Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    A Mob Story
    A Mob Story
    A Mob Story
    Ebook320 pages4 hours

    A Mob Story

    By Michele R. McPhee

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Chris Paciello seemed to have it all. With heartthrob good looks and an A-list roster of clients and friends, he was a South Beach businessman/playboy whose local fame was reaching new heights—until his "wise guy" past came crashing down upon him.

    When some of Chris's former 'fellas were arrested, they ratted him out to the government. One case in particular—a botched robbery that turned deadly—was a time bomb that would blow the cushy new world Chris created for himself to bits…and propel him straight back to New York City to face justice.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateJun 29, 2010
    ISBN9781429988568
    A Mob Story
    Author

    Michele R. McPhee

    Michele R. McPhee is the bestselling author of A Professor’s Rage, A Mob Story, A Date with Death, Heartless, and When Evil Rules—all available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks. The former award-winning Police Bureau Chief for the New York Daily News, she was the courts and crime reporter for the Boston Herald where she is now a columnist. Currently she is a New England correspondent for ABC News and a Fox 25 TV contributor. A Date With Death was the basis for a Lifetime TV movie that aired in January 2011. She was also story consultant for the Lifetime movie “Who Is Clark Rockefeller?” that aired in 2010.  McPhee’s true crime stories have appeared in more than a dozen national magazines, including Maxim, Stuff, Cosmopolitan, New York, ESPN the Magazine, Gotham, Manhattan File, and other international publications. She was the host of two Court TV Mugshot specials and her reporting is also featured in the A&E TV special, Crime Ink, and the Discovery series called Rats. Her journalism has taken her to crime scenes across the country and has made her a commentator on breaking news for CNN, MSNBC, and the Fox News Network. She lives in Boston, Massachusetts.

    Read more from Michele R. Mc Phee

    Related to A Mob Story

    Related ebooks

    Organized Crime For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    Related categories

    Reviews for A Mob Story

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      A Mob Story - Michele R. McPhee

      1

      TALE OF TWO MEN

      South Beach, Miami

      December 1, 1999

      It was after midnight and South Beach was crackling with electricity. Neon lights sparkled off the dark blue ocean. Headache-bright convertible Mercedes and brand-new PT Cruisers crawled down Ocean Drive with their car stereos pumping bass-heavy Latin beats. Sidewalk bistros resonated with conversations in a panoply of languages. Palm trees swayed alongside the strip’s hotels and high-rise condominiums. Leggy models overran the sidewalks, teetering on strappy high heels in the direction of fancy nightclubs. Buff gay boys strolled hand-in-hand along cream-colored beaches. Leathery women with iguanas on their backs hustled tourists for money, oblivious to the pack of bikers slurping liquor-laden slushes at outdoor bars.

      Even on a weeknight South Beach did not come to life until now, until the wee hours. Most year-rounders—as the glittery residents of the beachfront area refer to themselves—don’t have anywhere to be come daybreak. First appointments begin in the middle of the day—chores like late afternoon photo shoots or workouts with personal trainers. Posh clothing stores, like Versace and Betsey Johnson, don’t even bother to open before 2 P.M. The only people who appeared busy were the paparazzi, vying from helicopters for shots of Madonna jogging along the edge of the waves or of Sylvester Stallone pushing a baby stroller with his wife.

      Nightlife is the heartbeat of South Beach, and no one made its heart beat more loudly than Chris Paciello.

      Driving on the morning side of midnight, Chris Paciello cruised down beyond-stylish Washington Avenue in his black Range Rover. He had a cell phone clamped to his ear. On the other end of the line was the manager of Joia, the elite Italian bistro Paciello owned on Ocean Drive. Paciello wanted the answer to a relatively straightforward question: What would it take for these guys to shape up and keep that place running smoothly without him? Paciello was steaming. He waited a few impatient moments for an answer, and when he didn’t receive one, he hung up in disgust.

      The twenty-eight-year-old businessman had just departed from Joia, where he’d dined on risotto sautéed with pungent Parmesan cheese, accompanied by a glass of fine red wine. He ate dinner there four or five nights a week at his personal table near Joia’s hostess stand. It was the choicest seat in the house, ideal for those who liked to glance at the beautiful people passing by while nibbling on expensive cuisine. From this vantage point, Paciello could oversee the staff, survey the customers, or focus his attention on the turquoise shoreline with its sunbathers, often topless, across the street. He could even take in the competition at other open-air bars and eateries smattered along the beachfront.

      This was his place. These were his people.

      You didn’t even have to live in South Beach to know Chris Paciello. National magazines had carried photos and profiles of the hunky club owner. Vanity Fair interviewed Madonna and Rupert Everett at Joia, declaring, If South Beach is the new Riviera, then Joia is the Hôtel Du Cap.

      But the elite eatery was just part of Paciello’s empire. He also owned Bar Room, Miami’s hottest lounge, where Dennis Rodman and Gwyneth Paltrow were regulars, as well as Liquid, another massive nightclub. Paciello’s dark moods were always buoyed when he pulled his SUV in front of 1439 Washington Avenue. At this moment, Liquid was the hottest nightspot on the planet.

      On this night, more than a hundred decked-out revelers were feverishly trying to beg or bribe their way past swarthy bouncers into the 36,000-square-foot club. The line stretched the entire block.

