🍦🔫

​

​

​

Meet the Cannellonis: Belfast’s most unorthodox crime dynasty. They’re an Italian-Irish clan who built an underworld empire under the wholesome cover of ice cream vans. The current patriarch, Giovanni Cannelloni Jr., insists on being called “Gianni Óg” – Irish for “young Gianni” – despite being well into middle age and despite his father Giovanni Sr. (the original “Don Gelato”) having passed away. Why? Because in the Cannelloni mindset, you’re forever junior to the Don that came before (and maybe it keeps him feeling spry). Gianni Óg is one of 13 siblings; with so many Cannelloni kids running around, folks joke that Giovanni Sr. and his formidable wife Sue Fley Cannelloni “didn’t own a TV” in the 1960s. Indeed, the Cannellonis seem to believe in out-breeding the competition – a long-term strategy that, oddly enough, appears to be working. (Why send a hit squad when you can send a horde of cousins?)

By 2026, the Cannelloni brood has spread far and wide. Many of Gianni Óg’s siblings are overseas, apprenticing with mafia cousins in Sicily or mob families in New York (gotta finish that gangster gap year!). The roll call of Cannelloni offspring is a mouthful of Irish-Italian fusion: Siobhán Raffaella, Máire Donatella, Aisling Giovanna, Deirdre Isabella Jr. (named after her mother; the creativity ran thin by kid #4), Bríd Caterina, Conor Massimo, Seán Alessandro, Ciarán Lorenzo, Aoife Giulia, Niamh Francesca, Caoimhe Lucia, Róisín Valentina, Saoirse Alessandra, Eimear Bianca, and Aoibheann Sofia. (Whew! Even the most seasoned priest would struggle baptizing this bunch.) Not all of those kids are directly Gianni’s; they span two Cannelloni generations. But the point is: there are a lot of Cannellonis. As Sue Fley likes to say with a wink, “Why have henchmen when you can have children? They’re cheaper and judges are more lenient!” The family portrait looks less like a mafia lineup and more like a class photo.

 

🍨 Undercover Empire: Sweet on the Surface, Sinister Beneath

To the public, the Cannellonis are purveyors of joy: those friendly folks who’ve served gelato on Belfast’s streets for decades. Giovanni Sr., an Italian POW who stayed on after WWII, started the business with one little shop that became a fleet of Mr. Whippy trucks. Their trucks’ jingle (“O Sole Mio,” naturally) echoes through Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods alike, a welcome sound to kids on both sides of the sectarian divide. Remarkably, during the worst years of the Troubles, neither side messed with the Cannelloni ice cream vans. In a city split by walls and barbed wire, everyone agreed on one rule: Don’t harm the ice cream man. There’s even a legendary graffiti that summed it up: “Brits out, Taigs out, Ice Cream in.” While Belfast burned and bullets flew, Cannelloni vans rolled on unscathed, weaving through barricades to deliver 99-Flakes to peckish paramilitaries who’d momentarily set aside their differences for a choc-dipped cone. It was absurd, it was hilarious – and it was also brilliant cover for the Cannellonis’ less savory dealings. Under those sprinkles and smiles, Don Gelato was moving cigarettes, booze, and info between warring factions. (Why shoot the messenger when the messenger brings you mint-choc-chip?)

By the 1980s and 90s, the Cannellonis had expanded from ice cream into every racket that could turn a profit. Protection money, gun-running, untaxed fuel, even an experimental foray into cryptocurrency (long before Bitcoin was cool, Gianni Óg floated something called GelatoCoin – a “flavor-backed currency” as a gag; it actually caught on in West Belfast until the bubble burst, causing more than a few hideous brain-freezes in the local economy). Through it all, the family’s public image remained as smooth as their gelato. They sponsored Little League teams, donated to church roof funds, and hosted free ice cream days at integrated community events. Neighbors who might despise each other politically could still bond over loving the Cannellonis’ raspberry ripple. This goodwill was the Cannellonis’ Teflon coating – you don’t rat out the folks who cater your kids’ birthday parties.

