Dom's Ascension Page 3

  Mobsters often left messages with their hits. A bullet through the eye meant the family who’d ordered the hit was watching. A bullet through the mouth meant the victim had been a snitch. But I’d never heard of a message connected to flaying a person. I dragged a hand down my face and tried to figure out why the hell these two had been tortured. It didn’t make any sense.

  In the middle of the room stood two empty tables, with a safe in the corner. Michael hung up the phone and made a beeline for the safe. He put in the code and opened it up to reveal a pile of cash.

  “At least they didn’t get the money,” he said, pulling it out and locking the safe back up.

  Sometimes my brother sounded eerily like our old man. All these men were dead, and he was proud none of them had given up the code. “Harsh, Mike.”

  He shrugged. “What do you want me to do, cry for them? Build them a shrine? Sorry, but I don’t have time to do any of that shit, because I’m gonna go catch the bastards who did this. Now let’s get out of here. Father’s calling in a clean-up crew.”

  He made it sound like they’d be cleaning up trash, or some sort of spill. Not people we knew. Searching for some whisper of humanity in him, I said, “That guy with the gun… he’s got a kid. A little girl. She was at dinner a couple of weeks ago, remember?”

  “Yeah. This one right here has a wife. You wanna stick around and reminisce? Maybe explain to their families why their killers are still out there? Cool, but I’m gonna go hunt them down.”

  “Does Father know who did this?” I asked.

  Michael cocked his head. “We all know who did this. Let’s talk in the car.”

  We hustled out to his Acura and took off. After we’d put a few blocks between us and the murder scene, Michael filled me in on his conversation with our old man.

  “He suspects the Durantes are behind the hit, but wants the names of the men who pulled the triggers. He’s given us permission to do whatever it takes to get them.”

  I knew what that meant. Michael and I spent the rest of the night crashing all the usual hot spots where hitmen were known to wag their jaws while blowing off steam. We paid off whores and bartenders, threatened a few contacts, even dropped a couple ounces of weed as bribes. Other than instilling more fear and respect for our family, we got nothing.

  Somewhere around four a.m., during a coffee stop at some dive, Michael’s pager went off. After a quick call on the payphone, we were off again. This time Michael drove us to an older bar not far from the strip. We parked on the side and went to the back entrance. Michael knocked out a tune, and a bouncer answered and showed us to a small, cluttered office. He cleared coats off the sofa and invited us to sit.

  “Tom’ll be in in a second,” he said after we were situated.

  A few minutes later, a guy who couldn’t have been much older than me and Michael joined us. He took off his apron and tossed it on the desk. “You must be Mike and Dom,” he said, shaking our hands. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Tom.”

  With introductions out of the way, Tom leaned against the desk and got right down to business. “One of my regulars was in here tonight… a loud mouth dipshit who goes by the name of Chains. He’s always braggin’ about one fight or another, and tonight I overheard him sayin’ he and a few friends jumped a warehouse. He was all hopped up on coke, so I thought it might be connected.”

  “Chains?” I asked.

  “That’s what they call him. I don’t know his real name. Always pays with cash. Brags he got the nickname from some sort of chain whip he uses.”

  My stomach turned as I connected the nickname with the flayed skin and clothing on two of the soldiers.

  “Sick bastard,” Michael said.

  “Yeah, he’s a real piece of work,” Tom said. “Short guy… about five foot five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, but built like he spends a few days a week in the gym. Brown hair, droopy eyes, usually wears a suit, but I’ve seen him in jeans a time or two. Hits on all the girls but never leaves with one. Sometimes he comes in with a couple friends. I wish I had more to tell you. I’d like to see this lowlife come to an abrupt end, if you know what I’m sayin’. I’ve got plenty of patrons warmin’ my bar stools, and I don’t need him bringin’ trouble into the establishment.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said, trying to give him a hundred-dollar bill, but Tom shook his head and pushed off the desk.

  “If you guys can keep Chains from bringin’ his sorry ass back here, that’d be thanks enough,” he said, showing us out the back door.

