*NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER* The No-Holds-Barred Truth About Life Inside the Gotti Dynasty—Told by Their Most Famous Daughter Victoria Gotti never intended to reveal the inside story of the Gotti household—the day-to-day life of a family that has sparked scandalous rumors and sensational headlines for decades. But with the pressing need to finally set the record straight came the realization that only she can do so, once and for all. Daughter to the late John Gotti, sister to John A. “Junior” Gotti and three other siblings, single mother to three sons with whom she shared reality television stardom on Growing Up Gotti , an outspoken columnist and bestselling author, Victoria Gotti delivers a candid, colorful, and brutally honest family portrait that reads like a confidential file, filled with deeply personal reflections, bombshell revelations, and stunning insider secrets. The explosive memoir that captures the Gottis as they are—unvarnished, raw, and real— This Family of Mine is the essential chronicle in the ultimate American family saga. Victoria Gotti has been a columnist at the New York Post , executive editor of Star magazine, an on-air correspondent for Extra!, and star of the A&E reality television series Growing Up Gotti . She is the author of several books, including the award-winning, bestselling novel The Senator's Daughter and the cookbook Hot Italian Dish . Born in Brooklyn, New York, she is the daughter of the late Mafia boss John Gotti. This Family of Mine CHAPTER ONE “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” Winter 1952 The door blew open with driving force; shards of wood like shrapnel sprayed the cold, cramped Brooklyn railroad flat. To a twelve-year-old, the U.S. Marshal’s arrival came in the form of an unfathomable explosion that would haunt his dreams into adulthood. Two local police officers and one marshal from the housing department had been dispatched to evict a poor and hungry family of thirteen—despite the fact that Christmas was less than one week away. My father lay huddled with his six brothers, all forced to survive in one room, on two mattresses, in the musty three-room apartment. It was in the dead of winter and none of the Gotti children—seven boys and four girls, ages five to sixteen—had clothing suitable for protection against the elements. Dad would later recall that evening as being not only unbearably cold but accompanied by a dark, empty sky. The Gotti children were accustomed to sharing tight quarters. If it seemed unnatural, even cruel, it was nonetheless preferable to sleeping on a cold bare floor “or being homeless,” as my father used to say. The family bounced around in those years, from a poverty-stricken section of the South Bronx to a modest apartment in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. My grandfather, John Senior, made some money in an all-night card game and moved the family into a middle-class neighborhood; however, it wasn’t long before his luck (and money) ran out. Within a few months the Gotti clan ended up in more humble surroundings, a shabby apartment in Downtown Brooklyn. “Times were hard,” my father said. “And they were about to get a lot harder.” The eviction in 1952 was swift and heartless. Dressed only in worn flimsy garments, the Gotti children and their mother, Fannie, stood shivering in front of the dilapidated apartment complex that only a few minutes earlier had been their home. John Senior was out that night, off on one of his business trips. Monthly rent on the apartment was a paltry sum, but even that proved more than my grandfather could manage. Philomena “Fannie” DeCarlo Gotti was a hardworking housewife who often took on odd jobs outside the home—doing the neighbors’ laundry, cleaning apartments, bagging groceries at a local market to help make ends meet. But lately there never seemed to be enough money. The family was barely able to keep food on the table and heat in the apartment. Conversely, my grandfather, John Joseph Gotti, was a perpetual adolescent, forever in search of excitement and fun. An avid gambler, drinker, and womanizer, he rarely held a steady job; whenever he got the “itch,” as Grandma called it, he would take off for parts unknown, typically accompanied by some barmaid he’d only recently met. There were times when Grandpa hit the road on one of his so-called “business trips” and didn’t return for months. For a while he had a job as a camera grip for a major film studio and even traveled to Hollywood on one occasion. This failed to result in any sort of legitimate career, but it did produce a handful of entertaining tales. My grandfather was fond of embellishment, and so he would tell anyone within earshot of his work-related war stories, like the time he met Jane Russell. During the filming of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Grandpa swore the gorgeous actress was attracted to him (forget for a moment the professional chasm that separated the lowly tech and the leading lady), and that she looked for excuses to