ALESSIO #4
Gabe stands, squeezing my shoulder as he passes. "You act like a spoiled rich asshole."
That makes me laugh. "So I've been told."
He opens the door and lets my old man and Rossi pass, before giving me another serious nod, telling me he's there if I need him. I acknowledge it with a chin jerk. I don't get up. I simply take another sip of shitty coffee and wait. Let him come to me.
Rossi enters first. Lenny follows a step behind. His eyes immediately sweep across the penthouse. The marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. The artwork. The grand piano. The bar stocked with bottles that cost more than his bike. His mouth falls open. "Jesus Christ..."
He slowly turns in a circle, taking it all in.
When his gaze lands on me, sitting behind the desk with a cup of coffee in one hand, confusion flashes across his face.
Followed by a look I know all too well...
calculation. I've seen it on hustlers, dealers, politicians, and snakes. How can I profit from this?
His expression brightens.
"Damn, son." He whistles. "Your boss lets you use this place?"
Before I can answer, Rossi drives an elbow into his ribs. Hard. Lenny grunts. "The fuck was that for?"
Rossi rolls his eyes. "He is the boss, dumbass."
Lenny blinks, utterly stunned. He looks from Rossi to me. Then back at Rossi.
"What? He owns the casino?" Lenny asks.
"No."
"He runs it?" Another guess.
Rossi sighs. "He runs half of Vegas."
Lenny's jaw drops. "What?"
His eyes snap back to me. "When the hell did that happen?"
I shrug. "A while ago."
"A while..." He shakes his head. "Shit."
Then he throws both hands in the air. "Why the hell didn't you tell me, son?"
I let out a strangled sound that's somewhere between a cough and laughter. "Son now, huh?"
Lenny has the decency to look embarrassed for all of three seconds. "Well..." He clears his throat. "Seems like a good time to start."
I shake my head. "That's not how this works."
The silence stretches for a beat. I pick up the paper cup Gabe brought me, take one last sip, and immediately regret it. Cold. Bitter. Terrible. I grimace and toss it into the trash. "Life's too short for bad coffee."
Crossing to the bar, I grab the bottle of bourbon and pour myself a generous finger into a crystal tumbler. I glance toward Rossi. "Bourbon?"
He doesn't even hesitate. "Never turn one of those down. Not after the night we had." He snorts. And for Lenny's benefit, adds, "I got shot at, chased through an alley, rescued your stubborn ass, and nearly had a heart attack because your girlfriend stole a motorcycle."
Lenny's eyes grow wider as he slowly, very slowly starts to understand. I pour Rossi one too and hand him the glass.
Lenny watches the exchange. Then the bottle. Then the glasses. He waits. I don't offer him one. He pouts for half a second before apparently deciding now isn't the time to complain. Smart.
I take a slow sip before turning back to him. "So..." I set the tumbler down. "This is how this works."
His expression hardens.
"I ask questions." I look hard into his eyes. "You answer them."
"I have no idea what ques—"
I hold up my hand. "If you answer truthfully, we're done."
"If you lie..." I let the sentence hang. "Or if I think you're lying..." I look toward the elevator. "We continue this conversation somewhere considerably less comfortable."
For a moment, uncertainty flickers across his face. Then his old swagger returns.
"You don't have the balls." He smirks. "You're still just a prospect pretending to be somebody."
I laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's been a very long time since anyone underestimated me that badly. I look over at Rossi. "He's still not getting it."
Rossi takes a sip of bourbon and shakes his head. "Apparently not."
I sigh. "That's unfortunate."
Lenny folds his arms. "What're you gonna do, scare me with your fancy apartment?"
I push away from the bar. "No."
I button my jacket and straighten the cuffs. "I'm going to disappoint you."
He frowns.
"Rossi."
"Yeah, Boss?"
"Take him downstairs."
Lenny's smirk falters. "Downstairs?"
"Explain the rules of the game."
His eyes dart between the two of us. "The... what game?"
"I'll be down shortly."
Rossi sets his empty glass on the bar. "You want me to give him a warm-up?"
I meet Lenny's eyes. Then nod once. "One or two. Just enough to get his attention."
A grin slowly spreads across Rossi's face. "My favorite kind."
Finally, there is a crack in Lenny's confidence. He looks at me. "What game?"
Neither of us answers. Rossi simply steps beside him and gestures toward the elevator. "After you."
Lenny doesn't move. "I ain't going anywhere."
Rossi smiles. It's not a pleasant smile. "You've still got a choice."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You can walk."
He reaches for Lenny's arm. "Or I can help."
