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Chapter One
Peter
Giulietta Moretti. Even her name is like music to me.
Giulietta. My eyes have been on you for so long now, I feel as though you’re mine. You’re not, of course. And you never will be. I know that. Even if there wasn’t a war brewing between our families, you’re out of my league. I wonder how you would react, though, how your eyes would stretch wide and your mouth would pop open, if you only knew. I really would love to see that.
I would hate for you to be afraid, though. Of me, or of anything. If anyone ever so much as thought about harming you, I would break them in two. Without a thought. I would do anything to keep you safe, Giulietta. The only thing I want more is to make you happy. But I can never do that.
You’re a smart girl, I know. If you knew I was watching you, shadowing you whenever I can, you would turn and run. Fast and hard. Because of who I am.
She’s dancing and I’m hooked, caught in a spell. Watching through a window from across the street, my body sways in time with hers. I can’t hear the music, but even through a window from this far away, I feel her movement. Her dancing silhouette gets me pumped up hard. Almost as hard as seeing her directly, up close. What I can’t see of her, what’s hidden in the darkness and shadow, my mind draws. And my pulse responds.
Her arms go up and she turns. Slow and soft, her breasts bounce as her hips twist and roll. My body uncoils. Straightening. I thicken and swell. Hot and hard. Aching.
My job here is surveillance. That’s supposedly the reason why I’m sitting by a window in the flat echoes of this dusty, empty $3.5-million-dollar Vegas safe house. From here, I’m looking into the sprawling, gated compound of the Moretti family.
Twice in the past couple of days, I’ve seen fleets of limos and clusters of showy Italian cars snake in through the tall iron gates of the compound. They’re planning a move, for certain.
On my phone, I’ve got video of all the wise guys. I recognize men from Boston, some from LA, as well as Moretti captains of the Las Vegas mob. Ducking out of their cars, peering around through their shades, snapping the coats and shooting the cuffs of their Italian designer suits. It’s a regular yearbook of Italian gang royalty.
I got shots of all the drivers. All the muscle that huddles and clusters around them. I know enough of the faces. I send a text and a few pics to my brother, John.
Now I can go back to watching Giulietta.
The Moretti family are our archrivals. They’re always looking to expand their territory, here in Nevada as well as in Boston. They have interests in LA, too.
Here they are in the gaming business, just like we are. Their resort on the Strip is called the Cosa Nostra. A cute double bluff. What could be more fun than a mafia theme park, styled like Prohibition and bootleg-era Chicago? The cocktail waitresses are dressed as molls. Dealers wear uniforms styled like flappers and hoods.
Tourists think it’s edgy. They cluck over their winners’ cups as the video poker machines burble and gulp some more money out of their plastic credit. Gee, Blanche, what if it really was run by the mafia? Well, guess what, Beryl? It is.
The Moretti family hides their business in plain sight. Just like we O’Malleys do. Politicians, cops, and the gaming commission are all bought and paid for, many times over. Once per crime family, at least. The Life, as the Italians always call it, has rules and codes, and it has disciplines.
Skills are needed. They’re not the skills that nice people have.
The authorities are not a problem for us O’Malleys. Not for the Morettis, either. Their problem is us. And the thorn in our side, our greatest obstacle to peace, harmony, and outrageous profit, is the Famiglia Moretti.
And that’s why Giulietta is my deepest, darkest secret.
I’ve spent longer than I can ever admit falling deeper and more hopelessly in lust for Giulietta Moretti. She is so heartbreakingly fucking beautiful. She is perfect. And I am so totally fucking doomed.
If she knew an O’Malley was stalking her, she would probably shoot me. Or maybe she carries a stiletto and she’d cut me. I could wind up with a scar like my brother Paul’s. Would she like me with a scar?
I have to get out of here. I need a drink.
Driving through old Vegas on my way to the Strip, it feels like the pace is changing here. Downtown has always been a down-market, poorer relation to the resorts on Las Vegas Boulevard. Locals and smart gamblers play downtown for the better odds, but I feel a change in the air. Like the place is ready to wake up.
