Buyer Beware (Caldwell Brothers Book 1)

by Colleen Charles

  Chapter Two – Nixon

  "Dad, you should see the Armónico. You'd be so proud."

  I kneel at the huge granite headstone of a man who died long before his time. He should have lived to see his sons succeed. Get married. Have families. He should have lived to see his legacy. Most of all, he should have lived long enough to help me put the world’s most worthless piece of shit, Dante Giovanetti, into the ground beside him.

  "It shouldn't be you, Dad." My voice is raw from the emotions I've swallowed for so long. "It shouldn't be. If you'd said something, I could have stopped you. I would have stopped you. I promise."

  I reach out and touch the stone, relishing the cold underneath my fingertips. It's smooth and rough at the same time. A cacophony of contradiction. My eyes scan the inscription. Husband. Father. Simple labels don't reflect my father's place in the community, and how he pulled himself up by his bootstraps to morph himself into one of the top casino owners in Vegas. My dad made something out of nothing. And now, I've done the same damn thing.

  But without him, it means nothing.

  "I put the statues out front," I say, my voice remaining calm when all I want to do is look up into the heavens and rail at a nameless, faceless God while giving Him the middle finger salute. If my mom were here, she'd be crossing herself right now in a feeble attempt to protect my immortal soul because God no longer exists in my world. No truly benevolent figure would cast an entire family into a pile of shit like the one we Caldwell's landed in. "I think you'd really like them. So would Mom."

  My mind drifts to my brothers and what I can reveal, even to a dead man. Being the oldest, the bulk of the accountability falls on me. Reagan's a hot shot lawyer in NYC, Ford owns an app startup in San Fran, and Carter's a chef on the rise, being scouted for his own show on "The Food Network." I don't worry about them anymore. They cut ties with Vegas and found their own way. But Lincoln, that's a whole other story. And I'm not sure how it ends.

  I run a hand through my thick hair, tugging at the ends. It screws up my style, and the strands stand on end, but I don't care, which is unusual. My hair's important to me. My clothes are important to me. Looking perfect makes me feel more in control of a world gone crazy. Even though I'm a mess now, I don't give a shit. I have a business meeting to go to later, and if the guys around the table think of me like a mad scientist, all the better. They'd do well to look out for me. I'm calm but deadly.

  Laying right beside Dad is Mom. She perished in childbirth due to complications, and I blame her fucking imbecile doctor. Apparently playing golf was more important than getting his ass to the hospital. Because of his poor choices, five little boys lost their mother, and my father started getting careless, slowly losing his will to live like helium escapes a party balloon. They'd been high school sweethearts, and if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed that love like that existed. Gary Marshall could have directed the movie of their love story.

  "Linc's doing well, Mom," I say, tenting my hands as if to pray. But I'm not praying. I'll never hit my knees ever again. Leaving your destiny up in the air is a stupid move. Control reigns supreme.

  I lose myself in agony and regret so painful I can't bear to think about it. I'm a walking disaster and a worthless mess of a man, and I own it. It's why I can't let anyone in that wasn't there when all of this shit went down. It's why I'll never let a woman get too close to me. Getting involved isn't good for me, and it sure as shit wouldn't be good for her. I refuse to risk more than I can afford to lose. Because right now, it feels as if I've fucking lost everything, including my own soul.

  Panic hits me in the center of my chest, so I don't even say goodbye. I've had enough for today. Emotions piss me off, and my monthly visits to this fucking cemetery cause them to come at me like an army of venomous snakes, biting every inch of my body until I'm numb with a poison of my own making. Turning my back on the headstones, I put space between them and me. I don't say anything else and rush to my Mercedes. The car's as black as my spirit. It suits me and my normal mood. Women hate me. Kids run from me in fright. Ask me if I give a shit about any of it. It's Vegas, and I can have a woman on her knees, sucking my cock within thirty minutes if that's what I want. Lately, I haven't. It's not even worth the effort to come.

