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Mr. Big owned Portofino, an Italian-Riviera-inspired casino along the strip, and he ruled his fair share of Vegas. He was also connected to Giordano Capitani, who ran Paradiso, another Italian-inspired casino a few doors down. Vegas, and probably beyond, had dubbed him Bugsy.
They were all fucking buggy—in a ruthless criminal way.
Why, Angelo, why?! I almost cried out.
Vinny opened his mouth to say something, but sirens whooped in the distance.
“What happened, Kallistos?” Sam’s voice was deep and rich, soothing.
It did nothing to make me feel better. Especially when the familiar European car pulled in the parking lot behind the cops. I wasn’t even exaggerating. She was clutching the wheel to her car, her face in a snarl, riding the cop car’s ass. She was on the hunt for me.
“We know where our drinks went. Fuck.” Vinny must have noticed the pink stains on the spoiled princess’s car. He looked at Sam. “Looks like we’ll need bail money.” He looked at me. “I’m deducting it from your pay.”
For the first time in however long, money had no bearing on my feelings. I knew I was in deeper shit than that.
Mr. Big.
He was a death sentence, but I wouldn’t let him get close to my brother.
I’d get to him first.
4
MR. BIG
The lights of Paradiso fell over my black Bugatti Veyron like golden fireworks. My cousin, Giordano Capitani, ran Casino Paradiso, and he better have a good fucking reason for getting me out of my own casino to have a meeting in his.
I wasn’t a recluse like everyone assumed, but I mostly kept to myself. Unlike my cousin, who was as flashy as Vegas when it came to who he was and his business. His casino reflected the man and his side of the family.
Paradiso was inspired by the Golden Age of Hollywood, Italian style. The inside was rich, with creams and golds throughout. Staff meandered through it like they’d just stepped off the silver screen during a different era. Modern day music wasn’t played, though modern-day artists covered old hits.
His grandfather, who everyone called Old Gio, built the casino from the ground up. It opened its doors in 1946—the same year as the famed Flamingo. He was in his early twenties. So was my grandfather, Tullio. They were two of the youngest men in the game at the time. Casino Paradiso opened its doors the same day as Casino Portofino.
My grandfather wanted Italian, too, but he wanted his casino to reflect his mamma’s roots on the Italian Riviera. It was a nod to the medieval village she was from and the Mediterranean Sea that surrounded it. The inside had blue waters flowing throughout, and flowers from her region grew up the walls. Our casino areas were made for gamblers, but our ballroom and guest rooms were a throwback to the old country.
Two entirely different casinos along the strip, but they were connected through one woman.
A famed showgirl, actress, and socialite was the link. Kitty Ducci, real name Canta, was our grandmother. Gio and I were half-cousins. Our fathers were half-brothers. Kitty had been married to Tullio the older, had my father, divorced the older Tullio, and then a year later, married Old Gio and had Gio’s father.
She divorced him after that, but she still had penthouses at both casinos.
There was no telling which casino Kitty might be in on any given day or night, since she felt she was entitled to space in both. I wanted to dodge her if I could. I bypassed the valet and parked in the private area Gio reserved for himself and his visitors. I didn’t see Kitty’s Cadillac, but that didn’t mean anything.
Before I could even make it to the door, it was opened by an attendant wearing white gloves and a three-piece suit that looked like it had belonged to Fred Astaire. “Welcome to Paradiso, Mr. Bigatti.”
A blast of cool air surged over my skin as I stepped inside. The smooth sounds of Dean Martin serenaded me from above. The floors were made from the finest Italian marble, and tall gold vases stuffed with long-stemmed plumes of white feathers lined the entrance. Pristine white roses in gold vases of all different sizes were placed all over.
Even the scent of the place smelled rich.
My grandfather used to say Old Gio excelled at making guests feel like they had died and gone to heaven—a heaven that cost money to obtain.
Instead of going straight to Gio’s private floor, I stopped at the bar to get a drink. The bartender’s hair was slicked over with pomade, and a dish towel hung over his shoulder. When he noticed me, he left the other guests to wait on me.
“Mr. Big—atti. What can I get you to drink tonight? Your usual?”
He’d almost called me what everyone used to call my grandfather. Mr. Big. That wasn’t me. But it fit the older Tullio like a custom-made suit. He looked like a Mr. Big. He always wore a Fedora, he was built like a bull, and a fat cigar always hung out of his mouth.
“The usual.”
