Ruggiero went to underboss Aniello Dellacroce for help. Dellacroce managed to stall Castellano through 1984 and into 1985, but Castellano persisted. He wanted a copy of Ruggiero's transcripts, and as his own trials drew near, he felt that it was crucial to know what had been going on in his family behind his back. By now the 70-year-old Dellacroce was dying of cancer and couldn't be of much help to Ruggiero, but Ruggiero's childhood friend, John Gotti, rallied to his side. The white-collar boss from up on the hill was not going to interfere with the business of the real wiseguys. Castellano was losing his patience with these insolent soldiers. He informed his inner circle that if he didn't get the transcripts soon, he would have Ruggiero and Gotti whacked. Rumors of his intentions filtered through the ranks and found their way to Gotti.
On December 2, 1985, Dellacroce succumbed to his illness. Without Dellacroce to intervene for them, Ruggiero and Gotti were at grave risk. But Castellano was at risk, too. If he attempted to take out Ruggiero and Gotti, the Manhattan faction was ready to go to war against the rest of the family, threatening to destroy what had become the dominant criminal organization in New York City. Each day the tensions mounted. For John Gotti and his crew, the choice soon became evident: Kill or be killed. If there was ever any doubt in John Gotti's mind, it was Paul Castellano himself who provided the last straw. Big Paul did not attend Aniello Dellacroce's wake. To the Manhattan faction, this was an unforgivable show of disrespect.
On December 16, just after 5 p.m., the streets of midtown Manhattan were jammed with office workers and Christmas shoppers. Rush hour had begun, worse than usual during the holiday season, and a black Lincoln Continental inched along with the crush of traffic. Tommy Bilotti was behind the wheel, Paul Castellano in the front passenger seat. They were heading for Sparks Steak House on East 46th Street between Second and Third Avenues for a meeting that had been arranged by capo Frank DeCicco.
Eight hit men waited for their arrival. The primary team of four wore identical trench coats and fur Cossack hats and lingered in the doorways along the block where the steakhouse was located. The backup team hung back nearby in case they were needed.
Castellano's car arrived at about 5:30 p.m. As the boss opened his door to get out, the hit team converged. Castellano and Bilotti took six bullets each, the hubbub of rush-hour traffic masking the sound of the shots. The sight of two men in business suits sprawled on the pavement alerted pedestrians that something had happened. Bilotti's body was face up in the middle of East 46th Street, blocking traffic. Big Paul had toppled into the gutter and lay in a contorted position with blood pooling around him. As people gathered around, the assassins walked quickly to waiting cars. Eye witnesses said they saw the identically dressed men but were unable to identify any of them individually.
In a matter of weeks the newspapers declared John Gotti, the man who had organized the hit, as the new boss of the Gambino family. In one bold move, he deposed an unpopular leader, averted a mob civil war, and saved his own hide. The ascent of John Gotti would mark a return to the methods of Gotti's idol, Albert Anastasia, the Lord High Executioner.
John Gotti is perhaps the most well-known Mafioso in American history, on par with the legendary Al Capone. He had a violent temper and was quick to retaliate against the smallest perceived slight, and yet like Capone, he was a stylish man about town, known for his hand-tailored suits, painted silk ties, and perfectly coifed steel gray hair. While most mob bosses shunned the media, Gotti always had a quip ready for the outstretched microphones and a million-dollar smile for the cameras whenever he strutted into court. The press dubbed him the Dapper Don for his sartorial style, then the Teflon Don for his astounding ability to keep criminal charges from sticking to him. He had the bark of a pit bull and the bite of a Great White, but the New York public took to him and despite his reputation, seemed to root for him whenever he was on trial.
Upon taking the throne, Gotti appointed Frank DeCicco as his underboss and promoted his old friend Angelo Ruggiero to capo in charge of his old crew. While maintaining his old hangout, the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club in Ozone Park, Queens, he mainly held court at the Aniello Dellacroce's old haunt, the Ravenite Club on Mulberry Street in Manhattan's Little Italy where he popularized the "walk-talk," conducting confidential conversations while strolling along the streets as news and surveillance cameras caught the video but not the audio. Unlike his contemporaries, Gotti loved the limelight, and a week didn't go by that a Gotti sighting wasn't reported somewhere in the press.
Many of his Mafia counterparts wished he'd learned more from the wily Carlo Gambino, whose face was virtually unknown to the public. Gambino wielded enormous power from his humble home and the backrooms of dingy social clubs. Gotti's home in Howard Beach, Queens, was frequently seen on television, and he was often spotted dining at some of the fanciest restaurants in town. Mob traditionalists found his style grating, particularly Vincent "Chin" Gigante, the boss of the Genovese family. Gigante was the one New York boss whose permission Gotti did not seek when he was planning the hit on Paul Castellano.Gotti knew that Gigante would have denied him because of his close ties to Castellano. Gigante, who had protected himself and his family for years by pretending to be mentally ill, saw Gotti as a usurper and a danger to the well-being of the mob, so he put out a contract on Gotti's life. Gigante was secretly aided by two of Gotti's capos, James "Jimmy Brown" Failla and Daniel Marino, who had originally belonged to the Castellano faction.