On the afternoon of July 16, 1984, in a room inside the headquarters of the Italian police in Rome, with the shutters half closed against the summer heat, a man of fifty-six sat down at a table. He was tanned, well-dressed, carefully groomed, with the manner of a man who had spent his life being deferred to. Two weeks earlier he had been carried off an airplane from Brazil on a stretcher, having swallowed strychnine in his cell the night before the flight, and he had spent the time since in a prison hospital deciding whether to live. Across the table sat a magistrate from Palermo, a heavy, quiet Sicilian of forty-five with a mustache and a reputation, who had been waiting for this conversation for three years.

The man at the table said he wanted to make a statement. He said he was not doing it for revenge, and he was not doing it for a deal, and he wanted that understood. Then he began, and he did not stop for forty-five days. By the time he finished, the magistrate had three hundred and fifty pages.

The pages contained the first complete description that anybody outside that organization had ever heard of what the Sicilian Mafia was, how it was governed, what it was called by the men inside it, and who, by name, had been killing whom in Palermo for the previous four years. Two years later, in a courtroom built inside a prison, 474 men would stand trial on the strength of it. His name was Tommaso Buscetta. And the reason he was sitting at that table was that in the two years before it, the organization he was about to describe had murdered two of his sons, his brother, his nephew, his son-in-law, his brother-in-law, and four other members of his family, and had not yet finished.

He was born in Palermo in 1928, the youngest of seventeen children in a poor district near the port, and he was, by every account including his own, a mafioso by the time he was twenty. He was made a member of a family in the Porta Nuova district of the city in the years just after the war, and he rose in it, and by the 1950s he was a man of some importance in a city where that meant something specific. Palermo in the 1950s was a city being rebuilt badly on purpose. The old center had been bombed in the war and left to rot.

The money was going into new suburbs to the north and west, into blocks of concrete flats rising on what had been orchards. The contracts for the concrete, the land, and the permits were the organization’s first great modern business. It was called the sack of Palermo, and the men who ran it sat on the city council. Buscetta grew up into that.

He was not a builder. He was one of the men the builders needed. It is worth understanding what the Sicilian organization was, because it was not the American one, and the differences are the story. In Sicily, the organization was older, more secret, and more serious about its secrecy.

It did not have a name its members used in public. The word mafia was a word the newspapers used. The members called it Cosa Nostra, our thing, and until Buscetta sat down at that table in Rome, no magistrate in Italy had ever heard a member say the words. It was organized by families, and the families by districts, and the districts by a commission, and the commission by a man at the top of it.

The whole structure was, in theory, a matter of honor and rules and votes. In practice, by the 1970s, it was a matter of heroin. Buscetta was, in the language of that world, a man of the old school. He was not a boss.

He never held a rank above soldier, which he would later say was by choice, and which people who knew him say was because he was too independent and too fond of women to be trusted with one. But he was respected, and he was known, and he moved in the highest circles of the organization on two continents. The newspapers, when they came to write about him, called him the boss of two worlds. He was also a man who was noticed.

He was handsome, he dressed well, and he had, over his life, three wives and a number of other women, which in an organization that prided itself on a certain austerity was held against him. The bosses found him unreliable in the way that men who enjoy themselves are unreliable. It kept him a soldier. It also kept him, more than once, out of the room when the decisions were taken that put other men in prison, and it is one of the reasons he was still alive in 1984.

He was also, from early on, a man who left. He left Palermo the first time in 1963, after a car bomb meant for one boss killed seven policemen and soldiers in a suburb of the city and brought down a wave of arrests that emptied the organization into prison and exile for a decade. He went to the United States, then to Mexico, then to Brazil. In each place he set up businesses, married, made friends, and was, by the account of the people who dealt with him, charming, reliable, and dangerous.

In New York in the 1960s, he ran a pizzeria, or was said to, and moved between the Sicilian families that had settled in Brooklyn and their cousins at home. The pizzeria is worth remembering, because twenty years later the American government would put on trial the whole network of pizzerias through which Sicilian heroin had been sold across the United States. The witness who explained to that jury how the network worked was the man who had once run one. In 1972, the Brazilian police arrested him and, by his own account, tortured him for weeks, then sent him back to Italy, where he served eight years of a sentence for two murders he had been convicted of in his absence.

In 1980, on a day release from prison, he walked away and went back to Brazil. And it was in Brazil in 1982 that the news from Palermo began to reach him. Here is where it turns. In the years Buscetta had been away, the organization in Palermo had changed hands, and it had done so by the only method it knew.