Gianni Óg stepped into his father’s shoes seamlessly. He’s a genial fellow in public – hearty handshakes and “how’s yer ma?” with everyone on the block – but make no mistake, he rules the family business with a firm hand (often the one holding a waffle cone concealing a pair of brass knuckles). Under his watch, the family slogan might as well be: “Leave the gun, take the double scoop.” He has an ironclad rule: family first, family second, business third (because to him, business is family). Which brings us to the latest family “business” at hand…

🏰 The (Ice Cream) Manor Showdown – Mallon Hall, Feb 21, 2026

It’s a blustery evening in rural County Down, Northern Ireland – February 21, 2026 – and Mallon Hall, a creaky old mansion, has become ground zero for a showdown between crime titans. The occasion? The estate of the late Sir Rowan Mallon is up for grabs (or at least under dispute). Sir Rowan was a flamboyant aristocrat-turned-treasure-hunter who – in true foolish fashion – died on a wild quest for Montezuma’s gold, owing money all over the place. And guess who his biggest creditor is? That’s right: the Cannellonis. Rowan Mallon borrowed a huge sum from Gianni Óg to fund his insane expedition (hey, even eccentric lords need venture capital, and the banks wouldn’t touch a harebrained scheme like “Aztec gold in the Yucatan”). Gianni Óg, never one to pass up a lucrative opportunity, lent Rowan the cash – at extortionate interest – and got Mallon Hall put up as collateral. A promissory note was signed, sealed, delivered. Gianni all but licked his lips thinking of the payoff: either a cut of mythical treasure or this sprawling estate as compensation.

Well, Rowan found no gold (unless you count the gold-plated coffin he came home in), so now Mallon Hall is in play. Technically, with Sir Rowan six feet under and in default, the Cannellonis have a legal claim. But legal schmegal – Gianni Óg isn’t waiting for solicitors to sort this out. He’s come to stake his claim in person, old-school style, and make it crystal clear to all and sundry that the Cannellonis intend to get their way. They’re not quite in possession of the Hall (yet), but they’ve arrived like they already own the place, bringing enough brass (and brass knuckles) to assert dominance.

Picture the arrival: an entourage of blacked-out Range Rovers and – you guessed it – one chrome-finished Cannelloni ice cream van trundles through the wrought-iron gates of Mallon Hall that evening. (Why an ice cream van at a high-stakes confrontation in February? Because psychological warfare – nothing is more disarming than the chimes of “Greensleeves” announcing your arrival to a gangster summit.) Out steps Gianni Óg Cannelloni, looking every bit the gentleman in a tailored overcoat and fedora. At his side is his wife, Deirdre Isabella Cannelloni, wrapped in a faux-fur stole and emanating the poise of a mobstress who just might launch a lifestyle brand. Flanking them are their two sons: Ruairí Marcello Cannelloni (early 20s, slick suit, trying his best to look tough and not think about the calculus exam he had to skip to be here) and Padraig Matteo Cannelloni (18, leather jacket, sunglasses at night – because he thinks it makes him look like a hardened mafioso instead of a teen who missed curfew).

 

Inside Mallon Hall, a motley crew is gathered. In one corner, the last shreds of the Mallon family — a pair of nervous distant cousins clutching teacups — look completely out of their depth. By the fireplace stands the London contingent: siblings Robbie De Banks and Misty Meanor, of the notorious De Banks crime family. (The De Banks insist it’s actually French – “de Banks” – but nobody’s buying it, it refers to the name the east end of London coined as joke- when Bank robbery was an steady , honorable profession) Robbie is a wiry fellow with a permanent sneer, casually flipping a pound coin in his hand; Misty is the picture of deadly elegance, a short woman in a tailored charcoal suit with a streak of luck in her hair and a gaze that could freeze lava. They came expecting maybe some stuffy solicitor to argue with, but now they’re facing the entire Cannelloni family circus. Not exactly what they had in mind.

