Chapter 114
Nico
Dammit, leaving Lucky was akin to having my right arm amputated. The pain in my heart and the hurt at seeing her face falling slightly, her smile weak was enough to tear my heart out and stamp all over it. Yet, she has put on a brave face. All the while on the flight I felt like a cunt leaving her so soon after she is back.
Dario is a thorn in my side, a royal pain in my backside and now it is time to reign him in and bring him home. It’s about time that wayward brother of mine learns the ropes, mechanisms and the dynamics of the Santangelo Firm. Not running around Vegas or wherever else he chooses playing motherfucking playboy!
The driver waiting for me in a black SUV, tinted windows, bulletproof bodywork pulls up outside the stripper club that my youngest brother has gone into. And yes, he has been here for several hours. What can he possibly be doing in there for so long? He’d have to having either an extra long fucking session with one of the strippers or he is up to some kind of shady dealings.
According to Tony’s sources, Dario hasn’t touched drugs nor alcohol. Grimacing and clenching my jaw, I step out of the vehicle. The driver gives me a nod. “Wait here and do not move,” I tell him. He nods again. A man of few to no words. Good, I like it like that.
To say I am mad as a tornado hitting a town is an understatement. Dario and his antics take me away from Lucky who I want to spend as much time with as possible.
My two detail step out of the vehicle and flank me either side. They fly everywhere with me and coming to Vegas is not particularly safe for me. Ever since we dipped our toes into this shit-hole to build our first casino ten years ago, the Santangelo family rocked the boat and then some.
Our competitors were not happy for Santangelo blood to be present in their murky waters. It proved like a gold mine and we have never looked back.
A big guy on the door gives a look over and lowers his head. He stands taller than me, making him at least six five or six feet six. Intimidating, however he is not. I know my shit around guys like this. What? You don’t think my father pitted me against guys that kill for a living when I was just a kid. We learned the hard way, except Dario. No, he had to be brought up like a damn pussy because my mother and father doted on the youngest. Perhaps because they were already much older and he was some new gift to them.
Who the fuck knows. At least Tony and I didn’t grow up resenting Dario. Instead, we showed him patience, love, friendship and always let him come with us when we were going out. My father prevented Dario from attending some of the brutal self-defense classes Tony and I had to participate in.
“Name,” Big fella asks almost growling at me. Fuck him, doesn’t he know I am Nico Santangelo? Or is he being a complete and utter asshole? I raise an eyebrow at him and straighten my black tie which stands out against a starched, white shirt.
“Santangelo,” I reply as I adjust the cuffs of my shirt under my jacket and check out my Cartier cufflinks.
He gives me a nod and motions to the other guy, a bald fella with a spider tatt on his head, to open the heavy, metal black doors. What the hell is Dario doing in this backstreet dive when we have escorts that frequent our hotel on the strip here in Vegas? Alongside the fact that he is well known as a Santangelo and one of the most eligible bachelors alive. He could have his pick of any woman he wanted.
The fuck! I rake my long fingers through my hair with my right hand and step inside the joint. The first word that comes to mind as I take in bright pink, flashing neon lights is tacky. No doubt this is a whore house passing itself off as a strip joint by the bastard Monletto family.
“Keep your eyes peeled for Dario,” I tell my guards. They both give me a nod and reply with yes Boss. It’s dingy and dark except the nasty glow of the neon light. Seeing anything except girls on various podiums is pretty difficult.
From the inside of my jacket pocket, I pull out the ear piece that Tony insisted I wear to be able to keep comms free flowing with him, my team and the protection who are in the club with me.
The place reeks of sweat, beer and stale air. It makes my stomach churn. There is a reason I stay out of joints like this.
Pointing my two fingers in the direction of the bar, my guards move. One in front the other behind me. It’s not too busy so we have a clear line to get to the bar.
A woman with dyed blonde hair approaches me. I notice the dark roots about two inches from her scalp. “What you need, Honey?” she asks in what I recognize to be a southern drawl. She is not obviously a Vegas local.
“I’m looking for someone,” I tell her. She raises an eyebrow.
“Sugar, ain’t we all. We got grass, we got blow and we have the girls. You name it we give it,” she tells me. I don’t react to the fact that she is willing to divulge what is on offer as if she were serving me breakfast in a roadside café.
This definitely stinks of Monletto business.
“None of the above,” I reply. From my suit jacket, I pull out my mobile and go to my images until I find the most recent photo of Dario taken before he went missing on the streets. He is smiling and looks happy sitting with his feet dangling into the pool at our villa in the Hamptons.
“Now that’s a fine-lookin’ man. I’d sure be able to show him a thing or two. What ya say his name is good-looking?” I cringe inside at her words. She is old enough to be his mother, my mother.
“I didn’t,” I tell her matter of factly.
“Ain’t seen him,” she replies tight lipped. Now I know she is lying. Her eyes shift to the other side of the bar where I spot one of the Monletto brothers. Marcelo motherfucking Monletto looking mean and broody with his dark eyes staring right at me.
He gets up holding his whisky glass in his hand and strolls over to me. I take in his gawdy pink shirt, his open jacket – brown or black, difficult to say in this shit light. Wide pin stripes. Does he think he is some kind of gangster from the 1940’s?
“What the fuck are you doing in my bar, Santangelo?