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I don't reply. As soon as we are back in Vegas proper, I wait for a red light. When the car slides to a stop, I get out. We're near the back side of the Luxor. I head to their taxi stand.
"Guilia!" Lara is right behind me. "Stop."
I listen to her just like everyone in that clinic listened to me today. Which is not at all.
Walking right to the front of the line of guests waiting for a taxi, I say, "I am Giulia Mancini. I need a taxi to…" I name the Mancini owned casino.
The concierge whistles up a taxi and opens the door for me. Lara runs around to the other side when it becomes clear to her that I'm not sliding over to make room.
I tell the taxi driver where I want to go.
"Guilia, you know he can't see you right now."
I know that Raff won't prioritize seeing me right now. It is not the same thing. Hecansee me, and hewill.
Chapter 2
New York City, New York
Five Families
SEVERU
Fucking Irish.
I kick the body on the floor.
Even his own mother wouldn't recognize him now. It's not the missing fingers, or the broken legs. His face is a mass of cuts and bruises, eyes swollen shut. He's missing teeth. His hair is so matted with his own blood, it looks black.
My Head enforcer, Angelo, and I do damn fine work together.
My consigliere disapproves of me taking a personal role in interrogation. He wants me to leave it to the enforcers. Fuck that. If Pietro Russo had taken a more active role in his mafia business, the Irish and Russians could have never moved in on him in Detroit.
"Open it," I bark.
Miceli, my brother and my underboss, places his palm over the biometric reader on the wall. The steel plate in the center of the floor drops eight inches and slides to one side, creating a man size hole.
I shove the body with my foot until it tumbles through the opening. A soft splash sounds. The scent of chemicals mix with the metallic scent of blood in the chilled room.
We don't fucking dump bodies with cement shoes in the Hudson River like our grandfathers. We dispose of them without a trace.
Our chemist created a solution that dissolves all organic tissue in a matter of hours. No stray bits of fiber. No bones to be found for forensic analysis. No fingerprints for identification and no goddamned DNA. Not his. Not ours.
Any metal in the body, including bullets, gets strained out and put in the smelter. No medical device serial numbers. No ballistics.
"Fucking Irish," I say out loud this time. "They aren't moving in on my territory like they did Russo's."
That was a bloodbath and five years later, the mob and their bratva allies still control Russo's clubs and warehouses in Detroit. The supply routes through all of Wayne County are under their jurisdiction now too.
I am Don of the Genovese, the strongest of the Five Families in the New York Cosa Nostra.
My grandfather and father fought like hell to rebuild the Genovese family, to make us what we are today. I'm not giving up so much as a goddamned laundromat to the Irish or anyone else. Much less a whole fucking county's supply routes.
We operate under an uneasy truce, not an alliance, with the New York Irish mob and the other organized crime factions in the city. We have our boroughs and businesses we control; they have theirs.
Someone's always trying to push against the boundaries we've been protecting for the last hundred years and rebuilt over the past decades. When they do, we push back. Hard. And they learn to mind their manners.
What the Irish did in Detroit? That was fucked. And it's not happening in my territory.