And then there’s Roberta “Bob” O’Malley, lurking near the grand piano with a predatory grin. A wildcard of sorts, Bob O’Malley is a freelance psychopath (for hire) from Dublin who left her brothers to it, while she sought some fresh meat, and FUN, she temporily aligned herself with the De Banks crew for this gig, just to spice things up. She’s the kind of character who chews gum loudly in a funeral home and sharpens her nails with a switchblade when bored. Young Padraig Cannelloni finds her utterly captivating – which is to say, he’s been making calf eyes at her from the moment he entered the room. Padraig may be a would-be tough guy, but at heart he’s an 18-year-old walking hormone, and Roberta O’Malley – mid-30s, scarred knuckles, maniacal giggle and all – ticks his “bad girl” box big time.

No sooner have introductions been made (tense nods, faux pleasantries) than Padraig decides to saunter over to Roberta “Bob.” Ruairí, who knows his brother’s terrible timing, hisses “Don’t!” – but too late. Padraig leans on the piano next to Bob and attempts his best pick-up line: “So, uh, have we met before? You look familiar… Must be ’cause you’ve been running through me head all day.” He even shoots her what he imagines is a charming smolder. Roberta O’Malley stares at him as if a pigeon just quoted Shakespeare. Then she laughs – a full-on cackle that kills the ambient chatter in the room. “Aw, did ya hear that, Misty?” Bob calls out, loud enough for all to hear. “This child thinks he’s in love! That’s adorable.” Padraig’s face flushes redder than a maraschino cherry. The room chuckles awkwardly. Bob pats Padraig’s cheek none-too-gently and says, “Run along now, little boy. Grown-ups are talking business, yeah?” Humiliated, Padraig retreats to his mother’s side. Deirdre mouths at him, “I told you older women aren’t your thing!” Gianni Óg shoots his son a look that says please, for the love of cannoli, stay focused.

Ruairí, meanwhile, is preoccupied with his own hormonal turmoil. The moment he saw Misty Meanor standing by the fireplace, one hand resting on her hip holster (she’s packing heat, fashionably), he felt an unfamiliar swoop in his stomach. Misty had caught his eye months ago during a “business conference” (read: secret mafia meet) in London. They traded maybe two snarky comments over whiskey, but Ruairí’s been daydreaming of her ever since. Now here she is, enemy #1, and he’s trying very hard not to stare at her sculpted cheekbones or the confident way she carries herself. As Robbie De Banks and Gianni Óg engage in a verbal spar (thinly veiled threats masked as small talk about the weather – classic gangster foreplay), Misty glances around the room. Her gaze slides over Ruairí – he quickly pretends to be intensely interested in a bookshelf. Did she remember him? Was that a spark of recognition? Ruairí’s heart thumps. Focus, man., he scolds himself. This woman’s here to ruin our day. And yet, he can’t help sneaking peeks. At one point Misty catches his eye and gives the faintest hint of a smirk – whether amused, flirty, or derisive, he can’t tell. It’s enough to make him nearly knock over a vase at his feet. Pull it together, he silently begs himself, or Ma’s gonna notice. (Deirdre, in fact, has noticed – and files this juicy observation away to tease her son about later, if they survive the night.)

At the center of the room, under a dusty chandelier, a polished oak table has been set for this uneasy conclave. Upon it lies a document that might as well be an IED: the promissory note that Sir Rowan Mallon signed. While no lawyers are officially presiding (the solicitor has wisely absented himself, claiming a headache), everyone knows what’s at stake. The Cannellonis have physical proof of their claim: Mallon’s IOU, naming Mallon Hall as collateral. And Gianni Óg, ever the showman, decides the moment is ripe to brandish it. He picks up the parchment and, with a courteous smile, clears his throat. “Perhaps we should cut to the chase, folks,” he says, his voice echoing in the hall’s high ceiling. The Mallon cousins gulp. Robbie De Banks crosses his arms. Misty casually flicks an imaginary speck off her cuff. Gianni holds up the paper like Martin Luther nailing his theses. “The late Sir Rowan,” he continues, “entrusted us with a little… security for the funds we provided him.”

