Nico (Ruin & Revenge #1)(8)

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.

“Where’s the money?” Tony, his father’s look-alike in clothes and demeanor, but one hundred pounds lighter and without the gray hair, held out his hand. Nico passed over an envelope stuffed with money—a percentage of the money his associates and soldiers kicked up to him from the loan sharking, gambling, protection and other rackets they ran under the protection of the family name. Anyone who failed to pay up, or was discovered running an undisclosed business, would find himself in a car going for a ride to the ocean, wearing a pair of cement shoes.

Charlie Nails frowned at Tony’s lack of tact, but Tony had made it clear when he was appointed as underboss that he didn’t give a damn what the old man thought of him. Charlie Nails had held the role of consigliere for Nico’s father, and then for Santo after him. The consigliere was a supposed to be a close, trusted friend and confidant, an elder statesman of the family, but his support of Santo made him a traitor in Nico’s eyes.

“Is this everything?” Tony thumbed through the envelope. “This is half of what you brought us last month.” He shared a glance with Charlie Nails and smirked. “I thought you fancied yourself an old-style mobster. In the old days, the casinos were a license to print money. This is hardly enough to pay our staff.”

Nico steeled himself to show an outer calm as he raged inside. “That’s just the casino money.” He reached into the pocket of his double-breasted suit jacket, and pulled out a second envelope. “This is from the other businesses and the pay up from my crew.”

Santo’s eyes narrowed when Nico tossed the second envelope on the table. Although not a clever man, like Nico’s father had been, Santo had a sixth sense for when he was being ripped off. “Is that everything?”