Assassin Came For Frank Costello — What Happened Next Changed The Mafia

Assassin Came For Frank Costello — What Happened Next Changed The Mafia 

The doorman at the Majestic Apartments on Central Park West tipped his hat as Frank Costello walked through the lobby at 10:55 p.m. on May 2nd, 1957. It was a Thursday night. Frank had just finished dinner at an Italian restaurant in Midtown with his attorney. He was 66 years old, dressed in an expensive suit, looking every bit the sophisticated businessman he pretended to be.

 Frank nodded to the doorman, walked toward the elevator, pressed the button, waited. He didn’t notice the man sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper. Didn’t notice that same man stand up and walk toward him. didn’t notice until the man was 10 feet away pulling a revolver from his coat.

 “This is for you, Frank,” the man said. Frank turned, saw the gun, started to move. The man fired. The bullet grazed Frank’s scalp, cutting a groove above his right ear. Blood poured down his face. Frank fell backward, hitting the marble floor hard. The shooter ran out the lobby door into a waiting Cadillac, disappearing into Manhattan traffic.

 The doorman rushed over. Mr. Costello, Mr. Costello, are you all right? Frank sat up slowly, blood streaming down the side of his head. He touched the wound, looked at his hand, saw the blood. Then he did something the doorman would never forget. He smiled. “Get me a towel,” Frank said calmly. “And call my doctor.

 Tell him I’ll be at Roosevelt Hospital in 20 minutes.” The doorman stammered. “Shouldn’t I call the police? Call my doctor. That’s all. This is the story of how Frank Costello survived an assassination attempt that should have killed him. The story of what he found in his pocket immediately after being shot and the decision he made because of it.

 and the story of how one failed murder changed the entire structure of the American mafia, ending an era and beginning another that would last for decades. To understand what happened that night, you need to understand who Frank Costello was in May 1957. He was boss of the Luchiano crime family, later called the Genevies family.

He’d taken control in 1946 when Lucky Luciano was deported to Italy. For 11 years, Frank had run one of the most powerful criminal organizations in America. But unlike many mob bosses, Frank preferred influence over violence, preferred bribes over bullets, preferred working with politicians, judges, and police rather than fighting them.

 They called him the prime minister of the underworld because of his political connections. Frank had judges on his payroll, police captains, city councilmen, state legislators, even a few congressmen. When Frank wanted something done in New York, he made a phone call, pulled a string, and it happened. No violence necessary.

This approach made Frank very successful. But it also made him vulnerable because there were people in his own organization who thought Frank was too soft, too political, too willing to compromise. They wanted a boss who was more traditional, more violent, more like the old days. The leader of this faction was Veto Genevves.

 Genevese was Frank’s under boss, second in command, and he’d been planning to take over for years. Genevves believed the family needed to return to its roots, strong armed tactics, violence, fear. He thought Frank’s political approach made them look weak, made other families not respect them. So Genevves ordered a hit on Frank Costello.

Hired a shooter named Vincent the Chin Jagante, told him to kill Frank, make it look like a robbery, and report back when it was done. Vincent Jagante failed. He got nervous, rushed the shot, only grazed Frank’s head instead of killing him. And that failure changed everything. At Roosevelt Hospital, doctors treated Frank’s wound. It was superficial.

Looked worse than it was because head wounds bleed heavily. The bullet had carved a groove above his ear, but hadn’t penetrated his skull. 15 stitches, bandages, instructions to rest. The police arrived while Frank was being treated. Two detectives from the NP YPD. Mr. Castello, can you tell us what happened? I was entering my building.

Someone shot me. I didn’t see who. You didn’t see anyone? No. I heard a voice, turned around, saw a gun, heard a shot. That’s all. The doorman says the shooter said something before firing. This is for you, Frank. You hear that? Didn’t hear anything except the gunshot. Mr.

 Castello, someone just tried to kill you. Don’t you want us to find out who? Frank looked at the detective. I got no idea who would want to shoot me. I’m a legitimate businessman. This was probably a robbery attempt. Wrong place, wrong time, nothing more. The detective didn’t believe him. Nobody believed him. But Frank stuck to his story.

 Refused to identify the shooter, refused to speculate about motives, just kept saying it was random, mistaken identity, bad luck. The police knew Frank was lying. But they couldn’t force him to cooperate. So they investigated on their own, eventually identified Vincent Jagante as the shooter based on witness descriptions, arrested him, charged him with attempted murder.

 At trial, Frank testified, said he couldn’t identify the shooter, said Gigante wasn’t the man who shot him. Said the police had the wrong guy. Gagante was acquitted, walked free. But here’s what nobody knew at the time. Frank had lied about more than just the shooter’s identity. He’d lied about what he had in his pocket when he was shot.

Immediately after being shot, while lying on the lobby floor bleeding, Frank had reached into his jacket pocket, not for a weapon, not for a handkerchief, but for a piece of paper he’d been carrying all day. It was a small slip of paper with handwritten numbers on it. Frank looked at the numbers, read them quickly, then crumpled the paper, and stuffed it deep into his pants pocket before the door man reached him.

