That's something that would never have happened two generations ago: Poor-me defenses were simply not the way of the wiseguy. Members of the American Mafia may be living longer, but the

ancient code of conduct that once defined what it meant to be a man of honor is dying fast. "This is supposed to be a secret society," says Michael "Mikey Scars"

DiLeonardo, 60, a third-generation wiseguy. His grandfather Vincenzo came to the U.S. from Sicily and was a mob soldier in the early 1900s; as a child, the younger DiLeonardo met legendary

boss Carlo Gambino at his grandfather's house. DiLeonardo was brought up by tough guys who would never complain. That, he says, was the true mark of a mafioso. "Omertà," the

or do they still mean business? Illustrated from left to right, Luigi "Baby Shacks" Manocchio, Charles "Beeps" Stango, John "Sonny" Franzese, Ronald "Big

Ron" Previte and Michael "Mickey Scars" DiLeonardo Photo illustration by Justin Metz "Today it's a me generation," says DiLeonardo, who served under celebrity

mob boss John Gotti before DiLeonardo turned on the family, becoming a government witness. Gotti, who enjoyed the media spotlight, "turned 'this thing of ours' into 'this

thing of mine.' " And modern mobsters who manage to reach an advanced age don't seem inclined to retire and play boccie. Consider these recent cases out of Providence,

Chicago and Las Vegas In 2012, New England mob boss Luigi "Baby Shacks" Manocchio was sentenced to five and a half years in prison after being convicted of shaking down a string of

Providence strip clubs. He was 84. That same year, Windy City mob leader Jerry "The Monk" Scalise and two codefendants, all in their 70s, were convicted of conspiracy to commit

armed robbery. The Medicare Mob, as a TV news report dubbed them, was plotting to hold up an armored truck and break into the home of a deceased mob boss. All three pleaded guilty and were

sentenced to eight and a half years of prison time. A federal prosecutor told reporters, "They expected to get away with these crimes because of their age, because no one would suspect

them," adding that "being old doesn't give anyone a pass against committing crimes." It's a lesson that 71-year-old Charles "Beeps" Stango, a veteran New

Jersey organized-crime figure who had "retired" to Nevada, is now learning the hard way. In 2014, Stango allegedly ordered a hit on a fellow gangster who failed to show proper

respect. The man "had to meet death," Stango told an associate, "or you gotta maim him, or you just gotta put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, or somebody's

gotta get a f---in' jar of acid and throw it in his f---in' face." Unfortunately for Stango, he was talking to an undercover FBI agent wearing a wire. Stango and nine others

were arrested in March 2015. All were members or associates of the DeCavalcante organization, the New Jersey gang on which _The Sopranos _was based. Among Stango's codefendants in the

plot: 72-year-old Frank Nigro and 68-year-old Paul Colella. Then there is John "Sonny" Franzese Sr., 98, perhaps the oldest active mobster in America. He once boasted of taking a

role in 60 killings, according to federal authorities. In 2011, he was sentenced to eight years in federal prison following a conviction for extorting strip clubs in Manhattan. His release

date is in 2017. He'd be 100, but who's to say that will slow him down? IN THE OLD DAYS, aging was one worry most gangsters didn't have. Al Capone died of a heart attack at

48, though his career had been over for years. "Lucky" Luciano lived to 64, but his last 16 years were spent in Italy and Cuba after he was deported in 1946. Albert Anastasia (no

relation to this author), the fearsome boss of Murder Incorporated, died in a hail of bullets while awaiting a shave in a Manhattan barber's chair, at 55. Retirement options in

organized crime are limited. Mobsters don't get a pension; 401(k)s and IRAs are rare. Lavish spending habits and big legal bills burn through even the most impressive scores. Most

mobsters need to keep earning. "Guys get older, they don't stop what they're doing," says Ron "Big Ron" Previte, 72, a Philadelphia wiseguy now in retirement

after testifying for the government. "You do what you know." Previte, a former Philadelphia cop before turning to crime, was an "earner," or a "general practitioner

of crime," he says. He knew how to make money. Violence was part of the life, but he pulled up short of murder. "If a guy owes me and I kill him, how am I gonna get my money?"

he asks. That practical approach served him well. By the time he got involved with La Cosa Nostra in the mid-1980s, "men of honor" was an expression without real meaning, Previte

says. "Loyalty? Not today. These guys are thugs, not really gangsters. It's every man for himself." He figured he would wind up dead or in jail, so he weighed his options and

turned informant, wearing a body wire for more than two years to help the government snare former colleagues. He declined to go into the Witness Security Program and resides now, under a new

name, not far from where he once practiced his various criminal enterprises. He lives well, thanks to the $750,000 the government gave him plus the reported million or so in ill-gotten

gains he had stashed away and was permitted to keep. He enjoys being close to his two daughters and four grandchildren, but he hasn't been spared the complaints of age — arthritic

knees, a cranky shoulder, hearing loss. "It's all catching up to me," he says.