Nico

by Sarah Castille

  A prominent New York Mafia family had taken Frankie in when he was nine years old after his mother and father were killed in a revenge attack by the Russian mafia. Trained as an enforcer, he had been sent to Las Vegas by the New York boss to help the Toscanis in their bid to take control of the city, but he had quickly become attached to Nico’s crew. He was more like a biker than a wiseguy, with his long dark hair, biker boots, and Harley belt, and he had the biker swagger to match, but he was fiercely loyal, and there was nobody Nico would rather have at his back.

  Nico had never seen Frankie with a woman. No hookers. No girlfriends. No one-night stands. If not for the fact that Frankie had once confided in him after they’d had one too many drinks, that there was a woman he wanted but couldn’t have, Nico would have pressured him more often to join their parties.

  “You’re missing out,” Luca said. “Last time we had six girls up there skinny dipping in Nico’s patio pool.”

  Nico pulled up in front of Il Tavolino, an old Vegas Italian restaurant that looked like it had seen better days. He pushed his weapon out of sight under his suit jacket. “So this is the thing I told you about.” A thing was mob speak for an illegal act that was better left unsaid. “A friend of mine, Lennie, owns this joint. He says he has a problem.” A friend of mine told Luca and Frankie that Lennie was a civilian as opposed to a friend of ours, a made guy in the mob. Usually, Nico’s “friends” came to him when they had a problem, instead of Nico traveling to see them, but Lennie reputedly served the best cannoli in the city, and Nico was a sucker for sweets.

  Gianni “Big Joe” De Cicco was waiting for them at the front entrance. Heavily muscled, a few inches shorter than Nico and bald as a stone, Big Joe had gotten his nickname due to his resemblance to a mob-friendly cop who’d been named “Little Joe.” He was a mob associate who had been with the Toscani family for ten years—three of those with Nico’s crew—and had proved himself loyal, honest, and trustworthy. Nico planned to open his books when things settled down so Big Joe could become a made man.

  “Right on time,” Nico said. “I’m gonna start thinking you’re a cop the way you’re never late. Luca’s always dragging his feet and Frankie sometimes just doesn’t show. Maybe you should share your secret.”

  “Don’t want to let you down, Mr. Toscani.” Big Joe gave a little shrug as if he were embarrassed by the attention. “I know what it’s like to be counting on a guy and have him not show up. My plumbing business has a high turnover ’cause I don’t put up with that shit. And if I won’t put up with it from my guys, I wouldn’t expect you to put up with it from me.”

  A retired jewel thief from Miami, Big Joe had moved to California to escape the heat of an FBI crackdown. He retrained as a plumber, started a business, and did some work for a few wiseguys on Nico’s crew. Once it became known he did a good job at a low price, he became a hot commodity. Everyone needed plumbing work, and he quickly became the go-to guy for the mob. Eventually, Nico had taken notice, and now he worked exclusively for Nico and his crew, transporting stolen goods in his plumbing trucks between jobs fixing leaky faucets.

  Lennie Minudo, the restaurant owner, was waiting for them outside. Far from an innocent civilian, Lennie ran illegal craps games from his back room, and a small-time loan sharking business for the guys who lost big at his tables. He was dirty money, and Nico had no problem taking it off his hands.

  As they walked into the restaurant, Nico felt like he’d re-entered the city’s Golden Age—from the tuxedoed waiters and captains doing tableside presentations, to the magnificent plush banquets and the huge raised stage where a Frank Sinatra impersonator was singing “My Way.” Vegas memorabilia and photos lined every square inch of the walls. Framed pictures of old movies stars sat alongside the Mafia greats—Bogart beside Bugsy Siegel, and Frank Sinatra beside Anthony Spilotro. Glass cases containing old 45s and sparkly shoes, an old-fashioned revolver, and a top hat and cane gave the restaurant an elegant feel. Nico had always enjoyed Vegas’ old-school restaurants, but Il Tavolino was in an entirely different league.

  “How long have you been here?” He pulled Lennie to the side as Frankie and Luca ordered their drinks.