  Normally, Cruz, my loyal driver, would be standing outside a limo, but not today. The cemetery requires a solitary visit. Not that it matters because I'm alone whether other people are around or not. I slip behind the wheel, throw the car into drive, and spray gravel onto the final resting place of some poor saps ninety-year-old grandma. Rocks pepper the plastic flowers, flags, and monuments, pinging off the solid surfaces.

  I struggle for breath, gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Once I reach the I15, I finally inhale a deep breath. For today, it's over, but once night falls, my personal demons will return. I haven't slept more than a few cat naps each night since my dad took himself deep. It isn't until the Mona Lisa looms before me that my heart starts to calm its frantic gallops. Dante owns the Mona Lisa so you would think that having to deal with my father's quasi-killer would have the opposite effect. But I'm just biding my time. I can't afford to be rash when it comes to the brutal Italian and his mafia connections. I won't resort to physical violence. I won't have to. He's stupid and rash. His temper will eventually cause him to make a fatal mistake.

  And when he does, I'll exploit it.

  As my anxiety fades to a dull thrum, I take in the opulence of the casino. It's like the man built a gaudy monstrosity as a tribute to himself. I pull up to the valet and hop out, tossing my keys at the young man standing at the orange cone. Two twin hotel towers rise into the Vegas skyline, disappearing into the hazy horizon. The entire front of the entrance contains marble, granite, and other expensive facades. The hotel boasts a hundred-foot-tall strikingly lifelike copy of its famous namesake, lit with spotlights flooding the entire area with an ambiance that reeks of class and high-end sensibility. But I know differently. The owner of this posh casino is the lowest of life forms. He's even lower than the dog shit on a fly's foot.

  I walk slowly, breathing in the fresh air as I yearn to linger, to stare at the patrons and visitors as they scramble around like ants. They stream through the revolving glass door and spill out onto the sidewalk. I grab my phone to check again for the meeting location. The Canal Ballroom. I'll have to find the bank of elevators for the first hotel tower because Dante's private meeting rooms are located in his penthouse office suite. He lives with his family in a secure gated community. I live inside my own damn hotel. I eat, breathe, and sleep the Armónico. Since I have no reason to leave, I don't.

  The motherfucker's comeuppance is near. His demise so close I can almost taste it. One wrong move and he's toast. Once I have his head on a stake, I'll be the top dog in Vegas. Just like my father before me. No more walls closing in. No more panic after agonizing visits to my dead parents. No more worrying over my four brothers. No more having to be somewhere that makes me feel like I'm slowly dying inside.

  Soon this will all be over, I remind myself as I stab the up arrow in annoyance. Once I hear the ding and the doors slide open, I wait outside as the hotel guests step off. The cabin's empty now. I shove my hands in my pockets and remain calm, knowing Dante's goons are watching me through the closed-circuit cameras and are radioing their boss to let him know I'm coming to the meeting.

  Once I'm off the elevator, I turn left and follow the arrows that lead to the Canal Room. Inside, hand painted murals of Venice create a pleasant and rich atmosphere. But it's not just for aesthetics. It's calculated. It's planned. He wants everyone's defenses dulled by the ambiance of the room so he can manipulate them. But I'm not that easy to lead. I've got his number, and he damn well knows it. Dante can present his mask to the rest of the world, but I'm well aware of the darkness that lays just underneath his manicured exterior.

  "Caldwell," he says, standing and walking a few steps to shake my hand. His per
fectly tailored Italian merino wool suit screams wealth and privilege. I'm wearing a custom Armani, and Dante's makes mine look like I picked it up at the local Goodwill. Most people would call the man handsome, but most of them wouldn't know about the evil that's infiltrated his every cell. I do. I shake his hand but release it quickly as toxic revulsion travels up my spine. Nothing bothers me more than having to touch him. I don't want any kind of connection with him, even under the guise of politeness.

  The meeting goes well, and I finally exhale. A few local casino owners are hosting a charity function for children with disabilities. Since Linc has cerebral palsy, I jumped on board in spite of Dante's participation. I can play nice for the sake of my brother and other kids like him. He's the one joy of my life. The only one I still have left.

  I stand, stretch my back, and move to leave. Dante's already rushed out of the room with his phone glued to his hand. Under the protest of my bladder, I make a pit stop at the restroom. After washing my hands and checking my own emails, I slip through the door and walk toward the bank of elevators.