The families that had run the city through the 1970s were the old Palermo families, the ones Buscetta had grown up in, led by men like Stefano Bontade and Salvatore Inzerillo, who were rich, connected, and comfortable, and who ran the heroin trade to America through their relatives in New York. Against them, from the hills inland, came the family from a town called Corleone, led by a man named Salvatore Riina, whom the newspapers called Totò and the organization called, with respect, the short one. Riina did not want to share. He wanted everything, and he understood something the Palermo bosses did not: that the rules of the organization were only rules if the men with the guns agreed to keep them.

In April of 1981, Stefano Bontade was shot dead in his car on his birthday. In May, Salvatore Inzerillo was shot dead outside his mistress’s house. Then the killing simply did not stop. Over the next two years, the Corleonesi and their allies killed somewhere between five hundred and a thousand people in and around Palermo, and the number is vague because a great many of the dead were never found.

It was called the Second Mafia War, and it was not a war. It was a purge. The old families were not defeated. They were erased, together with their relatives, their friends, and anybody who might one day want to avenge them.

Buscetta was of the old families. He had been Bontade’s friend. He was in Brazil and out of reach, and the Corleonesi did what they did with men who were out of reach. In September of 1982, his two eldest sons, Antonio and Benedetto, went out in Palermo and did not come back.

Their bodies were never found. In December, his brother Vincenzo and his nephew Benedetto were shot dead in the glassworks the family owned. His son-in-law was killed. His brother-in-law was killed.

Over the following two years, the list grew to eleven, and it is possible it was longer, because the organization did not always leave the dead where they could be counted. None of them were in the organization. That was the point. The old rule had been that you did not touch a man’s family, and the Corleonesi had decided that the old rules were for the old families, and that the way to bring a man like Buscetta to heel was to leave him nobody.

They were wrong about that, and it is the mistake this story is about. In October of 1983, Buscetta was arrested in Brazil at a country house outside São Paulo, and the Italian government asked for him, and this time he did not resist it. He spent eight months in a Brazilian prison waiting for the papers. On the night before he was to be flown to Rome, he swallowed strychnine, and was found in time, and was carried onto the airplane.

Nobody has ever been sure whether he meant to die. He said afterwards that he did. He also said afterwards that he had already decided in Brazil what he was going to do when he got to Italy, and the two statements do not fit together, and he never tried to make them. The man waiting for him in Rome was Giovanni Falcone.

Falcone was a Palermo magistrate born in the city, from the same streets, who had spent the previous four years doing something no Italian prosecutor had done before: treating the Mafia as an organization rather than as a series of crimes. He followed the money. He had traced heroin profits through banks in Palermo, Switzerland, and New York, and he had built a case that was already enormous. What he did not have was the thing that would make it a case about an organization rather than a collection of individuals.

He did not have anybody who would say what the organization was. Buscetta said it. Over forty-five days in July and August of 1984, he described Cosa Nostra to Falcone as one might describe a company to an auditor. Its name, which no outsider had heard.

Its structure: families and mandamenti and the Commission. Its rules, and the ceremony by which a man was made, and the oath, and what the oath meant. Its history as he had lived it. Then, name by name, the men who had run the war, who had ordered each killing, who had sat on the commission when the decisions were taken, and who was now, in the summer of 1984, in charge.

He gave Falcone, by one count, 366 names. He was very clear from the first day about why he was doing it, and he was clear in a way that people did not expect, and some did not believe. He said he was not a traitor. He said the organization he had joined as a young man had been destroyed by the Corleonesi, and that the thing that now called itself Cosa Nostra was not Cosa Nostra, but a gang of murderers who had killed his children, and that by describing it, he was not betraying the organization, but bearing witness to its death.

He said, in a phrase that was reported everywhere, that the men of honor were all dead. He also said, more than once, that he was not doing it for revenge, and Falcone, who was not a sentimental man, wrote down that he believed him. Whether or not you believe him, the effect was the same. In September of 1984, on the strength of Buscetta’s statements, the Palermo police arrested 366 people in a single night.

It was the largest operation against the Mafia in the history of Italy. Over the following year, Falcone and his colleagues, working in a bunker under armed guard, built out of Buscetta’s forty-five days the case that the world came to know as the Maxi Trial. The trial opened in February of 1986, in a courtroom that had been built for it inside the walls of the Ucciardone prison in Palermo: a concrete hall with thirty cages along the walls, so that the defendants could be kept in the room and kept apart. There were 474 of them.