  “About two years now,” he said. “This used to be the Golden Nugget back in the day. I bought it ten years ago and it took a long time to fix it up and decorate just right. Members of the Rat Pack used to come to the Golden Nugget and I got to keep all the pictures on the wall. Elvis Presley ate here, Joe DiMaggio, Tony Spilotro, and more.”

  “And the memorabilia?”

  Lennie shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a collector, Mr. Toscani. It took me so long to fix this place up because I’d see something I’d just have to have and those things don’t come cheap.”

  “Incredible.” Nico took a walk around, soaking in the Old Vegas-meets-Old Hollywood decor. If he ever had something that was just his, bought with clean money, decorated to his taste, and solely for his pleasure, it would be this.

  He felt a curious longing as he joined Frankie, Big Joe, and Luca in the booth. It was the same feeling he’d had when Mia had been in his office. Something so unexpected and foreign he had dismissed it right away.

  “You guys want something to eat? Drink?” Lennie offered them a menu. “Everything is on the house.”

  “I’ll tell you what we’re gonna have,” Nico said, waving away the menu. “Make us a little of this and a little of that, maybe some antipasti, some mussels with gorgonzola, a little strozzapreti with wild boar sauce and rigatoni with spicy sausage and peppers, and maybe some tiger prawns with a little cream and basil, and then we’ll have cannoli. Lots of cannoli. How does that sound?”

  “Very good, Mr. Toscani.”

  He enjoyed his meal, smiled as Luca and Frankie ribbed Big Joe about his punctuality, but his mind was on the saucy little temptress he’d caught in his casino. He’d directed Vito to send a notice terminating the contract, but when he received a bill with the words “As promised” scrawled across the top, he couldn’t help but laugh. No one else would have dared send him a bill after what had happened at the casino. That she had, made him want her even more. He had met few women in his life who would stand up to him, fewer still who would defy him. And none he wanted to see again.

  After the dishes were cleared, he waved Lennie over and thanked him for the meal. Business was never conducted until after the food was done, and that was Lennie’s sign to explain his problem.

  “I got thieves on my staff, taking from the cash register, hauling away food and booze,” Lennie said, wringing his hands. “And I got problems with drug dealers loading my customers up with coke. The dealers are attracting some rough characters. They cause fights in the bar, and I can’t call the police because if they find out about the dealers then I’ll lose my liquor license and my craps tables. My friend down the street, he says he pays you every week and you help him out with security issues. I was just wondering if I could get in on that, too.”

  Nico bit back a laugh. When he’d cleaned up Lennie’s friend’s restaurant, he’d sent the thieves and druggies down here with the sole purpose of getting Lennie to call and ask for the same protection the Toscanis offered his friend. The ultimate goal was to bust them out, a classic scam in which the mob offered to clean the place up for a fixed weekly fee, and then over time offered to drop the fee for a piece of the action. As the mob worked its way into the business, they would section off tables for their permanent use, order excess supplies on credit to sell on the black market, and launder money through creative bookkeeping. When the owner’s credit and reputation were shot, the building would be burned down for the insurance money.

  Nico didn’t bust out innocent civilians, and now that he was here, he didn’t want to bust Lennie out either. Burning down the restaurant would be a fucking tragedy. The memorabilia Lennie had collected was irreplaceable.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.” Nico outlined a plan in which Big Joe would come by every day for a week or two to weed o
ut the crooks and clean the place up. Nico would ensure Lennie was never bothered again, and in return Lennie would give him twenty percent of the business and the best table in the house whenever Nico stopped by for a meal.

  Frankie, Luca, and Big Joe stared at him like he’d grown another head. This discussion usually happened months after the first visit when the owner was dependent on the mob for protection and had no way out. But Nico didn’t intend to play the game to the inevitable conclusion. He wanted a piece of the Il Tavolino, but he wanted Lennie to run it.

  “Mr. Toscani. Please.” Lennie held out his hands. “Twenty percent is too high. I’m up to my ears in debt. How about I pay you something every week and you come by whenever you want for a meal on the house?”