  "That's fucking not going to happen."

  The voice of nightmares stops me in my tracks. Not wanting to see the face of evil for the second time today, I duck into a tiny alcove where housekeeping stows their cart when they clean the meeting rooms. Dante walks my way, still babbling, and stops in front of the restroom door. I can see him, but he can't see me. I watch his beady eyes dart from left to right. Once he thinks the coast is clear, he grimaces at the phone.

  "You know what, Lou? If you don't shut the fuck up and do what I tell you to do, your beloved nanny is going to get her ass thrown on a boat back to the homeland. Do I make myself crystal clear?"

  Lou? No way. It sounds like Dante is threatening Lou Graham, the head of the Nevada Gaming Board. What the hell could he have on Lou, a guy who's so squeaky clean he could have invented the squeegee? My mind races, trying to connect dots that twist in a never-ending circle. It doesn't make a bit of sense. But if the mafia kingpin has someone that important to the success of every other casino owner in this town fitted snuggly in his back pocket, we're all fucking screwed.

  "You see that you do," Dante says, disconnecting the call as he pushes the restroom door open with a resounding smack.

  Whatever Lou did or didn't do or say has pissed off Dante, a man who doesn't show much emotion. If he did, he'd lose his hard-won control. I wonder what it could be, but I don't waste time pondering it now because I need to get the hell out of the Mona Lisa before Dante comes across me and puts two and two together. He wouldn't appreciate anyone knowing details of his underground activities. Especially me.

  After retrieving my Mercedes without incident, I drive the few blocks to the Armónico and hand my keys to my valet, instructing him to park it in my personal spot since I'm in for the night. I'll get some room service and work from my bank of rooms. Maybe make a few calls to the one person I trust in this damn town. He might have an idea of what Dante's up to. Either way, it can't be good.

  As I'm walking to the elevator to ride to my penthouse, a ruckus draws my attention. The only thing that usually causes a stir is if one of the musical acts we're known for booking happens to be milling around signing autographs and posing for selfies. Sometimes, even I've been known to create a stir ever since that damn article Las Vegas Magazine did on me a few months back. Most eligible bachelor in Sin City and all that bullshit. Single women have been flocking to the hotel in a desperate attempt to snag the unattainable, but I don't want anything to do with any of them.

  I walk up to my right-hand man but keep my voice low. "Troy, what the fuck? I don't want this kind of shit at my casino. This is a classy place, and we don't tolerate bad behavior."

  Troy looks at me, his lips turning up at the corners. "I've already handled it, boss. Just a little dispute between one of our dealers and his sister. She's a feisty one, apparently. That's her right over there. She's just leaving."

  I follow Troy's stare with my own eyes, and once they land on the woman in question, all the air in the universe disappears. I can't breathe or move. Can't even think. Only one thing on my body twitches with signs of life, and it's the only part of me I want to remain still. It doesn't. Her sculpted curves tempt me in a way I've never felt before. Silky long hair falls just above the rounded globes of her perfect ass. Skin so olive and smooth my hands itch to touch it.

  "What's her name?" I ask, using every ounce of my strength to keep my voice level.

  Troy gives me a funny look. "Marcella Castillo. Her brother, Manuel, is a dealer here."

  Even though I'm talking to Troy, my eyes never leave the vision of female perfection until every inch of her silhouette is burned into my brain. "Find out everything you can about her. Everything."

  "You got it, boss." At Troy's laugh, her head turns my way, and my eyes meet her expressive orbs of liquid brown.

  And I'm lost.

  Chapter Three – Marcella

  "Classy."

  My co-worker and bestie, Adelita Caba, holds the condom in front of her face and gives it a little shake. If she didn't have gloves on up to her elbows, I know she never would have touched it. Lita doesn't have much tolerance for filth, but that's about all we deal with in this housekeeping position for the Heartbreak Hotel. Its owner is a fat, ugly douchebag named Robert Goulet. Yeah, he's an Elvis impersonator with the name of the dude that Elvis tried to kill by shooting a bullet through his television screen. Ironic, I know. But that realization doesn't make the job any easier or make the handsy owner any more palatable. Anytime Bob gets a chance, he touches us. Shoulders, arms, backs. He makes my skin crawl because he stinks like a bad cocktail of sweat and Old Spice. He's not a bad guy, but does he seriously think we'd be attracted to a fifty-year-old has-been? A never-was, really.