There were 600 lawyers. It lasted twenty-two months. Buscetta was brought to Palermo for it by helicopter from a base outside the city, under a guard the state had never before mounted for a witness. The men who saw him walk into the bunker that morning remembered that he was, as always, immaculately dressed, and that he looked at the cages as he passed them, and that the cages went quiet.

He had asked for one thing: that his statement be read into the record in his own words rather than summarized. It was, and it took most of the first day. Buscetta testified for a week in April, in a cage of his own behind bulletproof glass. The defendants in the other cages shouted at him, and one of them, a boss named Pippo Calò, stood up and called him a liar and a traitor and a man who had abandoned his own family.

Buscetta, from behind the glass, replied in a level voice that he had not abandoned them, that they had been murdered, and that the man shouting knew it because he had been on the commission that ordered it. The trial ended in December of 1987. 344 men were convicted. Nineteen of them, including Riina, who was tried in his absence because he had been a fugitive since 1969, were sentenced to life.

The sentences were appealed and reduced, and in 1992 the highest court in Italy confirmed them. That was the moment that mattered, because it meant the method held. An organization could be tried as an organization. A witness from inside it could be believed.

Riina answered that the way he answered everything. On May 23, 1992, four months after the sentences were confirmed, Giovanni Falcone was driving from the airport into Palermo with his wife and three bodyguards when half a ton of explosive packed into a drainage pipe under the motorway was detonated by remote control as the cars passed over it. The road was destroyed for a hundred yards. Falcone, his wife, and the three guards were killed.

Fifty-seven days later, his closest colleague, Paolo Borsellino, was killed by a car bomb outside his mother’s apartment building, with five more guards. It was, in a sense, the Corleonesi’s answer to Buscetta, and it was the same answer they had given him in 1982. Kill everybody who matters to the man, and the man will stop. It did not work the second time, either.

The killing of Falcone and Borsellino did to Italy what the killing of Buscetta’s family had done to Buscetta. It removed the last argument for silence. Within a year, the state had passed the laws it had been refusing to pass for a decade, and had put the army into Sicily. In January of 1993, Salvatore Riina, who had been a fugitive for twenty-three years while living openly in Palermo, was arrested in his car at a traffic light.

He spent the remaining twenty-four years of his life in prison and died there. And Buscetta, who had gone quiet after the Maxi Trial, and had said he had nothing more to add, came back and added the rest. He had held one thing back from Falcone in 1984, and he had said so at the time. He had told Falcone that the organization’s relationships with the men who ran Italy were a subject he would not discuss, because the state was not ready to hear it, and he would not be believed.

After Falcone was dead, he decided the state was ready. In 1993, he began to talk about politics, and the name he gave, among others, was that of Giulio Andreotti, who had been Prime Minister of Italy seven times. What came of that is a long story of its own, with a trial that lasted years and a verdict that satisfied nobody. What is not in dispute is that he said it, and that a decade earlier no witness from that world would have dared.

He had been in the United States since 1984, in the federal witness protection program, under a name that was not his own. He testified there, too, in the case the Americans called the Pizza Connection, about the heroin that had gone through pizzerias across the country. In that courtroom, as in Palermo, he was calm, precise, and impossible to shake. He lived with his third wife and his surviving children.

He gave interviews late in life in which he was asked the same question he had been asked in Rome in 1984 and gave the same answer. He died in New York in the spring of the year 2000, of cancer, at the age of seventy-one, under a name that has never been made public, and was buried under it. The men who had spent eighteen years wanting to kill him did not manage it. There is a way of adding up what he did, and the numbers are real.

344 convictions in Palermo. Hundreds more in the trials that came out of it. A method of prosecution that is used to this day in Italy and in the United States every time an organization of that kind is put on trial. And the word pentito, the repentant one, which before 1984 meant nothing in particular, and after it meant the thing that the organization feared most.

But he would have said, and did say, that the numbers were not the point. The Corleonesi had made a calculation. They had looked at the old rule, the one that said you did not touch a man’s family, and they had decided that it was a weakness, and that a man with no family left would have nothing to fight for. They killed eleven people to prove it.

What they proved instead was that a man with no family left has nothing to protect either, and that the silence they depended on had only ever been bought with the safety of the people a man loved. They took away his reason to be silent, and he noticed. And the organization that had been secret for a hundred years, whose members had never once said its name to an outsider, learned it from a man they had made sure had nothing left to lose. That is the last irony of a story made of them.

Cosa Nostra was brought into the light by the men who thought they had finally taught it to keep the dark.