A prominent New York Mafia family had taken Frankie in when he was nine years old after his mother and father were killed in a revenge attack by the Russian mafia. Trained as an enforcer, he had been sent to Las Vegas by the New York boss to help the Toscanis in their bid to take control of the city, but he had quickly become attached to Nico’s crew. He was more like a biker than a wiseguy, with his long dark hair, biker boots, and Harley belt, and he had the biker swagger to match, but he was fiercely loyal, and there was nobody Nico would rather have at his back.
Nico had never seen Frankie with a woman. No hookers. No girlfriends. No one-night stands. If not for the fact that Frankie had once confided in him after they’d had one too many drinks, that there was a woman he wanted but couldn’t have, Nico would have pressured him more often to join their parties.
“You’re missing out,” Luca said. “Last time we had six girls up there skinny dipping in Nico’s patio pool.”
Nico pulled up in front of Il Tavolino, an old Vegas Italian restaurant that looked like it had seen better days. He pushed his weapon out of sight under his suit jacket. “So this is the thing I told you about.” A thing was mob speak for an illegal act that was better left unsaid. “A friend of mine, Lennie, owns this joint. He says he has a problem.” A friend of mine told Luca and Frankie that Lennie was a civilian as opposed to a friend of ours, a made guy in the mob. Usually, Nico’s “friends” came to him when they had a problem, instead of Nico traveling to see them, but Lennie reputedly served the best cannoli in the city, and Nico was a sucker for sweets.
Gianni “Big Joe” De Cicco was waiting for them at the front entrance. Heavily muscled, a few inches shorter than Nico and bald as a stone, Big Joe had gotten his nickname due to his resemblance to a mob-friendly cop who’d been named “Little Joe.” He was a mob associate who had been with the Toscani family for ten years—three of those with Nico’s crew—and had proved himself loyal, honest, and trustworthy. Nico planned to open his books when things settled down so Big Joe could become a made man.
“Right on time,” Nico said. “I’m gonna start thinking you’re a cop the way you’re never late. Luca’s always dragging his feet and Frankie sometimes just doesn’t show. Maybe you should share your secret.”
“Don’t want to let you down, Mr. Toscani.” Big Joe gave a little shrug as if he were embarrassed by the attention. “I know what it’s like to be counting on a guy and have him not show up. My plumbing business has a high turnover ’cause I don’t put up with that shit. And if I won’t put up with it from my guys, I wouldn’t expect you to put up with it from me.”
A retired jewel thief from Miami, Big Joe had moved to California to escape the heat of an FBI crackdown. He retrained as a plumber, started a business, and did some work for a few wiseguys on Nico’s crew. Once it became known he did a good job at a low price, he became a hot commodity. Everyone needed plumbing work, and he quickly became the go-to guy for the mob. Eventually, Nico had taken notice, and now he worked exclusively for Nico and his crew, transporting stolen goods in his plumbing trucks between jobs fixing leaky faucets.
Lennie Minudo, the restaurant owner, was waiting for them outside. Far from an innocent civilian, Lennie ran illegal craps games from his back room, and a small-time loan sharking business for the guys who lost big at his tables. He was dirty money, and Nico had no problem taking it off his hands.
As they walked into the restaurant, Nico felt like he’d re-entered the city’s Golden Age—from the tuxedoed waiters and captains doing tableside presentations, to the magnificent plush banquets and the huge raised stage where a Frank Sinatra impersonator was singing “My Way.” Vegas memorabilia and photos lined every square inch of the walls. Framed pictures of old movies stars sat alongside the Mafia greats—Bogart beside Bugsy Siegel, and Frank Sinatra beside Anthony Spilotro. Glass cases containing old 45s and sparkly shoes, an old-fashioned revolver, and a top hat and cane gave the restaurant an elegant feel. Nico had always enjoyed Vegas’ old-school restaurants, but Il Tavolino was in an entirely different league.
“How long have you been here?” He pulled Lennie to the side as Frankie and Luca ordered their drinks.
“About two years now,” he said. “This used to be the Golden Nugget back in the day. I bought it ten years ago and it took a long time to fix it up and decorate just right. Members of the Rat Pack used to come to the Golden Nugget and I got to keep all the pictures on the wall. Elvis Presley ate here, Joe DiMaggio, Tony Spilotro, and more.”
“And the memorabilia?”
Lennie shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a collector, Mr. Toscani. It took me so long to fix this place up because I’d see something I’d just have to have and those things don’t come cheap.”
“Incredible.” Nico took a walk around, soaking in the Old Vegas-meets-Old Hollywood decor. If he ever had something that was just his, bought with clean money, decorated to his taste, and solely for his pleasure, it would be this.
He felt a curious longing as he joined Frankie, Big Joe, and Luca in the booth. It was the same feeling he’d had when Mia had been in his office. Something so unexpected and foreign he had dismissed it right away.