He lays the document flat for all to see. There, in Mallon’s florid handwriting, it spells out that in the event of default, Mallon Hall shall revert to the Cannelloni family. A low whistle escapes Misty’s lips – the only sign of surprise she’s shown. Robbie’s face darkens. “That’s a cute claim, Cannelloni,” Robbie says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But you know what they say: possession is nine-tenths of the law.” Gianni Óg chuckles, “Ah, but who needs law when you have family?” Subtext: We outnumber you and we’re ready to rumble.

Robbie De Banks steps forward, his henchmen (and hench-woman, Bob) tensing behind him. Deirdre Isabella, never one to be left out, dramatically positions herself and her sons beside Gianni – an image straight out of a “Real Mafia Wives” reality show (which, by no coincidence, she’s been dying to star in). Actually, speaking of reality shows… Deirdre’s eyes suddenly light up with an idea: This is great content. Most people would find a mob standoff nerve-wracking, but Deirdre? She’s mentally pitching it to producers. She imagines a camera crew circling the Hall, catching her good side as she declares something quippy like, “Darling, I don’t argue – I just explain why I’m right.” Could this be episode one of “Real Housewives of Belfast – Across the Divide”? She pictures the tagline: Catholics and Protestants are at war, but the Housewives are at peace… until someone touches their man or their money. Pure gold! But we digress.

Deirdre’s distraction aside, the atmosphere in the Hall is now crackling. “Let me be blunt,” Gianni Óg says, still smiling but eyes steely. “This house may not legally be ours yet, but as far as we’re concerned, it’s Cannelloni property in waiting. We’re here to ensure everyone understands that.” He taps the promissory note. “We have the paperwork, sure. More importantly, we have the will to claim what’s due.” Misty Meanor responds, her voice velvety but firm, “And what if others have will, too, Gianni? Perhaps stronger will?” Her hand rests on her hip – just inches from what one assumes is a holstered pistol beneath her jacket. Ruairí tenses; is this about to get ugly? He really doesn’t want gunfire. Not just for safety – he’s weirdly worried Misty might get hurt, which is ridiculous because she’s clearly the most dangerous person in the room right now.

Gianni Óg raises a placating hand. “Easy now. There’s no need for any unpleasantness…” He trails off and snaps his fingers. From the foyer, one of the Cannelloni men (discreetly waiting outside) wheels in a large cooler, the kind they use on their trucks. Incredulous looks bounce around the room. “Is that—?” one of the Mallon cousins starts to ask. Yes, it is. Ice cream. Gianni Óg has just brought dessert to a gangster confrontation. This man’s audacity knows no bounds. “A sweet treat, to keep things civilized,” Gianni says lightly. Robbie De Banks looks like he might pop a vein. Misty Meanor actually cracks a grin, clearly appreciating the insanity of it. Roberta “Bob” O’Malley claps her hands, “Ooh, is it gelato time? I do love mint chocolate chip.” (It’s never entirely clear if Bob’s sarcasm is genuine or if she’s just as bonkers as she seems.)

In minutes, the butler – utterly confused but duty-bound – is distributing fine china bowls of Cannelloni’s famous gelato to everyone. The surrealness is peak: mortal enemies slurping ice cream together in a drafty mansion. Gianni Óg, always seizing the narrative, raises his bowl. “To Mallon Hall,” he says, “may it soon find a rightful new owner.” His voice is smooth, but his eyes flick towards himself. Robbie mutters something unprintable under his breath and pointedly digs his spoon into his dessert like he wishes it were Gianni’s eyeball. Misty, maintaining decorum, offers a toast of her own: “To family… whichever one comes out on top.” She smirks and clinks her spoon against Gianni’s bowl. Ruairí watches this exchange as if it’s foreplay (which, in a way, gangster-wise, it kind of is). Deirdre, never able to resist a one-liner for her imaginary TV show, chimes in, “I’ll drink – or rather, eat – to that,” and winks at a non-existent camera.

