MOB BOSS 2

by Monroe, Mallory

  Marcy was fuming. This was not how Pags said it would play out.

  “The thing is, there was no kidnapping. At least not when Marcy came running to you.”

  “That’s a lie,” Marcy said halfheartedly, wondering why they were going in this direction, wondering if they had other aces up their asses Pags hadn’t shared with her.

  “But now,” the voice said and Reno squeezed Trina tighter, “things have changed.”

  The scene on the screen went black and then reappeared with Marcy’s six year old son Nicholas seated in front of the camera. Marcy, astounded, stood to her feet.

  “No,” she said, confusion overtaking her, shaking her head. “That can’t be Nicky!”

  Reno and Tommy looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you doing?” Marcy said, talking to the screen as if Pags and the voice were standing right in front of her.

  “Yes, Marcy,” the voice on the screen said, “we have him.”

  Marcy began covering her mouth and shaking her head. “No,” she said.

  “What is it, Marce?” Reno asked.

  “They don’t, they can’t. I didn’t know--”

  “You didn’t know what?”

  “They said, Pags said. . .” She kept shaking her head. “No!”

  “You thought you were so clever, didn’t you, Marce?” the voice on the tape continued. “You thought you could sneak him out of the country and we old hicks wouldn’t notice. Come now, child. Who do you think you’re dealing with? We had you tailed long before our little meeting, and definitely after the meeting. But that was the plan, Reno. She was to tell you that her child had been kidnapped when her child, in her mind anyway, was safely tucked away in Belize. Your child, Reno. This is your child. Looks just like you, wouldn’t you say? A blonde haired Reno Gabrini, Junior. But not for long.”

  Reno’s heart pounded against his chest, as he couldn’t take his eyes off of the little, frightened boy.

  “Where’s my child!” Marcy screamed, real tears running down her cheeks. She never dreamed this would happen. Not in a million years would she have dreamed Pags would do this to her. Trina stood up from Reno’s lap and hurried to her, placing an arm around her waist. “I want my child! They can’t have him!”

  “Don’t worry,” Trina said. “Reno will get him back.” Trina looked at Reno, her anguished face betraying her words, then she looked back at the screen.

  “We have a proposition for you, Reno,” the voice on the tape said. “Yes, that’s what we do, don’t we? Proposition all day long. Well here’s yours: you can have your boy back, back completely unharmed and in his father’s loving arms, yes you can. But there’s a catch.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the room, as everybody, including Marcy, held their breath and waited for the catch.

  “You can have your son. But we want your wife.”

  Reno thought his heart had stopped beating when Trina’s name was spoken. He even grabbed his shirt at his chest, to stop the pain.

  Trina’s heart hammered too, as she looked at Reno, as she realized the position they had just put him in.

  “That’s the deal,” the voice continued. “Not open to negotiation of any kind. We want the black girl. Katrina, isn’t that her name? We want her. Period. End of discussion. We want the love of your life.”

  There was a long sigh. “So you think about it for a few hours, okay? Think long and hard about it. We want you to be in anguish every hour you think about. But you don’t have many hours. Twenty-four to be precise. We will be back in touch at that time. The time and place for the exchange will be ready to go. Make sure your plane is ready to bring that black beauty of a wife to us, because there will be no further delays. We just need to first make sure you haven’t foolishly contacted law enforcement. I mean, we can’t stop you of course. You can go to the police if you want to. Such a move would be ill advised, however. Because you see, they’ll be very interested in how you masterminded the Frank Partanna hit, wouldn’t they? I mean, murder is murder, right? So go to the cops if you want. Bring them in if you please. You might pull it off and not end up on death row, I doubt it, but you might actually live. But it’s guaranteed that your son here won’t.”

  Then the little boy looked over to his right, as if the man talking had been talking off camera in his sight all along. “Say goodbye to your father, Reno, Junior.”

  The boy was so terrified his bottom lip shook. “Good bye,” he said nervously.

  “Say goodbye, father,” the man off camera said.

  “Goodbye, father,” Nicholas said, his big blue eyes filled with weariness, filled with the kind of fear that was choking Reno. And the screen went black.

  Marcy fell to her knees screaming and crying, and Trina went down with her, trying to keep her from complete collapse. Tommy and Sal Luca glanced at each other. This was bad. They knew how Reno felt about his wife. This was bad.

  Reno, however, was calm. And it was that calm, that lack of movement and decision, that terrified every one of them. Nobody had ever seen Reno quite like this.

