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Eight
Max walkedthrough the doors of the Bellagio and headed for the pool. It was the high season for tourists — everyone who wanted to avoid the worst of the heat either came in the spring or fall — and the concrete around the pools was crowded with guests lounging on the hotel’s white loungechairs.
Max cursed under his breath. He should have asked Nico for specifics about where he’d be. The pool areas of Vegas’s hotels had gotten larger and more elaborate over the years — less like swimming pools and more like amusement parks withwater.
The Bellagio’s, at least, was somewhat classy, with Roman designs etched into the bottoms of the pools and fountains bubbling up out of two of them. If you ignored the steel and glass towers surrounding them, you might be able to convince yourself you were on the Italian Riviera instead of in the middle of thedesert.
None of which was going to make finding Nico anyeasier.
He was reaching for his phone when he noticed a hulking figure approachinghim.
“Hey,” Max said, closing the distance between them. “Didn’t know you were intown.”
“Just passing through,” Farrell Black said. “We’re overhere.”
They made their way through the pool area, winding their way around women in tiny bikinis and kids shrieking as their parents told them not to run and couples holding hands on side-by-side loungechairs.
“Jesus,” Farrell said, “how do you live with this bloodyheat?”
Max laughed. “What heat? You should have been here inJuly.”
“When hell freezes over will I ever be here in July.” Farrell’s British accent made the figure of speech sound almost uptight. “This fucking town is the only place in the world that makes me grateful for London’s bloodycold.”
They headed up a small flight of concrete stairs toward a series of canvas cabanas lining the outer rim of the pool area. Max spotted Nico right away, sitting on a lounge chair just beyond the open flaps of one of the cabanas, a glass of Scotch in hishands.
No umbrella drinks for Nico Vitale, although he’d ditched his customary suit in favor of gray slacks and a white linen button-down. The top three buttons were undone, as close as Max had ever seen Nico to cuttingloose.
“Max, nice to see you. Would you like a drink?” Nicoasked.
“I’mgood.”
Max’s appetite for alcohol had diminished considerably since he’d come out with his feelings for Abby. It was only now, with the clarity of hindsight, that Max saw how hard he’d been trying to anesthetize himself after his return from Afghanistan, that he saw how alone he’dbeen.
And not just alone:lonely.
Gambling, women, booze. He didn’t need any of that shitanymore.
He only neededAbby.
“Have a seat,” Nicosaid.
Max took the lounge chair on one side of Nico while Farrell sat on the other. Max almost held his breath as Farrell lowered himself onto it, half-expecting it to crack under the man’s sheersize.
“It’s nice out,” Nico said. “Although I could do without thecrowd.”
“There are a lot less people if you’re willing to brave the heat in July and August. The rest of the year, it’s like this,” Maxsaid.
“It’s an interesting change ofpace.”
Max chuckled at Nico’sdiplomacy.
“How’s business?” Nicoasked.
“Coming along,” Max said. “I think we’ve weeded out the last of the DeLuca holdouts, and we’ve shut down the drug operations that were targeting kids. We’re making overtures to the remaining businesses, bringing them online with the newguidelines.”
“Any objections?” Nicoasked.
“Nothing we can’thandle.”