 At the hospital, while doctors were treating his wound, Frank went to the bathroom, locked the door, took out the crumpled paper, read it again. Gross. Casino wins $651,284. It was the previous month’s revenue from the Tropicana Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. Frank had a hidden ownership stake in the Tropicana. The paper was proof of illegal gambling income.

 Proof of mob involvement in Vegas casinos, proof that could send Frank to prison if authorities found it. Frank tore the paper into tiny pieces, flushed it down the toilet, watched it disappear. But here’s the problem. Frank wasn’t the only one who knew that paper existed. The police had searched Frank at the hospital, standard procedure for gunshot victims.

They’d found the crumpled paper in his pants pocket before Frank could destroy it. They’d photographed it, documented it, and now federal authorities were very interested in Frank Costello’s connection to Las Vegas casinos. Within a week, the IRS opened an investigation into Frank’s finances. Within a month, they’d connected him to multiple Vegas operations.

 Within 6 months, they’d built a tax evasion case that would eventually send Frank to prison. But that wasn’t the worst consequence of the paper being found. 3 weeks after the assassination attempt, the commission, the governing body of the American Mafia, held an emergency meeting. Present were the bosses of New York’s five families, plus representatives from Chicago, Detroit, and Philadelphia.

The meeting was called by Carlo Gambino, boss of the Gambino family and one of Frank’s closest allies. We need to discuss what happened with Frank, Gambino said. Someone in his own family tried to kill him. That’s unacceptable. It breaks every rule we have. Veto Genevvesi, who everyone knew had ordered the hit, spoke up.

 Frank’s leadership has been weak. He’s too focused on politics, not enough on our interests. The family needs stronger leadership. Stronger leadership? Gambino replied. Frank’s been boss for 11 years. He’s made everyone money. He’s kept the peace. He’s built connections that protect all of us. And you repay him with an assassination attempt.

 The attempt failed. Genevves said, “Frank’s alive. No harm done. no harm. The police are investigating him. The federal government is investigating him. That paper they found in his pocket, the casino revenue numbers, that’s brought heat on all of us. Because now the feds know we’re in Vegas. They’re looking at every casino, every hidden owner, every connection.

That’s harm. veto. That’s serious harm. The other bosses murmured agreement. The Vegas operations were too valuable to risk. Hundreds of millions of dollars flowing through mobcrolled casinos. If federal investigations shut that down because of heat from Frank’s shooting, everyone would lose. I propose we resolve this peacefully, Gambino continued.

 Frank steps down as boss, takes a lesser role. Veto becomes boss, but we do it properly. No more violence, no more unauthorized hits. We do this through the commission the right way. Everyone looked at Frank, who’d been sitting quietly throughout the meeting. I agree, Frank said. I’ll step down. Veto can be boss.

 I don’t want a war. Don’t want more violence. I’m getting old. I’m tired. Let someone else run things. The room was stunned. Frank Costello, the prime minister, one of the most powerful mobsters in America, was voluntarily giving up his position. You’re sure? Gambino asked. I’m sure, but I have one condition. What’s that? I remain in the family.

 I keep my businesses, my operations, my income. I just won’t be boss anymore. Veto gets the title and the responsibility. I get to step back and focus on making money. That’s the deal. Genevves smiled. He’d won. He was about to become boss of the Luciano family. I accept. Frank stays in the family, keeps his operations.

 I take over as boss. Done. The commission voted. Unanimous approval. Frank Costello was out as boss. Veto Genevvesi was in. It should have been Genevves’s moment of triumph. Instead, it was the beginning of his downfall. What nobody up there that commission meeting understood. What even Frank didn’t fully understand at the time was that stepping down saved Frank’s life and set up Genevies for destruction.

Here’s what happened over the next year. Frank Costello, no longer boss, had more freedom to move, more freedom to talk, more freedom to make decisions without worrying about family politics. And Frank used that freedom to do something brilliant. He started cooperating with the federal government.

 Not as an informant, not testifying, just helping. When the IRS built their tax evasion case against Frank, he didn’t fight it hard. He pleaded guilty in 1958, got a 5-year sentence, served less than a year, and while in prison, Frank had interesting conversations with federal investigators. “Tell us about Veto Genevves,” they’d say. Frank would shrug.

 “What do you want to know?” “His operations, his income, his illegal activities. I don’t know much anymore. I’m retired, not involved. And but if you’re investigating him, you might want to look at his narcotics operations. I hear he’s heavily involved against commission rules, but that’s veto. Frank never testified, never wore a wire, never became an official informant, but he pointed investigators in the right direction, gave them names to check, suggested places to look.

 Meanwhile, Veto Genevves, now boss and feeling powerful, got sloppy, started expanding the narcotics trade, started making deals with people who turned out to be informants, started creating evidence that federal prosecutors could use. In 1959, 2 years after Frank stepped down, Veto Genevvesi was arrested on drug trafficking charges.