  But Reno knew like Tommy and Sal Luca knew how bad this was. While they were still trying to get their acts together, still trying to get checkers on the board, Partanna’s people were not only already playing chess, but had just check-mated them. And left him with a Hopson’s choice. With a take it or leave it. With two clear options that were both clearly bad.

  THIRTEEN

  The private balcony on the backside of the penthouse offered an awe-inspiring view of the Vegas skyline. But Reno, who sat on the lounger, and Trina, who sat at the foot of that lounger, hadn’t even noticed the view. Reno was contemplative, and Trina was still worried. Tommy was out there too, his back to Trina and Reno, his arms on the rail and his eyes disgusted by the view.

  “The answer is what it will always be, Tree,” Reno said to his wife. “No.”

  “But we can’t let a child die. Let your son die. How can we live with something like that on our heads?”

  Reno wanted to close his eyes, but didn’t. “We’ll have to think of something. They won’t kill a child.”

  “Oh, please, Reno, give me a break! You mob people just kills me with that honor nonsense. There’s no honor among thieves, and you know it. Just thieves. Just people who will do whatever they have to do to avenge what was done to them. And if it means killing your kid, they’ll kill your kid. They will.”

  Reno ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll come up with something.”

  “But what? You don’t even know where they’re holding the boy.”

  “No, but they know.”

  Trina frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Reno looked at Tommy. Trina looked from Reno to Tommy. “What?”

  Tommy exhaled, his back still to them. “Their boss knows where the kid is being held. We’ll just have to get him to tell us.”

  Trina stared at Tommy’s straight, elegant back. “How in the world are you going to do that?”

  Tommy looked at Reno, causing Trina to look, too. Reno was staring at the dark, black hole he felt he was in. “Reno?” Tommy said. “What say you? I think we’ve come to that no other choice moment.”

  At first Reno said nothing, just continued to stare, just continued to think about that sweet-faced boy with the striking blonde hair. “Do it,” he said to Tommy without looking at him. “Bring that bastard in.”

  ***

  Newark, New Jersey. Police Officer Paul Brown and his partner Jack “Bronx” Bratmann received the call and then laughed. Seemed their colleagues needed back up because the alleged perp in a DV dispute didn’t just want to beat on his wife, but wanted to take out cops as well.

  “What,” Paul said, “they can’t handle a trailer park yahoo?”

  When they arrived at the small, dilapidated trailer in an entire park of dilapidation, an ambulance and three other police cars were already there. They could hear the commotion from outside. Could hear arguing go
ing back and forth.

  As they hurried onto the rickety deck and entered the home, they saw it. One big, burly white man with long, straggly hair was completing a body slam on a police officer, while two EMTs stood by a gurney. Paul and Bronx immediately rushed over to assist the officer, without noticing that two other officers were in the home behind the door they’d just entered, and both bore striking resemblances to them.

  Neither knew what hit them as they were knocked out with just enough force to momentarily incapacitate them, but not enough force to harm them. One of the men dressed as an EMT immediately took a long needle and injected first Paul Brown and then his partner. As soon as the injections were complete, the men went into action.

  The EMTs grabbed a now unconscious Paul Brown, slung him onto the gurney, and pulled a sheet up to his nose. The burly “perp” then inspected both Paul and Bronx to ensure their stand-ins made no mistakes and fit as close as possible in how they were wearing their uniform, their hat, what shoes they wore. The two suspects looked remarkably like Paul Brown and Bronx in build, coloring, and mannerisms, although a close inspection would clearly show a difference. But they weren’t banking on any close inspections.

  Although they left the real Officer Bronx Bratmann passed out in the home, with the official line to be that he was a victim too, the EMTs then grabbed the gurney containing the real Paul Brown and headed outside for the ambulance.

  “Okay folks,” the burly man said, who, in actuality, was running the operation, “let’s make this look good.”

  As soon as he said those words, he and his two stand-ins hurried to the door and then fell out of the door wrestling, with the other officers following, careful to keep the lookalikes looking down. And it seemed to work, as Reno’s men were watching Paul Brown’s supposedly secret security detail. Not the EMTs as they loaded the boss in the back of the ambulance. And the fight became the perfect distraction. Because they had to pay attention. They had to make sure their boss wasn’t in any danger. The ambulance slipped away with only mild interest by the men whose job it was to keep their eyes trained on their boss, to make sure even that yahoo didn’t get the best of him. And although they saw the ambulance as it whizzed by, their attention was on the fight, a fight that their boss, or at least the man they assumed was their boss, seemed to be easily winning.

