Santo was three hundred pounds of ruthless, greedy bastard. He slicked his salt and pepper hair back with fistfuls of gel and only wore tracksuits over wife beater vests, with a heavy gold cross on a chain around his thick neck.
“Frankie.” Santo spared a nod for Nico’s closest friend and the top-ranking member of his crew. Although officially a Toscani family enforcer, who answered to Santo, Frankie De Lucchi had taken on the role of Nico’s bodyguard when Nico became a capo—captain. Santo called on Frankie occasionally to deal with difficult situations, but usually his son, Tony, handled the jobs no one else wanted to do.
Frankie joined Luca, another friend and Nico’s right hand man, at the back of the room near the door.
Usually Nico’s most trusted associate, Big Joe, would stand guard in the outer hallway during Nico’s weekly meeting with the don, but Nico had given him a pass today to deal with a work emergency. Big Joe was a good earner and had a legitimate business that he ran on the side.
“How is the casino business these days?” Santo gestured for Nico to sit beside his consigliere—trusted family advisor, Charles “Charlie Nails” Russo, on the other side of his huge, intricately carved wooden desk. Santo’s office was designed to impress, with bookshelves filled with books he had never read, and statues and paintings chosen for cost rather than aesthetics. The room smelled heavily of cigar smoke from the Cubans he smoked on a regular basis. Nico’s throat burned with each inhale, but he had long ago learned never to show any weakness, especially in front of the man who would take any opportunity to show Nico was not fit to lead.
“It’s earning.” That’s all Santo cared about. That was all anyone in the mob cared about. A good earner was worth his weight in gold, and the hefty kickbacks Nico paid to Santo kept his uncle from sending out his enforcers to whack Nico in his sleep.
Nico’s father had been all about respect, honor, and ensuring the continuation of the institution, the survival of the family. He had protected the people in his territory even as he squeezed them for cash. Santo didn’t give a damn about anyone except himself and his son, Tony, now his underboss and seated to Nico’s left.
“Good.” Santo reached for a cigar, expertly flicking his wrist to show off his gold Rolex. Santo was all about appearances. His mansion, in a guard-gated luxury Summerlin community, with spectacular views of the Strip was surrounded by a ten-foot-high electric fence. He had bought it from a movie star shortly after his self-appointment as boss of the Las Vegas faction of the New York Toscani family had been made official. He never resisted an opportunity to tell his guests about the famous people who had graced its marble halls, partied in the three swimming pools or played tennis on the regulation court nestled in the trees at the far end of his two acres of property.
Someone knocked on the study door, and Santo motioned for a pause in the conversation. A woman entered, carrying a tray of espresso and biscotti.
“Your espresso, Mr. Toscani.” She placed the tray on a side table and served Santo, Charlie Nails, and Tony. “Anything for you, sir? She turned to Nico just as Tony rose from his seat.
“Stupido cagna! The espresso is cold. I warned you about that already.” Tony backhanded the woman so hard she stumbled, and Nico caught her as she fell.
She gave him a grateful smile beneath her tears, and Nico helped her to her feet and put the tray in her hands.
“Go.”
Nico was appalled, but not surprised by Tony’s behavior. He had earned the nickname “Tony Crackers,” not for a love of snacks, but because everyone thought he was crazy. Nico had known him since they were children, and even then it was clear something was wrong with his cousin. Tony had been caught torturing animals at a young age, graduating from insects to rodents and then to the family pets. Clever enough to hide his psychopathic tendencies from teachers and social workers, he’d made it through school and then dropped out to join the family business where he enforced his will with violence instead of words. He was known to be unstable, flying into rages for the smallest of reasons, and his crew was one of the bloodiest in the city.
Although tempted, Nico kept his views about Tony’s abusive behavior to himself. This was not his house. The woman was not his servant. He could not disrespect his cousin and uncle by interfering in their private affairs. And no doubt, she would already be walking out the door as dozens had before.