After a long moment, Lenny swallows. Then, muttering something under his breath, he steps into the elevator. The doors slide shut behind them. I finish my bourbon in a single swallow. Time to get some answers.
I give Rossi twenty minutes. Long enough for my old man to understand this isn't a social visit. Not long enough to leave permanent damage. Not yet.
I walk back to the bedroom. The curtains are still drawn. The room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of Beccs' breathing. She's moved since I last checked on her. Now she's sprawled diagonally across the bed, one leg wrapped around my pillow like she's trying to strangle it in her sleep.
I smile. "Violent little Grease Monkey."
Crossing the room, I pull the blanket back over her shoulder. She murmurs something unintelligible and snuggles deeper into it. Still out. Good. Her body is making up for years of running on adrenaline.
Mine can wait. My phone vibrates. Valentina.
"Talk."
"I found them."
I walk back toward my office, closing the bedroom door behind me.
"Rachel Abercombe." A keyboard clacks in the background. "Jack Abercombe. They're staying at the Velas Vallarta Suites."
"Room?"
"Six twenty-three."
I smile. "I knew there was a reason I keep you around."
"I thought it was my personality."
"You have the personality of a hard drive." I remind her.
She chuckles and rattles off the rest. Rental SUV. Excursions booked. Flight home in five days. Everything a man could want to know.
"Good work."
"I'll keep digging."
"Do that."
The second I hang up, I call Charly.
"Please tell me you've got something."
"I do."
He sounds relieved. "I'm listening."
"They're staying at Velas Vallarta."
I read off the room number, give him the description and plate number of the rental vehicle, and the details on the return flight.
By the time I'm done, Charly whistles. "Damn."
"I employ professionals." I lean against the window overlooking the Strip. We hang up.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and glance at my watch. Twenty-three minutes. That should be enough. I grab my bourbon. Take one last sip. Then head for the private elevator. Time to find out what my father knows.
The elevator doors open into the basement level of the Consulate. The hallway is quiet, sterile, and soundproofed. Perfect for conversations no one else needs to hear. Rossi is waiting outside the reinforced door, arms crossed, looking bored.
"He's prepped and ready," he reports.
"Good."
Rossi opens the door for me, and I step inside the mock casino. Luxury wrapped in silence. The room isn't designed to hurt people. It's designed to remind them of what they're losing.
That's the beauty of it. The contrast is what really fucks with their heads.
They expect pain in some filthy basement that reeks of piss and fear.
Not here. Not surrounded by the kind of wealth and comfort that reminds them exactly how far they've fallen.
Nothing breaks a man faster than realizing he's about to be destroyed in the same place people pay thousands of dollars just to sit and pretend they matter.
Lenny's eyes lock on me the second I walk in.
Sweat beads on his forehead. Just the way I like it.
I unbutton my jacket slowly and take the seat across from him like we're about to play a friendly hand of poker across the felt-covered table.
Except the chair Lenny is sitting in isn't for playing poker.
"Comfortable?" I ask, keeping my voice calm.
He spits on the floor. "Fuck you."
I smile. This is going to be fun. His left thigh already has two nails protruding from it. Blood trickles down his leg onto the floor. His eyes are wild with pain and fear when they land on me.
"Flea," I ask without preamble. "Where is he?"
Lenny spits more blood, this time onto the table. "Fuck you."
I sigh, pick up the deck, and start shuffling. The cards whisper against each other in the quiet room. "Wrong answer."
I deal the first card. Lenny's eyes dart to the deck, then to the mechanism under the chair. He knows the rules. He's seen what happens when someone busts.
I ask again. "Where's Flea?"
He stays silent. I flip two cards. He busts. The mechanism clicks. A third nail fires into his other thigh. He screams.
I lean forward. "Try again."
It takes three more nails—the old man is tougher than I thought—before he cracks.
"I don't know, but there's a safehouse," he gasps, tears and snot running down his face. "There is an old warehouse off Industrial Road. The one with the condemned sign. He's probably holed up there with whoever else made it out."
I nod. "Good."
Lenny slumps in the chair, breathing hard, blood dripping steadily onto the expensive carpet. "That all?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile. "Not even close."
I shuffle the cards again. They whisper across the felt like a promise. "Los Hijos del Desierto. How long have the Reapers been working with them?"
Lenny's eyes dart to the deck, then back to me. He's starting to understand this isn't going to end quickly.
"Years," he mutters. "Seven? Eight? Maybe nine. I don't keep a fucking calendar."
"Why the Mexicans?"