  ***

  Less than eight hours later, Reno, Tommy, Sal Luca and Carmine took a private elevator to the PaLargio’s basement, and made their way along a winding path that led to a soundproof room. The security was tight, and layered, exactly the way Tommy ordered it.

  Inside the room, to nobody’s surprise, was Paul Brown, now conscious, seated in a chair, legs crossed, untied, but definitely imprisoned. A small table with a glass of wine was seated next to the chair. Paul Brown, however, refused to drink it.

  Tommy and Sal Luca stood back against the door as Reno and Carmine walked up to the reputed mob boss. Reno standing in front of him, Carmine standing behind him. This boss looked scrawny to Reno, like a wannabe, just like the patrol officer he purported to be. But Reno would not be fooled twice. He trusted Tommy. He trusted that Tommy’s 411 was right on the money. And when this pile of manure admitted where that boy was being kept, Reno thought, there would be no further doubt.

  Reno reached into his pocket, causing Paul to brace himself, but Reno, instead, pulled out a pair of beveled-edged barber shears and sat them on the small table. Paul smiled.

  “What you going to give me a haircut?”

  “Where’s the boy?” Reno asked him.

  “Excuse me? What boy?”

  “Where’s the boy?”

  “Again, what boy?”

  Reno grabbed the shears, grabbed Paul Brown’s hand, and completely cut off his pinky finger before he could react. The blood gushed and Paul cried out in excruciating pain, holding his injured hand with his other hand.

  “Where’s the boy?” Reno asked again, over the cries.

  “What boy?” Paul screamed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Reno grabbed Paul’s hand again, this time with Carmine holding Paul back as he fought the grab. Reno immediately sliced off the ring finger, Paul’s diamond ring causing a thump as the finger fell to the ground. And the screaming, and blood, recommenced.

  “Where’s the boy?” Reno asked, over the yells. This man hated Reno at this point in time, but he could not have possibly hate Reno more than Reno hated himself.

  “What boy?” Paul screamed. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re going to bleed to death,” Reno said, as he grabbed that same damaged hand and sliced his middle finger. Paul nearly fell out of the chair fighting against Carmine, fighting against Reno. The blood flying, the pain ripping through his thin body like shards of glass continually slicing against his flesh, and he fought.

  “Where’s the boy?” Reno asked once more, his face as unreadable as the hidden pain deep within him. He hated being in this position. Hated what he was doing to this man, what they were doing to his son, hated all of it. But he had no choice. They started this shit, and he had to finish it.

  “Where’s the boy?” he asked yet again.

  “I told you,” Paul started and Reno grabbed the decimated hand yet again, ready to dice again.

  “He’s here!” Paul screamed, unable to bear another cut.

  Reno held his hand, and then tossed it away from him. “In Vegas?” he asked.

  Paul shook his head, cradling his hand as one would cradle a baby. “No,” he said.

  “Where have you ordered Pags to keep my boy?”

  “Here,” Paul said.

  “What here?” Reno yelled impatiently. “In Vegas?”

  “Here,” Paul said. “At the PaLargio.”

  Reno stood to his feel in shock. Carmine, shocked too, let Paul go. Tommy pushed away from the door.

  “What room?” Reno asked, his heart pounding.

  “You’re a dead man, Reno Gabrini,” Paul said, tearing his shirt sleeve with his teeth to wrap his hand and staunch the blood flow. “I’ll see you in hell for this!”

  “What room you fucker!” Reno yelled, grabbing Paul by the catch of his shirt and pulling him up from the chair.

  “Two-ninety-two,” Paul screamed as the pain ripped through him. Reno dropped him to the chair.

  “What do we do, Reno?” Carmine asked.

  Reno had to digest this. “You watch him and wait for my call.” Then he looked at Paul. “If you’re lying to me, you don’t know pain yet.”

  “And they call you a saint,” Paul said, still angry, still in unbelievable pain. “St. Dominic they called you. What saint! You’re the most ruthless, dirty bastard that ever lived! How could you do this to me?”

  But Reno wasn’t thinking about him. He began heading for the door. When Reno saw that look in Tommy and Sal’s eyes, a look that made clear that even they were stunned by the brutality they’d just witnessed, his heart grew faint. But what did they expect from him? You had to give as good as you got or people like Paul Brown would eat you alive. Not to mention that poor little boy. His son.

  When he made it through the door, and cleared the passageway, he ran, pulling out the master key.

  With his security team behind him, with Tommy and Sal Luca behind them, they took the back stairs to the hotel’s second floor. As soon as they stepped out onto the floor, however, Tommy pulled Reno back, handed the master key to the head spotter, and then motioned to security.