As they enjoy (or pretend to enjoy) the gelato, Gianni gestures grandly at the ornate surroundings. “Beautiful place, Mallon Hall. So much history. Be a shame if disputes over it… got messy.” Misty licks her spoon thoughtfully. “Indeed. We’d much prefer things stayed neat.” There’s that underlying threat. But Gianni isn’t fazed. He sets down his now-empty bowl (the man never wastes good ice cream) and places both palms on the table, leaning forward. In a friendly, almost fatherly tone, he addresses the room: “I want to thank everyone for coming. I think we all understand each other now. The Cannellonis”—he gazes specifically at Robbie and Misty—“will have what we are owed. One way or another.” Padraig, catching the cue, steps up behind his father, cracking his knuckles for effect (though given his earlier humiliation, the intimidation factor is...debatable). Ruairí joins on Gianni’s other side, trying his best to look menacing and not accidentally make moon eyes at Misty again.

Robbie De Banks starts to respond, bristling, but Misty gently touches his arm and steps forward herself. She looks around, noting the numbers: Cannellonis plus their aides outnumber the De Banks & co. nearly two to one (not even counting the cousins or staff). Misty’s no fool; she knows when a tactical retreat is in order. “This has been enlightening,” she says, rolling the last word in her mouth. She locks eyes with Gianni Óg. “I see the lay of the land. Perhaps we should reconvene after… further deliberation.” Translation: We’ll back off for now, but this isn’t over. Gianni straightens, adjusts his cufflinks, and nods, “As you wish. We’ll be here.” Bold as brass, he adds with a grin, “Actually, we might even move in for the night – these country manors get frightfully cold when left empty.” The sheer cheek of basically announcing a sleepover in a house that technically isn’t his (yet) draws a stifled gasp from a Mallon cousin – and a genuine laugh from Misty Meanor. It’s a low, throaty chuckle. She looks at Ruairí as she laughs, and he can’t help but grin like an idiot (which he immediately hides by coughing into his napkin).

Roberta “Bob” O’Malley, having finished her mint choc chip (and pocketed the silver spoon because, hey, free spoon), gives Padraig a little farewell finger-wave. “Bye-bye, babyface,” she coos, enjoying how his jaw clenches in embarrassment. Padraig mutters something about “crazy old bat” once she’s out of earshot, but any sting is mitigated by the palpable relief on his face that her attention is moving on.

“Do give my regards to Sue Fley,” Misty says smoothly. (Is she… taunting about Gianni’s mother? Or genuinely appreciative of the ice cream recipe matriarch? Hard to tell.) Deirdre beams as if Misty just asked for her autograph. “Of course, darling. Next time you’re in town, we must do lunch – no business, just shopping!” Misty lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Certainly. I’ll bring the cannoli, you bring the credit card.” With that sly remark, Misty turns on her heel and strides out, Robbie at her side, and ‘Bob’ O’Malley bringing up the rear (pausing only to pinch a terrified footman’s cheek and comment that he’s “cute enough to eat,” which does nothing to reassure him).

The Cannellonis remain in the manor’s great hall as dusk deepens into night. They’ve made their point: Mallon Hall is under Cannelloni claim now, whether or not they hold the keys. Gianni Óg hugs his wife around the shoulders. “Well done, dear,” Deirdre says, “I particularly liked the gelato power play. Very you.” Gianni chuckles. Ruairí peers through the window as the rival crew’s cars depart down the long drive. He watches Misty’s silhouette until it disappears beyond the yew trees, already longing (God help him) for another encounter – preferably one where they aren’t on the verge of brandishing firearms at each other. Padraig, on the other hand, grouses, “I could’ve taken that O’Malley witch if I wanted to.” Ruairí snorts, “Taken her where? On a date? She’d have eaten you alive, bro.” Padraig aims a kick at Ruairí’s shin; Ruairí nimbly hops aside, smiling for what feels like the first time in hours.

(As the Cannellonis settle in for a long evening at Mallon Hall – Gianni Óg conferring with his sons about next steps, Deirdre excitedly humming an ACCE power ballad while sketching out reality show ideas on the back of that promissory note – the lights in the mansion’s great windows cast an ominous golden glow across the lawn. In Belfast and beyond, those in the know will mark this night: the Cannellonis making a bold claim in the heart of Ulster, defending their honor and dues with a mix of grace, gumption, and gelato. What tomorrow brings… well, that’s another chapter in the Cannelloni chronicles.)