The evidence was overwhelming. In 1960, he was convicted, sentenced to 15 years in federal prison. He died in prison in 1969, never having enjoyed his position as boss. And Frank Costello, he was released from prison in 1959. retired from active mob leadership, lived comfortably on income from his legitimate businesses and his Vegas interests, died in 1973 at age 82, peacefully in bed, surrounded by family.

The assassination attempt on Frank Costello and its aftermath changed the mafia in several fundamental ways. First, it showed that violence against bosses had consequences. Veto Genevvesi killed Frank Costello or tried to the commission could have let it slide. Instead, they forced a resolution. Set a precedent.

 You don’t kill bosses without permission. You don’t create instability. You work through the system. Second, it exposed Vegas. That piece of paper in Frank’s pocket, the casino revenue numbers, brought federal attention to mob involvement in Las Vegas. Over the next two decades, the government systematically dismantled mob control of Vegas casinos, forced sales, installed legitimate ownership, ended an era.

Third, it demonstrated that stepping down could be smart. Frank could have fought Genevies, could have started a war, could have tried to hold on to power. Instead, he stepped aside, let Genevves take over, and watched as Genevves destroyed himself. Frank’s strategic retreat became a model for future bosses facing internal challenges.

Fourth, it showed the limits of the old violent approach. Genevies represented the old school violence, intimidation, traditional mob tactics. Frank represented a newer approach, politics, influence, corruption of legitimate institutions. Genevies won the battle for control. But Frank’s approach proved more sustainable long-term.

Years later, in 1968, a journalist interviewed Frank Costello about the assassination attempt. Frank was 77 years old, retired, living quietly. “Do you know who shot you?” the journalist asked. “Of course I know. Vincent Gigante. Everyone knows.” Why didn’t you testify against him? Frank smiled. Because testifying would have started a war.

 Would have forced the commission to choose sides. Would have created chaos. Better to let it go. Let veto think he won. But he did win. He became boss for two years. Then he went to prison for 15 years and died there. I stepped in down, served less than a year, came home and lived in peace. You tell me who won. Do you think Genevves would have been caught without your help? I didn’t help the feds, Frank said carefully.

I just didn’t obstruct them. There’s a difference. Veto made his own mistakes, built his own case. I just made sure investigators knew where to look. Some people call that informing. Some people don’t understand the distinction. I never testified, never wore a wire, never gave formal statements.

 I just had conversations, pointed people in directions. That’s not informing. That’s self-preservation. Do you regret how it ended with veto in prison? Frank thought about this. I regret that he tried to kill me. I regret that he forced a confrontation. But do I regret how it resolved? No. Veto made his choices. He wanted power through violence.

 He got it and it destroyed him. That’s not my fault. That’s just how things work. The bullet that grazed Frank Costello’s head in May 1957 is in a museum now. The NYPD recovered it from the lobby wall of the Majestic Apartments. It’s displayed with a placard that reads, “Bullet from assassination attempt on Frank Costello, May 2nd, 1957.

” What the placard doesn’t say is that this failed bullet changed everything. It ended Frank’s time as boss, but saved his life. It elevated Veto Genevvesi, but destroyed him. It exposed Vegas operations but allowed Frank to transition out of active crime. It was simultaneously a failure and a success depending on whose perspective you’re viewing it from.

Vincent Gigante, the shooter, never faced consequences for the attempted murder. Frank refused to identify him. He was acquitted at trial. Gigante went on to become boss of the Genevese family himself years later. Though he spent much of his leadership pretending to be mentally ill, walking around Greenwich Village in a bathrobe, talking to himself, trying to avoid prosecution.

He died prison in 2005, age 77, convicted of rakateeering. Frank Costello died in 1973. At his funeral, hundreds attended. Mobsters, politicians, businessmen, people from every level of society. Because Frank had been more than a mob boss. He’d been a bridge between the underworld and the legitimate world.

 A man who understood that power wasn’t just about violence. It was about influence, connections, knowing when to fight and when to step back. The assassination attempt should have killed him. Instead, it freed him. And in that freedom, Frank Costello outlived his enemies, retired in peace, and died in his sleep, a luxury few mob bosses ever experienced.

That wraps it up for today. May 2nd, 1957. Vincent Jagante shot Frank Costello in his apartment lobby. The bullet only grazed him. Police found casino revenue numbers in Frank’s pocket. Evidence that brought federal heat. 3 weeks later, Frank voluntarily stepped down as boss. Let Veto Genevvesi take over. Then quietly helped investigators build a case against Genevies.

 Two years later, Genevies went to prison for 15 years, died there. Frank retired peacefully, lived to 82. Because Frank understood something Genevves didn’t. Sometimes losing power is the smartest way to survive. One failed bullet changed the mafia forever. If this story hit you, drop a comment below. Subscribe for more stories where stepping back is the ultimate power move. See you in the next