Nico (Ruin & Revenge #1)(47)
Nico stepped aside as Frankie went through the hustler’s pockets, removing his wallet and a bag of rings, including one in a red velvet pouch. Nico landed a few more punches, breaking Sammy’s nose. Not that Sammy’s looks would matter anymore. He had been warned before, and now he would become a lesson for all the other underground slime who thought they could operate in Nico’s territory.
Sammy slumped to the ground and moaned. Nico jerked his head and the two associates keeping watch opposite Luca and Mikey Muscles picked him up by the shoulders and dragged him away. Usually Frankie dealt with scum like Sammy, but after receiving Vito’s message that Mia was in the casino, Nico needed an outlet for his frustration, and Sammy had the misfortune of trying to pull a hustle at the wrong time.
For four days, Nico had tried to stay away from Mia. Cosa Nostra came before blood family, and blood family came before the man. With his succession hanging in the balance and an agreement with the Sicilian Scozzaris to be honored, Nico had no place chasing after a beautiful, sexy hacker in crazy boots and punk clothes with dubious taste in music, who made him so damn hard when she refused to do his bidding, he couldn’t think straight.
“What are you gonna do with him?” Frankie handed Sammy’s wallet to Luca and leaned against the wall. He lit a cigarette, and Nico’s lip curled. He’d given up asking Frankie to quit. Steeped in violence and darkness, the Toscani family enforcer had few vices and little tolerance for suggestions about how to live the life the Toscanis had given him after his parents were killed in a savage attack by the Russian mafia. If he wanted to spend his days with a cigarette in one hand, and a bottle in the other, who was Nico to judge? They had all given their lives to the mob. They’d all suffered. And yet they would never leave. The mob was family. Until death did you part.
“Something public.” He adjusted the knot on his tie, and smoothed down his jacket. He hated fighting in the damned suit, but presentation—la bella figura—was as important as action and without the veneer of civility, he would scare the civilians away.
Luca tucked the wallet into his pocket. “You want Frankie to do it? Or you want to open the books and give the contract to Big Joe?”
Big Joe had put in the ten years of service to the Toscani family necessary to become a made man, three of those with Nico’s crew. The only thing standing between him and his button was a contract killing. It hadn’t always been that way. In the old days, a good earner could make his bones solely by participating in an execution and not pulling the actual trigger. Big Joe was a solid earner. A good guy. Loyal. Trustworthy. Easy going. He didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs, drank but never drove, argued but never lifted a hand to any member of the crew. He was the perfect mobster in a world of imperfect men.
“I’m not ready to open the books yet.” Nico only accepted new made guys when he had the time and resources to support them. But now, with everything in crisis, he wasn’t prepared to take on the additional responsibility of policing another soldier, no matter how good an earner he might be.
Frankie and Luca preceded Nico into the casino with Mikey Muscles taking up the rear.
“Is she still here?” he asked quietly, as they emerged onto the casino floor. Mikey Muscles had been tasked with liaising with Vito about the unexpected visitor.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Toscani. I got a live feed into the security cameras in case you wanted to check up on her.” He handed Nico his phone.
Pausing in the doorway, Nico watched the short video clip of Mia on the screen. Madonna. Why the fuck did she have to dress like that? Every damn male in the bar was watching her dance in those lace-up boots, that tiny dress, and those sexy socks that just begged a man to follow them under her skirt just to see how far they would go.
He watched her dance on the stage beside the bar, her body undulating to the music. She was more titillating than the scantily clad go-go girls dancing up a storm on the counter beside her. Was it the corset part of her dress that pushed her breasts up obscenely high and emphasized the narrowness of her waist and the swell of her hips? Or was it those fucking socks that bared a flash of creamy thigh? Or was it the strength of character the outfit conveyed—that she knew what she liked and gave fuck all what anyone thought.
She looked up, straight at the camera. Danced in a circle giving him the full picture of what he was missing, flipped her frilly skirt just enough to show the curve of her cheek. She had to know he was watching. She had to know what would happen when she gave him a glimpse of something he shouldn’t see.
Something he wanted.
Something he would have. Tonight.
*
“I like your socks.”
Mia smiled at the pleasant-looking man in the polo shirt and chinos dancing in front of her. “Thank you.”
“I like your skirt, too.” He moved awkwardly to the music, like a dad who had forgotten his rhythm, although he didn’t look older than twenty-five.
“Thank you.”
“I’m Richard,” he said stiffly. “Is it okay if I dance with you?” He did a zombie jerk of his arms, and Mia bit back a laugh.
“Yes.”
After four rounds of vodka shooters, two games of craps, a Mai Tai, and some decidedly bad luck on the Big Six wheel, Mia was ready for some action. If it happened to come in a preppy package with a blue collared shirt sporting a little pony on the chest, then she’d take what she could get; she’d given up on Nico showing his face several hours ago.