The Montreal Mafia Murders: Blood, Gore, Cannolis, and Hockey Baggage

But then, on September 10, 2019, the Sûreté du Québec released photographs—from three years earlier—showing Sollecito’s two killers on their motorcycle. They broadcast the images on social media and news outlets, requesting assistance in identifying the suspects. That morning, the Frenchman found Sigmund at his usual hangout, Café Redrum, having breakfast.

“Did you see the news today?” He thrust his phone toward his compare. “Look at this, asshole.”

Sigmund squinted at the screen. “If they’re asking the public for help, it means they have nothing,” he argued. “They’re fishing.”

“No—this is the fucking game they do: It’s catch and release,” countered the Frenchman. “They have info.”

He knew Foti still had the motorcycle. He also knew that he and his father were laying tiles at a Sheraton just north of Montreal, not far from Sollecito’s murder site. It was the same hotel where, several months earlier, Sal Scoppa had finally been cannoli’d, shot dead in the crowded lobby on the night of his son’s first holy communion.

“We’re going to talk to [Foti],” the Frenchman decided, despite the handful of times Foti had supposedly tried to have him killed. “Tell him: You have to get rid of the bike. Chop it. They’re looking for the fucking bike.”

He and Sigmund beelined it to the Sheraton. The Frenchman had made it a point to wear a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops—so nobody would worry about getting whacked. “If they see me all geared up, they’re gonna think I’m the fucking messenger of death,” he told Sigmund. They arrived around 9:30 a.m.

“What’s going on?” Foti’s father asked, flustered.

Foti looked up from his work as the two hit men approached. “We’re all cool?” he asked, nervously. “No contract on me?”

“You’re safe, Jesus Christ,” said the Frenchman, gesturing to his outfit, then bringing out the police notice. “Come on, look at this.”

“When did that come out?” Foti asked.

“This morning, bro,” replied the Frenchman, adding that it was all over TV and Twitter.

Seeking privacy, they huddled at the hotel’s rear loading-dock area. “But why now, this thing—why now?” Foti wanted to know.

Telling each other not to freak out—“none of us are hot”—they examined the facts: The cops were looking for two unidentifiable individuals and a motorcycle.

“You know how many motorcycles there are?” argued the father.

Foti conceded that he still had the bike—but he’d changed its parts, so no cops would be able to identify it.

“Are you a ding-dong or what?” asked the Frenchman.

“You have to destroy it,” Sigmund insisted.

Foti tried to reassure them. “This is the triangle right here, right? As long as we keep our mouths shut, we’re good.”

There were others, though—namely, the fireman and the clean-up woman. He’d paid them, right? “I don’t have that kind of money,” Foti protested. “Sal never gave it to me. What am I supposed to do?”

What about the weapons from their garage? “I swear on my mother’s head I have every bullet and every fucking gun,” Foti said. As they spoke, he suddenly realized the urgent need to get rid of them too. “Pa!” he cried out. “It’s all under my name, Pa. Imagine something goes wrong? They’re gonna put me away for 100 years.”

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