  Now that we had a name and a description, Chains wouldn’t be too difficult to find, but it was almost six a.m. by the time we left the bar.

  Michael drove to my parents’ house to let the old man know what we’d found out and see what he wanted us to do from there while I tried to get a little shut-eye in the passenger’s seat, but couldn’t. The images of those two flayed men kept playing in my head. We needed to find this Chains son-of-a-bitch and make sure he never used that weapon again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dominico

  MY FAMILY OWNED two and a half acres outside of Vegas. Surrounded by eight-foot-high security fencing, the property kept guards posted around the clock. In addition to the main house, there were two in-laws’ quarters. Michael and I lived in one of them, and off-duty family soldiers, who had been personally vetted by my father, slept in the other.

  The traditional stucco buildings—combined with the swimming pool, armed soldiers, and high fences—made the estate look like some sort of Spanish villa for the cartel. Guards waved us through the gate, and Michael and I went straight to the main house where Mamma greeted us at the door, fussing about how tired we looked.

  “Look at those bags under your eyes,” she said, kissing Michael’s cheeks. “I read an article the other day about missing sleep. They say it takes years off your life. You’re both still growing, so you need your rest.”

  Mamma wasn’t stupid. Her father had been the Mariani family boss, who—without any sons—had made her husband his heir. Mamma grew up as a Dona, the female equivalent of a Don, and she knew who we were, what we did, and that the chances of old age taking us to the grave were slim to none. Yet she still insisted on making sure we regularly ate well-balanced meals and nagged us about annual doctor and dentist visits like we were normal kids. We humored her whenever we could. After all, the fires of hell are nothing compared to the nagging of an Italian mamma.

  “We’re fine, Mamma,” Michael assured her. “And you better hope Dom’s done growing, or he’ll have to duck to get in the doorways.” My big brother had been sore about my height since I outgrew him right after my sixteenth birthday.

  “Don’t listen to him, Dom,” she said, tugging on my suit until I bent down so she could give me a kiss. “You grow all you want. You’re perfect. Both my boys are. Now go see your father, and I’ll make you breakfast.”

  I wasn’t hungry, but if Mamma had it in her mind to feed someone, you’d better believe they were gonna get fed, and no arguments could dissuade her. She scurried off toward the kitchen to do her thing while we headed to Father’s office.

  My old man’s office was located on the main floor in the back of the house, overlooking the swimming pool. The room held a permanent fragrance of pine, gun oil, cigar smoke, and whichever monthly plug-in air freshener Mamma used to try to mask the odors. This month’s vanilla scent hit us before we even opened the door. Reclining and fast asleep in his desk chair, Father startled awake when the door creaked open. He had his hand on his gun before we crossed the threshold.

  “Father,” Michael said by way of greeting, easing into the room.

  Looking from Michael to me, the old man released his Glock, lying it on the top of his desk. “Come in, boys. Sit.”

  The assortment of office furniture could comfortably seat eight. Sometimes Father held family meetings here, squishing us all together and making the soldiers stand in the back while those of higher rank sat in front. Pleasing the old ma
n meant you got a seat, but if you pissed him off, you could be standing for years while fighting to get back in his good graces. It was his version of public humiliation and was surprisingly effective. None of the bosses liked to stand.

  “I trust you have news,” Father said, once we sat. His exact orders had been, “Don’t come home until you know something,” and neither Michael nor I would have been stupid enough to disobey that command.

  Michael relayed the tale from the bartender while I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, trying to stay awake. Despite my best efforts my eyes must have drifted closed, because the next thing I knew, Michael’s elbow was digging into my side. My eyes sprang open to find my father glaring at me.

  “Shall I have your mamma bring you your blankie and teddy bear?” he asked.

  I’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours, and sitting in his too-damn-comfortable office chair had finally done me in, but Father wasn’t the type to accept excuses. I bolted upright and apologized.

  “Stand,” he said. “And try to stay awake.”

