As the motorcade sweeps into the warehouse lot that is our destination, I can’t stop thinking how it will be, having that curvy, fluffy kitten all to myself.
On tap. Ready and waiting.
We stride into the warehouse, three brothers together. Moretti guards move forward to search us for weapons. I brush them aside.
Tony Moretti stands from behind a table. “It’s all right. I don’t think the O’Malley brothers have come on a suicide mission.”
Tony is the Morettis’ number two. My counterpart. Tall and broad, Tony is ten years older than me, and he looks it.
He has a carved antique chair like a throne on the far side of a heavy mahogany table. He’s flanked by heavy-set goons in black mob-guy Armani suits, all wearing dark Ray-Bans.
And standing on the right of the throne is the Morettis’ enforcer, Drago. Huge and ugly as ever, with a permanent snarl on his lips. His left knee and his right wrist are cased in bulky, high-tech splints with pins sticking out.
In the middle of the dark warehouse space, a chandelier – for fuck’s sake – hangs suspended over the antique table on a chain that must be twenty-five feet long. Three high-backed wood chairs are along this side, facing the massive, carved throne.
These guys. Seriously. They all see their lives set to a soundtrack of grand opera.
This meet is supposed to be about how they’re going to stop the bee-sting attacks on our businesses. Stop harassing our casino floor staff and security. Stop making phony job offers to squeeze information out of them. The usual bullshit. They’ve been kicking at our defenses. Trying to find out where we’re soft. Where we might be weak.
Tony walks around the table and toward us. He spreads his arms like he’s welcoming us to the Vatican or the Doge’s fucking Palace. His head is cocked to one side with a big, wide, angelic smile.
“John, Peter, Paul.” He comes forward to do the hugging. This part always rubs my fur the wrong way, but with the Italians, you have to do it. “Benvenuto, thank you so much for coming all this way.” He puts wet kisses on both of my cheeks and grins as he watches me fight to keep a straight face.
Finally, we make proper handshakes. He asks after Dad. “Please, give Liam my fondest good wishes. And my father asked especially for me to pass on his warmest greetings.”
I know my brothers’ feet must be twitching in their shoes like mine are. We Irish Americans, we save social niceties for over drinks and food. After the business. We’d have gotten our business done and settled before these Italians were through saying ‘hello.’
The meet is pure theater. Tony on his throne, us sitting across his polished table. When Paul lists the attacks and raids and fire bombings over the last six months, Tony holds up his hands. He talks about ‘tempers fraying’ and ‘misunderstandings.’
Peter says that approaches have been made to our security and staff at Kingpin. Tony treats us to some more waffle, polished like the table.
I tell him, “Adjustments can be difficult, Tony. But we’ve all seen business in Las Vegas explode over the past few years. There’s enough here for everybody. We need to get along better, though. Violence and disturbance hurts everybody’s business. Frightens the tourists.”
Even behind Drago’s black shades, I can see his eyes harden. Not for the first time, I wonder how much of the trouble starts at his door.
Tony makes all the usual promises. He will ‘keep everything tighter,’ ‘curb the over-enthusiasm in the younger element.’ That and a lot of other bullshit.
I lower my voice. “The landscape in Vegas has changed, Tony.” I tell him, “We have to work alongside each other. I want your territory to stay safe.” After I let that sit for a moment, I tell him, “Keep your dogs on your side of the street.”
His eyes narrow, but then he smiles. “Of course, John. That’s what will be best for all of us. Rest assured.”
I wait until he’s finished.
“Tony, your family came out of Boston the same as ours. You might remember how things were done there. None of us want to bring that carnage here. But remember the O’Malleys’ reputation from those days.” I hold his eyes. Make sure he knows what I’m talking about. “I want us to run our businesses peaceably, Tony. Amicably. But don’t doubt me. I’m ready to do it the other way.”
He’s quiet. Then he smiles and congratulates me on my upcoming marriage.
We all stand, and Tony’s handshake across the table is firm. He keeps eye contact and takes my hand with both of his. He looks, sounds and feels sincere.
As we get back into the Hummers and take out our phones, Peter asks me, “What do you think?”
“Those guys? Who even knows?”