As I sat across from Gaetano Badalamenti, staring into soulless eyes, he hardly looked like an international drug dealer who had murdered much of his competition.  On the contrary, he was placid, soft-spoken, dressed in a sedate grey suit with a dark blue tie.  It was an odd feeling to be sitting across from the man who could have me murdered with a single phone call.  And yet, if you knew the Mafia Dons from my area, they were low-key men who were hardly noticeable.  They drove old vehicles and lived in modest houses.  They wore no flashy jewelry, and most of them did not even carry a gun when they attained power.  yet, this was the neighborhood in which I lived, and athese were th emen I met through my grandfather, Don Rosolino Vassallo.  This is his story.  This is mine, too.