  With a sigh, Nico stood. “You come to me for help. But when I offer my protection, you negotiate?” Nico held up a box of matches he’d swiped on the way in. “Does that sound respectful to you? I come out of my way to see you, and you insult me? Is that how you treat a business partner? Your customers? I don’t think this business is worth saving. How about I burn the fucking place down right now?” He lit a match and threw it on the white cotton tablecloth. Big Joe, Luca, and Frankie jumped up as the tablecloth burst into flames.

  “No. No. Please don’t burn it down.” Lennie begged, dropping to his knees as a waiter rushed over with a fire extinguisher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Toscani. Please. It was a very generous offer. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Nico held up a hand, warning the waiter back. It would be a shame to let the restaurant and all the precious memorabilia burn, but sacrifices had to be made to ensure no one ever challenged his authority. Nico told people how it was. There was no negotiation. “You’re right. It was generous. Too generous.” Nico watched the flames climb down the tablecloth and lick the red velvet banquette while sweat beaded on Lennie’s brow. “I’ll take thirty percent of the business, and Luca here is gonna be the manager. You’ll be his assistant and you can teach him all he needs to know about your business.”

  Nico didn’t look at Luca, knowing his friend wouldn’t be happy with the plan. Luca already had a restaurant to run, as well as his other businesses. But he had turned that small place around and made it into one of the best Italian eateries in the city. Nico had no doubt he could make a success of Il Tavolino, too.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you Mr. Toscani.” Lennie glanced nervously at the flames. One more second and the banquette would catch fire, the sprinklers would turn on, the memorabilia would be destroyed, the fire department would show up and the entire evening would turn out to be a waste of time. Nico motioned to the waiter and the fire was quickly doused while Lennie wilted on the floor with a mumbled thanks.

  Luca tapped Nico on the shoulder and spoke quietly in his ear. “I got a call from one the associates we sent to watch Vincenzo’s Trattoria. Don Toscani and Tony are there along with Don Cordano and his daughter, as well as a bunch of bodyguards. But get this. Don Falzone is there, too. Might be something else is going on—something bigger than just a wedding. You want to go check it out? It’s only a couple blocks away.”

  Nico had been trying all day to think of a way to stop the wedding. The marriage would put a huge obstacle in his quest to avenge his father. And the thought of his sexy temptress with Tony made him want to punch something. Maybe if hadn’t met her before, seen that the fire courage she showed in his office were the truth of her essence, he might not have given their union a second thought. After all, his marriage to Rosa Scozzari would give him the power to overthrow both his uncle and Tony, even with the Cordano alliance. But something about Mia intrigued him—something much deeper than her beauty—and he was determined to find out what it was before Tony or some other wiseguy bastard stole her away.

  “We’ll take a walk.” Nico brushed past a shell-shocked Lennie and headed for the door.

  “I got no problem popping that fucker Tony, if you want,” Frankie said, coming up behind him. Frankie had more kills under his belt than any other Toscani enforcer, and no compunction about pulling the trigger. And yet he was the most loyal and trustworthy man Nico knew. There was no one he would rather have at his back.

  “We’re not murderers,” Nico snapped. Santo and Tony had taken the family down a path that would make his father turn in his grave. When Nico’s father had been boss, civilians were considered untouchable, drugs, human trafficking, and prostitution beneath them, and the only people who got whacked were people like them.

  Luca’s phone buzzed again, and his eyes widened as he checked the message. “We’d better hurry. There’s been gunfire. Multiple shots. Something big is going down.”

  *

  Run. Run. Run.

  Mia heard the words as if they were far away. She tried to move but her feet were planted firmly on the floor. Frozen in shock and fear, she tried to make sense of the stillness around her when only moments ago the restaurant had echoed with gunfire—of the darkness, when there had been light.

  “Papà?” Her father had been sitting at the table facing her, his eyes cold and hard as he assured Tony Crackers that underneath the punk clothes she had the same tits and pussy as any woman, and she’d been trained to obey. Alfio, who had been escorting her back from the restroom, had grabbed her chin and twisted her head so Tony could see the bruise on her cheek.

  Where was Alfio? He’d released her when the lights went out. She’d heard gunfire, a grunt, and a thud. Many thuds. And then the noise stopped, and Alfio’s clammy grasp slipped away.

