The account by Vcki Gotti published by the New York Post isn't as kind as Junior's.

METRO
Gotti: The day our boy was stolen away
By Post Staff Report

September 28, 2009 | 4:00am



TRAGIC LOSS: Frankie Gotti n mom Victoria's lap surrounded by siblingsu (clockwise from above left) Angel, John and Victoria. The boy was fatally mowed down on his bike at the age of 12 by a driver on March 18, 1980. The driver, a neighbor of the family, vanished months later.
Released from prison in 1977, John Gotti was quickly rising through the ranks of the Gambino crime family on his way to becoming “boss of all bosses.” Even in his home life, the underworld big shot knew how to throw his weight around. When his second son, Frankie, didn’t make the cut of his school football team, Gotti visited the coach, and later that day, the decision was reversed. But on March 18, 1980, as Frankie anticipated joining the team, Gotti family members’ lives would be changed forever. Here, in the second of four installments from Victoria Gotti’s new memoir, “This Family of Mine,” is the story of their tragic loss. Click here to see the Gotti family photo album.

The day before his first foot ball practice, March 18, 1980, my little brother Frankie, 12, was so excited he couldn’t eat or sleep. He took a shower and came running into my room and asked if he could borrow my hair dryer.

I, too, was in a rush. He was so impatient that he left the house with wet hair.

Later that afternoon, after school, he met a few neighborhood friends and went out to play. He couldn’t wait to tell them the news. He’d finally made the team.

Coming out of a McDonald’s near our house, I saw them on their bicycles.

I stopped and said something to him like, “It’s late and you know you have to be home for dinner at 5 or Mommy will be pissed.”

He nodded and took off down the avenue.

Mom was in the kitchen, preparing dinner and feeding my baby brother, Peter, then 4 years old. I ran upstairs to quickly change and head back to the kitchen to do my usual chores. I also relieved Mom and finished feeding Peter.

The phone rang four times before I was able to pick up the receiver. “Vicki, this is Marie Lucisano — your brother’s had an accident. Don’t worry.”

She went on to add, “He’s OK — I think he just broke his leg.”

Just as I was frantically tying my shoes, my mother came flying down the stairs sensing something was wrong.

“What’s going on?” she screamed.

“Frankie’s been hit by a car. Marie Lucisano called. It happened in front of her house,” I said.

Before I could even stand up, Mom was running the four or so blocks to the Lucisanos’ house on 87th Street. The ambulance was already on the scene and things were far worse than just a broken leg.

My brother had borrowed another kid’s minibike and was riding in a construction site near the side of the road. But that dreadful day, a drunken driver was speeding down the avenue and struck my brother.

The driver dragged him some 200 feet before angry neighbors stopped the car, pounced on his hood, and stopped him from crossing the avenue.

“Don’t you even realize you have a kid under the wheels of your f- – -in’ car?” one neighbor, Ted Friedman, recalled yelling out.

According to the neighbor, the driver, John Favara, then stopped the car. Another neighbor reached in and grabbed his keys, shutting the ignition off and pointed to my brother’s near-lifeless body under the front wheels.

My brother’s blood seemed to leave a trail down the entire block, leading up to the now-parked car.

Favara jumped from the car and started yelling, “What the f- – – was he doing in the street?”

According to the neighbor, “The driver of the car was angry, not remorseful.” Ted Friedman later told me the guy was belligerent — a real a- -hole until he realized the kid trapped under his wheels was John Gotti’s son. Favara then appeared to be “dazed and confused,” according to eyewitnesses.

My mother ran to Frankie, knelt and was cradling his head, screaming his name over and over, “Frankie, it’s Mommy — can you hear me? Frankie, Mommy’s here.”

Of all the things she could remember, it was “the look of abject fear in his eyes.”
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