  I rose and stood behind my chair, careful not to touch it so he wouldn’t accuse me of slacking. They continued their conversation while I stood guard like a sentry or a common soldier, exactly how the old man wanted me to feel. He and Michael spoke of plans involving me like I wasn’t even in the room. Father would allow us a few hours of sleep, but he wanted us back on Chains’s trail as soon as possible to track down his entire crew and bring them in for questioning.

  The families kept the peace in Vegas… mostly. Only peace looked a lot like a shaky house of cards with a grenade on top. We knew the Durante family was behind the attack, and we sure as hell planned to retaliate. But if we could prove their involvement, their allies would be a little more hesitant to jump in and collapse the peace completely.

  As the meeting’s last order of business, Father gave me a task. “The new chef… make sure she gets to and from work every day. Keep an eye on her and let me know if the Durantes are sniffing around.”

  Babysitting a cook was the type of task he’d normally assign to a common soldier, and now he gave it to me as punishment. The rest of the crew would get a kick out of this for sure, but I couldn’t force myself to get too upset about the chance to watch Annetta Porro’s fine ass. Oh, I’d keep an eye on her all right. Trying not to sound too eager, I said, “Yessir.”

  “Did you find out what happened to the last chef?” Michael asked.

  Father’s eyes hardened. “One of Carlo’s men found him back at his mom’s house in Reno. Said someone threatened him into leaving town for a while.”

  The chooch, the moron, had run, and, judging by Father’s reaction, the chef’s temporary vacation had turned into a permanent one. The old man had no use for cowards or traitors. And if the Durantes had scared the old chef off, who knew what they’d do to the new one? Had I put Annetta Porro’s life in danger by pushing for her to get the job?

  By the time Father released us, worry and exhaustion left no room in my brain to even think about food. Mamma wouldn’t hear of it, though. She sat both Michael and me down, plopping a giant slice of baked frittata in front of each of us. My sister, Abriana, wandered into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of orange juice, sat at the table, and stared out the window.

  I nudged her under the table with my foot. “You okay, Bri?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Peachy.”

  Finishing up the dishes, Mamma paused long enough to frown at Abriana before tossing her towel on the counter and leaving. The instant she slipped out of sight, Abriana carried her glass of juice to the liquor cabinet and topped it off with vodka.

  “Bri!” Michael reprimanded. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Our nineteen-year-old little sister shouldn’t be partaking at all, but especially not at seven in the morning.

  Abriana screwed the lid back on the vodka and set it in the cabinet. “Take a chill pill, Mikey. If I’m old enough for them to sell me off like some prized cow, I should be old enough for the hard stuff.”

  “A prized cow?” Michael snorted. “Someone’s got a high opinion of herself.”

  She tilted back the glass, downing every drop before setting it on the counter. “Screw you.”

  “Poor little Abriana,” he taunted. “You think it’s any different for us? Do you honestly believe you’re the only one Father’s working on a marriage contract for?”

  She blinked, looking to me for answers. I knew nothing, so I said, “You wanna fill us in, Mike?”

  “You’re twenty-three, Dom. I’m twenty-five. Only reason we’re still single is that Father didn’t want to tip his hand too soon. Now he’s cementing his alliances and it’s only a matter of time.”

  I don’t know why I was shocked. There weren’t many decisions that the old man let us make for ourselves, but for some reason I’d expected to be able to select my own wife. I felt sucker-punched as I stared at my brother, wondering how long he’d known about this. “Who’s he hooking you up with?” I asked.

  “One of the Caruso girls. I’m supposed to get to know them during Abriana’s engagement dinner and tell him which one.” Michael put his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands, staring at his plate.

  My brother had secrets… secrets he was keeping from me.

  I didn’t want to know, but I refused to be a coward and forced myself to ask the question. “What about me?”

  Michael looked at me and shrugged.

  The bastard knew. I could see it in his eyes. “Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, Mike. Who’s he plannin’ to saddle me with?”

