Ugo took a single step forward, his brow dipped with consternation. “If I may, Don, what did my fool nephew do?”
The cruel smile pulled at Rocco’s lips. “I went light on him, Ugo. In respect for his years of service.” The smile vanished. “The next time he insults my family by disregarding his job without even afuckingapology, the next time he chooses to patronize a known rival’s business, or the next time he evenhintsat insulting my woman—he’s fucking dead.”
Ugo dipped his chin. “Understood, sir. Your mercy is most appreciated.” His foot shot forward, the toes of his black boot slamming hard into Adelmo’s nearest shoulder. Something cracked and Adelmo choked on another outcry of pain. “Pardon me. My foot slipped. In the blood.”
The blood that was wholly contained on the other side of Adelmo’s now-curled form.
Rocco only said, “Make sure you buy Tino a new stapler, too. On the family’s dime.”
“Rocco,” Alessa said, her voice cutting through any response the men might have had. She stepped closer, his phone—which he’d asked her to hold on to—in her hand. “Your father’s awake.”
A strange fear entrenched itself into Alessa’s chest as Monday progressed. Every time Rocco announced her ashisshe felt a stupid, irrational, starburst-like bubble of glee somewhere deep inside. And every time, it was followed very quickly with the cold smack of reality.
Her time in Las Vegas might have been extended, but it was still limited. This attachment they’d developed to each other was only going to hurt them both in the end.
Worse, though, was the niggling concern that Rocco was or would soon be in the crosshairs of someone whose identity they didn’t know. The assassin who’d failed to kill Senior had succeeded in killing himself, so they couldn’t interrogate him. They couldn’t learn who’d paid him, who’d issued the order, how or where he’d gained access to rooms that should have been locked. By Monday’s end, they still didn’t know if the assassin had been sent by a local rival—one of the same men who’d sat in on that succession meeting—or if the attempt hadbeen an act of betrayal, sent by someone within the Cavallo house.
It seemed unlikely to her mind that Adelmo was the cause. He wasn’t deeply loyal, true, but neither did he seem particularly ambitious. He was just a bastard who’d come out on top a few too many times.
But that left plenty of other options.
Rocco had opinions of the more obvious men. He didn’t want to believe any of his father’s selected figureheads would make that choice.
Alessa wanted to let him hold on to the hope that his own people were innocent of the charge, but she wasn’t so sure it was truth. Someone had gotten that assassin into Senior’s office without triggering an alarm. To her mind, that had to mean they had privileged information.
So, once Rocco had finally collapsed into sleep, she slipped from the bed and tiptoed downstairs with her phone. Her laptop rested on the dining table, where she’d set it when they’d finally worked on unpacking her things, so she settled there. It was as good a spot as any.
It was after midnight, but she texted Emanuele anyway. He was the only one beyond Rocco that she completely trusted to be innocent of this suspicion.
I need a list of names and any relevant positions of everyone in the family who had security clearance to Cavallo Senior’s office as of Sunday morning. Include any non-familial casino staff, indicated. Thank you.
Alessa set the phone down and went to work on what she could do immediately—research on the other area families. She’d learned the heads’ names, heard their voices, but aside from the way they’d carefully chosen to project themselves for those few minutes, she was woefully undereducated about them.
She started with the Parisi family, currently headed by Vito Parisi, aged forty-six. The Parisis had a long, sordid, undoubtedly embellished history in the Vegas area. Their roots ran deeper than any of the other active families, but their power no longer reflected what should have been a proud legacy. Too many conflicts, too much interior strife leading to bloodshed, and too much police involvement. By the time Rocco Senior had taken his seat of authority, the Parisi name was little more influential than mud.
In the past two decades, Vito had pulled what remained of his family together and seemingly hauled them up to their feet all on his own. Parisi-owned businesses began to open up shop again. The name slipped into conversations, raising awareness, drawing interest. There was a report of a legal investigation, suspicion of fraud, but Alessa found no record of the findings.
The Parisis were doing better than they had in almost thirty years. They hadn’t managed it without butting heads with the locals, but even her inelegant search found evidence enough to reveal the success. The problem was, a rising star was entirely likely to want to cut down their supposed competition. Nothing she found reassured her that Vito or his brood were above-board.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text and Alessa leaned away from her laptop. She stretched, rubbed at her eyes, and lifted the phone. A small pinch of guilt twisted in her chest.
Emanuele: Give me until noon.
He didn’t ask a single question, didn’t challenge her request at all. Just complied.
She ought to have found that suspect, but she knew what the reason was. And she was just sleep-deprived enough to admit it to herself. As far as Emanuele was concerned, she was the boss’s woman. So as long as she didn’t take an action against Rocco himself, or request something that would directly hurt Rocco, he would come through.
She set the phone down without responding and blew out a heavy breath. None of this—absolutely none—was how she’d pictured her time in Las Vegas to go. At some point, she was going to have to have a hard conversation with herself. And that was something she was not ready for, so she laid her fingertips over the keyboard again, minimized the Parisi information, and set about searching out what she could find on the other man and his ilk.
Viktor Sobol, fifty-seven-years-old, head of the Sobol bratva. There weren’t a lot of reliable resources as to when the Sobols arrived in Vegas, but Alessa found enough to be sure Viktor was not the first. In fact, Viktor was likely not related in any biological way to whomever had come before him.
For a brief time, the Sobol name had been attached to a thriving casino planted right on The Strip. But their unabashed tendency toward violence, particularly in the daysbefore the government got so heavy-handed with organized crime, had quickly seen their customers fleeing for safer options. The Sobols had a history of struggling to maintain businesses, and businesses often being dragged into the news as a result of violent crime. They didn’t seem afraid to let their crime scenes meet with media attention.
That realization gave Alessa pause.
The assassin hadn’t just shot himself. He’d escaped down to the casino level, run into the throng of ignorant, oblivious gamblers, and blown his brains out all over one of the roulette tables. There was no keeping that quiet.
But was that too obvious a direction? Too weak a connection?
