up as part of the Bridge Foundation. The lesson was clear. You don’t challenge the established order. You don’t operate without permission. You don’t mistake tolerance for weakness. And if you’re offered a deal, you take it because the next offer won’t be as generous.

 The Verzano Narrows Bridge opened to traffic on November 21st, 1964, 17 months after Mikey, Anthony, and James became part of its foundation. It remains the longest suspension bridge in the United States. Millions of people drive across it every year. None of them know they’re crossing over a grave. Paul Castellano, who ran the meeting that night, became boss of the Gambino family in 1976 when Carlo died.

 He ran the organization for 9 years before being assassinated outside Spark Steakhouse in 1985. Tommy Botti, who gave Mikey the first warning, was killed alongside Castano that night. But in 1963, they were untouchable. They represented an order that seemed permanent, unbreakable. Frank Serpico, the detective who investigated the murders, resigned from the NYPD in 1972 after testifying about widespread corruption.

 In his testimony before the NAP Commission, he mentioned the Verzano Bridge case as an example of how mob influence made certain investigations impossible. Everyone knew who did it, Serpico said. But nobody would talk. Not the workers, not the contractors, not even other criminals. That’s power. Real power. Not the ability to kill, but the ability to kill publicly and face no consequences.

The construction site supervisor, Gino Martino, worked on mob connected projects for another 20 years. He died in 1983. Took whatever he knew about that night to his grave. The cement contractor, Sal Provenza, whose complaint started the whole chain of events, continued operating in Brooklyn until 1979. He never spoke about Mikey Delano’s crew, never mentioned the meeting at Paul Castellano’s social club.

 Some stories you don’t tell if you want to die of old age. Carlo Gambino himself lived until 1976, dying peacefully in his bed at age 74. Heart attack, natural causes. By the time of his death, he controlled the largest and most profitable crime family in America. When asked once about the bridge incident years later by an associate who’d had too much wine, Carlo had simply shrugged.

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Then, after a pause, but if three bodies were found in that bridge, and if those bodies belong to people who didn’t understand how business works, well, that would be unfortunate. That would be a waste of young lives. That would be what happens when you confuse opportunity with permission.

 The Verzano Narrows Bridge stands today as a monument to engineering achievement, to New York’s growth, to American ambition. It carries 200,000 vehicles every day. It’s been featured in countless movies, photographs, postcards. But it’s also amonument to something else, to the invisible structures of power that existed beneath the visible city.

 to the price of challenging those structures to three young men who thought they could carve out a small piece of a very large pie and learn too late that even the And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Smallest piece belonged to someone else.

 The concrete they’re encased in is rated to last 100 years, maybe longer. Long enough that their story becomes legend, becomes myth, becomes a cautionary tale told in social clubs and whispered on street corners. Long enough that nobody remembers their faces, their dreams, their families. Long enough that they become just another ghost story in a city full of ghosts.

 But the message remains. As long as that bridge stands, as long as cars cross from Brooklyn to Staten Island, the message remains. In Carlo Gambino’s New York, you didn’t take what wasn’t offered. You didn’t tax what wasn’t yours. And if you tried, you didn’t just die. You disappeared. You became part of the foundation, permanent, immovable, a warning set in stone, or in this case, set in concrete for anyone else who thought they could fill the gaps in someone else’s empire.

Yeah.