  “He told me not to tell you until the dance, but I think it’s better that you have some time to come to grips with it.” Michael took a drink and set down his cup.

  That sounded bad. Not only was he stalling, but my brother had argued with Father about when to tell me? “Who the fuck is it?” I asked.

  “Ciro Pelino’s daughter. They’ll announce it right after I get hitched.”

  Don Pelino only had one daughter. My memory served her up as being younger and quiet with a long face. The broad was supposed to be my bride and I couldn’t even remember her name. I looked to Abriana for help.

  “Valentina,” she provided.

  Michael nodded. “Don Pelino and Father have already started negotiating.”

  My world tilted on its axis. Throughout my entire life, Father had pointed out my shortcomings and uselessness. As the heir apparent, Michael was the one destined for a political marriage. Abriana would have probably gotten off the hook if she hadn’t caught the eye of the son of Father’s biggest California ally. As for me... I didn’t need to produce an heir, so I’d been planning to stay single like Uncle Carlo. And if I couldn’t stay single, I at least wanted to pick out the goddamn woman I had to marry.

  “I hate this family,” Abriana said. She pushed off the counter and headed outside.

  “But we love you,” Michael said mockingly.

  “Don’t be such a dick,” I said to him before following my sister out to the back patio. She slunk down on a wicker sofa overlooking the pool, and I sat beside her. The orange glow of the rising sun reflected off the water as the air chilled my skin. I draped an arm over my sister and hugged her to my side.

  She sighed. “What if he’s a complete asshole?”

  I rubbed her shoulder. “Mike? He’s an asshole all right.”

  She elbowed me in the ribs. “You know who I’m talking about, Dom.”

  “I know.” Although I felt bad for my sister, focusing on her problem while running on fumes and still trying to get over the shock of Michael’s revelation about my own fate, proved difficult. “Sorry, sis, I’m still trying to digest this whole Valentina Pelino thing. Is she even an adult yet?”

  Abriana shook her head. “No. She’s a few years younger than me.”

  Disturbing. But at least that meant I had time.

  “They’ll probably let you two wait until she’s eighteen,” Abrian
a added, her mind obviously coming to the same conclusion. “Lucky.”

  “Lucky?” I asked. “Bri, that girl is boring. Have you ever tried to talk to her? She just giggles. And her face…”

  Abriana sat up. “What’s wrong with her face?”

  “It’s like a horse.”

  A bubble of laughter escaped from my sister’s mouth before she suppressed it and shook her head at me. “You’re awful, Dom.”

  I wasn’t trying to be awful, I was being honest. “I’m not even kidding. Have you seen the size of that overbite? It’d be like going to bed with Mr. Ed.”

  She fought off another giggle. “Dom!”

  “I know. That poor girrrrl,” I whinnied.

  This time, Abriana did allow herself to laugh. When her laughter died down, silence fell between us. She propped her head on my shoulder and we watched the sunrise together as my eyelids grew heavy.

  After a while she said, “I know you and Mike will have to marry whoever Father selects too, but it’s different for you.”

  I yawned. “Different how?”

  She leaned away and pulled her feet up to the seat cushion. “Because you’re men. If you don’t like your wife, you can ignore her and take a mistress or two. Like Father.”

  Mobsters weren’t exactly known for their monogamous relationships. I couldn’t have been more than ten when Uncle Carlo and I were making a delivery and I saw Father’s consigliere—his counselor—Giuliano Biondo, out to dinner with a woman on his lap. Assuming the woman was Giuliano’s wife Celia—a kind woman who always gave me cookies when we stopped by her bakery—I rushed to their table to say hello. Carlo intercepted me, but not before I saw the woman’s face… it wasn’t Celia.

  “Why would he cheat on Celia?” I asked Carlo as we left the restaurant.

  “Mobsters take mistresses,” he replied, brushing off the question.

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. It’s not like we live forever, kid. Those who don’t get popped get pinched and end up doing hard time up the river. It’s a rough life we lead, and we take pleasure wherever we can get it.”