  Carefully, she edged her foot to the side where he’d been standing and made contact with something soft. She didn’t like Alfio. He’d always been cruel when carrying out her father’s orders—holding her too tight, shoving her too hard, his hands surreptitiously touching her when her father wasn’t looking. But she knew him—had known him since she was six years old—and in the darkness, better the devil you know than the one you don’t.

  “Alfio?”

  Still nothing. She didn’t know how long she’d been standing there when she heard a sound. The creak of a door. Footsteps. She drew in a shuddering breath and willed herself to move. Where was the sense of self-preservation that had built up the walls to shield her heart after Danny died? That had allowed her to endure the horror of being dragged back into the Mafia world she had tried so hard to escape?

  Shaking, she bent down, felt around Alfio’s body for his gun. Bile rose in her throat as she touched his warm skin, followed his arm to his hand and then, finally, to the cold, hard steel of the weapon lying beside him. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and stood, turning to the door just as the lights came on.

  She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light, tried to make out the blurry figure in front of her. Tall, broad shouldered, dark hair, well-cut suit. Her vision cleared and dark eyes met hers. Familiar. Her tension eased until he raised his gun. Mia slid her finger through her trigger. Her father may have despised her for being born a girl, but at least he’d taught her how to shoot.

  “Holy fuck,” a man’s voice said from behind her. “Holy fuck, Nico. They’re all dead: Don Toscani, Don Falzone, his underboss, coupla dudes who musta been bodyguards. Did she kill them all?”

  Seemingly unconcerned by the gun Mia had pointed at his chest, Nico lifted a querying eyebrow.

  “No.” Mia shook her head. “It wasn’t me. The lights went out. There were shots. And then…” She couldn’t bring herself to turn around and see all the dead bodies so she gestured vaguely behind her with her left hand. “This.”

  “Drop your gun.” Nico’s voice, low and deep, rumbled through her.

  “Drop your gun.” She didn’t know where she’d found the courage to defy him, but the minute she lowered her weapon, she would be vulnerable, and she’d had enough of being vulnerable tonight.

  “Have a care,” he warned. “Frankie is behind you and he won’t hesitate to add to the death toll tonight.”

  She didn’t know who Frankie was, but if he worked for Nico,
there was no way he would put Nico’s life at risk by shooting her while she held a gun.

  “So shoot me.” Her instincts were screaming at her to get the hell out, but she forced herself to stay in place. As long as her weapon was pointed at Nico’s chest, she was in a position of power, and she wasn’t prepared to give it up.

  “Tony is alive,” the voice said behind her. “So is Don Cordano. They aren’t moving, but they’re still breathing.”

  Nico’s gaze flicked over Mia’s shoulder, and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as a chill settled in the air. “Are you sure Don Cordano is still alive, Frankie?”

  “He doesn’t have to be.”

  Mia felt something cold and hard press against the back of her head, and she tightened her grip on her weapon.

  “We’re the only ones here.” Frankie lowered his voice. “We could make it look like everyone in the restaurant was killed in the shootout. You could have your revenge, your ring, maybe some Toscani pussy, too.”

  “I’ll shoot you if you touch him.” She stared at Nico, holding the gun steady. Although she bitterly hated her father, had imagined him dead hundreds of times in hundreds of different, painful ways, she couldn’t allow Nico to shoot him when he was down, especially when he wasn’t guilty of the crime. He was still her father. Family. And blood ties ran deep. So deep that he’d taken the blame for Nico’s father’s death all these years to protect Dante—a secret their family had vowed to carry to the grave.

  “He owes me a life,” Nico said, his eyes blazing.

  “He’s no threat to you right now.”

  Nico’s face twisted with hate. “My father wasn’t a threat. He had his back turned. He didn’t have his gun out. He was trying to save me.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I was there. I feel your pain. I lost my Danny, too, and every day I have to look at his killer and every day I wish him dead. But not like this.” Nico might be dressed as a mobster, but that night at Luigi’s she had seen something else—the essence of the man. He was kind and compassionate. Protective. Caring. He didn’t know her, but he had tried to spare her the sight of Danny dying. And when her father tried to beat her, he had protected her at the cost of his father’s life.