      Each of the area’s hotspots hired a crew of buff men with bronze complexions and steely stares standing guard behind velvet ropes. These bruisers had powers far beyond that of mortal doormen. They were the gatekeepers. The givers of The Nod—a silent, bobbing-head signal that meant you could join the party inside.

      Only then could you enter the realm of South Beach’s professional A-list, where Chris Paciello ruled.

      Paciello valet-parked his car and palmed a ten into the valet’s hand. The valet, like most of his clubs’ employees, was an old friend from Staten Island, New York. Paciello always surrounded himself with people he trusted, and usually he only trusted people from the old neighborhood.

      Some of the club’s regulars, even plain folk who recognized his mug from People magazine, spotted Paciello as he strode toward the velvet ropes. He stood six-feet-plus, his frame all muscle, with a boxer’s square jaw and blazing black eyes. They yelled his name in vain. What’s up, Chris? Hey, guy, remember me? Chris, help me out here, I’m with my girl. The club’s owner just smiled toward the crowd, whispered to his head bouncer, and opened the front doors, blasting the hopeful with a few brief seconds of techno music and kaleidoscopic disco lights.

      Once inside, Paciello was immediately the center of attention. Svelte women preened for his approval. He strode through the downstairs lounge, making sure the candles were lit, the incense was burning, and the vases were filled with fresh flowers. Everything was in place; after all, Madonna’s brother, Christopher Ciccone, had designed the club’s swank layout.

      Paciello twisted through the packed dance floor to his reserved table in the more exclusive of the club’s two VIP sections. The room was private enough to keep starry-eyed interlopers out. Before he even took a seat, a waitress set down an ice bucket with Moët champagne and a bottle of Evian water.

      He scoured the surrounding faces with a fixed smile, curious to see who was in the club. Liquid’s guest roster usually read like National Enquirer headline copy. Sean Puffy Combs burst into impromptu concerts there. Cher was another performer who often packed the place. Starlet Cameron Diaz was a regular, as were Michael Jordan and Robert De Niro, Matt Dillon and Chris Rock, Naomi Campbell and Donatella Versace, and James Woods and Calvin Klein.

      America’s royalty—the models, the moguls, the movie stars—had crowned Chris Paciello King of South Beach, and he wore the title well. He looked regal with his chiseled face and slicked-back hair, a few black strands highlighted an orange tint by the sun. He wrapped his toned physique in pricey Prada suits. His face was a staple in Miami glossies. His every move was monitored by gossip columnists in tabloids up and down the East Coast.

      In a few days Paciello was going to open the fourth outpost of his empire, the West Palm Beach Liquid Room. For the big party, New York business mogul and casino tycoon Donald Trump had agreed to be the guest of honor. The phone was already ringing off the hook. Glitterati from downtown Manhattan to Beverly Hills wanted a spot on the guest list.

      As Paciello contemplated the upcoming bash, Miami Heat superstar center Alonzo Mourning passed by his table. Paciello pulled him to the side and invited him to be a guest.

      "It’s going to be the party of the year! Paciello announced in a gritty New York accent. This Friday will be one that south Florida will never forget."

      Paciello was not even thirty, already a millionaire and a legendary Casanova. He had a hard time keeping his women away from each other. Rumor had Madonna succumbing to Paciello’s charm. Sultry MTV veejay Daisy Fuentes pursued him for months until he became her frequent escort. Pop singer Jennifer Lopez deposited her famous derriere into his open palms to ring in New Year’s Eve at Ocean Drive’s Pelican Hotel one year. Then there was the time he was caught making out with supermodel Niki Taylor in Liquid’s DJ booth.

      South Beach was a fitting refuge for someone like Chris Paciello. After all, the town’s sunny shores had long been a great hideaway for shady characters and B-list celebrities. Al Capone and his cronies wintered on Miami’s shores. The FBI has a file stuffed with surveillance shots of Meyer Lansky as he strolled down South Beach. In the forties, Frank Sinatra and Marlene Dietrich made it their own American Riviera.

      Yet by the early 1980s, most of South Beach’s whimsical buildings stood rotting and near collapse. Biker gangs, drug addicts, and derelicts enjoyed almost complete run of the streets. A decade later, however, savvy entrepreneurs moved in and lured the rich and famous to the dilapidated shoreline with glittering nightlife. Fashion models and their photographers, millionaire rap stars, and surgery-enhanced jet-setters played happy rats to Paciello and his fellow pied pipers. They raised South Beach to a new high. And the best-of-the-best kept coming.

      In fact, it might be said that in many ways the revival of this run-down Florida haven paralleled what Jewish gangster Bugsy Siegel and his gang in Murder Inc. did by whipping a pile of desert sand into the money-machine that became Las Vegas. Certainly the guys financing the South Beach renaissance were familiar with Bugsy Siegel’s line of work.

      Chris Paciello left Liquid just after 3 A.M. He drove past Bar Room a few blocks away, but he did not go in. He just nodded toward the doormen and drove home. At the moment he was living in a rented one-story white stucco house on East San Marino Drive while his $1 million Italian palazzo underwent a complete overhaul. East San Marino Drive was not exactly low rent, though. The small street was one of many dotting picturesque inlets behind South Beach. Paciello lived across the street from an ambassador to Cuba.

      As Paciello pulled the Range Rover into the driveway, his faithful rottweiler ran to the front yard and barked a welcome. He patted the dog, walked into the house past his brother, Keith, who had nodded out on the couch, and went upstairs to the master bedroom. He had to get some rest before his boxing coach showed

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1