It was a quiet Sunday night in Des Moines’ Little Italy when the shooting started.
Angelo Ferrari parked his car in the garage behind
his house at 1066 West 42nd Street. He went inside, talked with his wife Mazie,
then went back out to clean the car.
Ten minutes later, the still air split open with
gunfire. Fast. Loud. Too many to count.
Mazie froze. She locked the doors and hid in the
front room, heart pounding. Neighbors heard the shots and saw two men running
down the alley.
When they reached the garage, Angelo was sprawled
on the floor, bleeding out. Five bullets hit him. One through the temple.
Twelve shells on the ground.
He was still alive when help came, but only for a
few minutes. Then, he was gone.
The cops rolled in, coats flapping, flashlights
cutting through the dark. They asked questions nobody wanted to answer.
This was Little Italy. Nobody talked. Nobody saw a
thing.
Whispers spread about the Black Hand—a secret ring of extortionists who bled their own countrymen dry. Pay up or die. Simple as that. They sent letters marked with a black handprint. Refuse, and you got a bullet instead of a warning.
A detective told the papers, “We’re powerless to prevent it.” Everyone knew who did it, he said, but nobody dared to speak.
The Des Moines Tribune wrote that Italian killers seemed to “delight in murdering their victims immediately after a jollification.” They even claimed the police knew who’d be next but couldn’t stop it.
Angelo’s death wasn’t the first. Two of his friends had already been shot dead in the past two years. Same story, same silence.
The police hauled in Pietro Fostosos for questioning. He smiled, said nothing, and walked out free. A few months later, he went to trial for assaulting a 13-year-old girl.
By morning, the neighborhood went back to life as usual. Doors opened. Kids played. The silence stayed.
No witnesses. No arrests. No justice.
The killers disappeared into the city’s shadows. Angelo Ferrari took his secrets to the grave.
Business as usual in Little Italy.
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