  "Gross."

  Lita flings it into the trash can on her cart, then starts to strip off the bed. "I hope I never have to black light one of these rooms," she says with a full body shudder. "The whole fucking place would be lit up like a Christmas tree."

  I scoff. "You're not kidding." We've been helping each other out lately. Tag teaming our rooms so we get done faster. We can chat, too, and that seems to make the hard and dirty work a little bit easier to bear.

  An alarm on my phone goes off, and I reach into my pocket, turning it off without even glancing at the screen. I don't know why I set the damn thing, but I did. As if I could ever forget this time of the day. It's like I have an internal clock that is always ticking down to the exact moment when my entire life got blown to smithereens. The exact moment everything changed.

  Everything.

  Lita gives me a passing glance and stares at the pocket of my smock.

  It's three thirty in the afternoon, and I'm standing in the middle of a downtown hotel and drive-through wedding chapel. The rooms have drive-up doors, so there's a balcony running along the second floor where Lita and I are cleaning. Outside, horns honk, and vehicles burn rubber as they try to get to the strip, money burning holes in their pockets when my pockets are barren. There's a bum with a "will work for food" sign. He's lying against a dumpster. At least he doesn't have a dog with him. That one breaks my heart every time.

  My pulse picks up as I scan the sidewalk. A group of drunken twenty somethings stagger down the street, raising their plastic bottles of beer high in the air. Probably some bachelor party looking to get laid until they get back on their flight to Topeka. Lita follows my gaze and snorts.

  "The whole 'whatever happens in Vegas' thing is starting to piss me off. They should have to live here. Go to school here." She shakes her head, her lip curled in disgust. "Nothing that's born in Vegas ever stays here. No fucking way. We just want to get the hell out of the place where every Midwestern housewife is clamoring to get in."

  "Hey, Marcella! You up there?"

  At the sound of a deep, booming voice, I glance down to the parking lot to see my boss standing next to a late eighties Chevy Vega. The damn car is so old an
d beat up, it's the color of rust, but I think it used to be silver back in its glory days. Bob's wearing a white spandex suit, inlaid with thousands of cheap, plastic rhinestones. Because they're not real, they don't sparkle in the Vegas sun, making him look like a poor man's Elvis.

  The moment I see him, my palms start to sweat, and I clench my fists to keep from running back to my trailer where I can crawl back under the covers and pretend this isn't my life.

  "Hey, Bob. Working tonight at the showroom?"

  Bob has a part-time gig impersonating The King at one of the local lounges. Apparently, he's pretty good. According to a rumor among his employees, he's got an adequate singing voice, but I've never heard it, and I don't want to. If I went to see him perform, he'd take it as some warped invitation to come on to me for real.

  "Marcella, what do you call a Muslim Elvis impersonator?"

  I humor him, even though I'd rather tell him to fuck off. He is my boss after all, and I need this shitty job. Especially now that Manny has stolen all my savings to fund his poker habit.

  "You tell me," I say, stepping out on to the white wrought iron balcony so I can see him better.

  "Amal Shookup."

  I give a pity laugh and smile, but behind me, Lita makes eye rolling into a profession. She raises her hand and fakes two fingers down the back of her throat, fake gagging herself. I hide my smile as I lean over the railing and wave to him.

  "Have a great show, Bob. See you later."

  He gives a swish of his cape, puts some big ass sunglasses over his eyes and swoops down low. "Thank you, thank you very much. I will return once Elvis has left the building."

  I stifle a groan and turn back to Lita.

  "He's a fucking piece of work."

  I sigh and grab some towels from my cart for the bathroom. After the used condoms, I shudder to think what we're going to find in there.

  "I know," I say on a sigh. "He's annoying but harmless. It could be a lot worse, you know."