Page 55 of Broken Promises
“Me and Gatsby?”
“No. You and Leonardo. Your hair is just too dark.”
With another dazzling smile, he bows slightly and leaves me alone to finish breakfast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dante
“Weapons?” A bald bodyguard stands in front of a red curtain on the top floor ofGrande—a members-only strip club in the heart of Las Vegas.
Spades reaches into the holster, placing his gun on a black, high table in the corner. Julij does the same, and I put my gold revolver over there too. I don’t leave the house without it, just in case, by a miraculous coincidence, I’ll bump into Morte.
This isn’t the first time we’ve been asked to leave our guns behind. For the past two weeks, since Layla left Chicago, I’ve visited major bosses all over the states, paying them off in return for protection. Most don’t care about money. Some already ordered their people not to touch the order. Others want a few million before calling off their hunters.
We landed in Vegas a few hours ago. With time to kill, Spades thought it wise to hit the casinos. Precisely one hour later, he left the Bellagio twenty grand lighter but smiling, nonetheless. The meeting with Mauricio DelVannie is scheduled for ten p.m. He’s one of the oldest bosses in the States, one of the last native Italians.
In theory, he should respect the old rules, but in practice, he has dealt with Frank and Nikolaj for the past five years. There’s no telling how deep their alliance reached.
Our paths never crossed until tonight. I have no idea what to expect. Rumor has it that Mauricio is a no-bullshit, no-mercy kind of guy, which doesn’t bode well for me. I have a gut feeling I’m wasting time here because he won’t help. What’s more, I’m ready for a bloody finale to the evening.
The storm raging inside every cell in my body won’t help me convince Mauricio to cooperate. The longer Layla’s away, the shakier my self-control. I’m supposed to focus on the job, but instead, I think about her more. There’s no winning here. I can’t stop worrying, no matter where she is.
When she was in Chicago, I worried someone would kill her. Now when she’s away, in safe hands, I can’t find peace because she’s not with me. As if that’s not enough to drive me nuts, I’m jittery like a sinner on judgment day becausetonightis the Charity Ball Anatolij hosts every year.
I’ve been climbing the fucking walls thinking about her out in the open, mingling with people I don’t know, but...back in Moscow, no one can hurt a fly without Anatolij’s permission. I trust his judgment. Still, I’d rather she’d sit this out, locked in her room, invisible.
The one comforting piece of information came from Julij—no one knows Layla in Russia. No one knows me either. I only work with the Dutch and the Hungarians, but three million dollars is a hefty sum for a target as easy as my star. Knowing that she’ll be there, dressed to impress, dancing with other men doesn’t help the situation one fucking bit. She’s been gone for two weeks. I’ve not kissed, held, or felt her in two weeks, and it’s starting to weigh me down.
The henchman pulls the red curtain aside to reveal a spacious room bathed in a similar, dimmed lighting arrangement. Clouds of smoke hang over leather seats that face a row of poles on a raised stage. We step inside, my eyes darting left and right, scanning the room as I map the place out, sketching a possible escape route in case things get too hot. Young, naked girls writhe around poles, flashing middle-aged men with fake boobs. A bar is tucked away at the back, the room full of waitresses wearing nothing but bowties as they balance drinks on silver trays.
Julij pokes me with his elbow, pointing to the left, behind the dance floor. Thick, black, floor-length curtains hide, as I can easily guess, private rooms for those wanting to fuck either one of the pole dancers. A brothel under the banner of a strip club is standard in Vegas and any other major city.
“This way,” the henchman says, leading us to the nearest booth occupied by three men.
Despite never meeting Mauricio in person, I have no trouble guessing who the boss is. He resembles mafia men from Prohibition times—white suit, dark shades, a cigar in hand. Resting one elbow on his knee, he leans toward the stage, almost drooling at the sight of naked ass. Signet rings mark his fingers, and a large cross with diamonds hangs from a thick chain around his neck. Oh... and let’s not forget the hat. White with a black band.
Now,hedoes look like Al Capone. When compared to Mauricio, Nikolaj was merely a cheap tribute act.
“Dante Carrow,” Mauricio says, the high-pitched voice out of place on a man of his overweight size. He shakes my hand, squeezing hard to establish seniority. Most bosses take time to introduce their main entourage, but Mauricio scrams his and my people away. They move to a nearby table, offering us a false sense of privacy. “What’s your poison? Cognac? Whiskey? Bourbon?” He summons a waitress with a snap of his fingers.
The girl, her boobs bigger than my head, leans over the table, holding out a tray. I snatch a glass of bourbon and accept a cigar from Mauricio. Etiquette requires fifteen minutes of vague conversation before we get to business, so I start with the safest topic: I praise the club.
I don’t get to finish the sentence before he cuts me off.
“How about we skip the pleasantries, Dante? I know why you’re here. I know nobody has refused yet, and I know how much you offer.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I can’t check who’s trying to reach me. It would show a lack of respect, erasing the small chance I have to win Mauricio over, and my chance would go down the drain. “The price is negotiable.”
“You’re going about this all wrong. Instead of paying for protection, pay for murder. You’re searching for the promoter yourself, but if you were to order a hit, pay, say, twice as much as Frankie wanted for Layla, you could lead most of the daredevils away from her.”
My grip on the glass tightens of its own accord. “It won’t work. Layla’s the easier target. And Morte is mine.”
Mauricio laughs, patting me on the shoulder. “Stop acting like a child. “Morte is mine,” he mocks. “What difference does it make who kills him? The main thing is that he’ll be dead, right? The order will become insolvent, and you’ll be able to bring Layla home.”
A cold sweat rushes down my spine as I watch Mauricio, searching his eyes for confirmation that he knows where she is.
No, no way. That’s impossible. Only me, Julij, Spades, and Nate know her exact location.
