De Lucci’s Obsession

After dropping Ava off at NYU, I watched her disappear into the building before I signaled for Eric to leave.

“You didn’t crash and burn this time, right?” he smirked.

“No.” I chuckled. “But, make no mistake, she’s no pushover.”

“Didn’t figure she was,” Eric replied. “She seems to know how to handle you.”

She did. My arrogant ass had met its match. But I couldn’t keep her in the dark about my business for long—both the legal and the illegal kinds.

Speaking of the illegal.

Checking my watch, I said, “They should be wrapping up the game at the Palermo House.”

Eric met my eyes in the mirror. “I stopped by last night after I dropped you guys off. I heard they were still going at it this morning. Johnny Luciano bowed out.”

“Christ, how much did he lose?”

“Three hundred large.”

“That’s got to hurt.” Luciano was my partner at the Pandora Resort in Las Vegas. A distant relative of “Lucky” Luciano—the father of modern organized crime—his name carried a mobster nostalgia that made my high-stakes card games a coveted event to those in the know. Famous athletes, especially, were another draw. We didn’t have trouble getting our choice of celebrities on board because competitiveness was a natural fit to these testosterone laden card games. Sometimes the pot could run up to a million dollars in a single hand.

A Neo Grecian brownstone in Brooklyn, Palermo House was one of the first properties I purchased after I discovered I had a knack for real estate investment. The rooms of the top floor were demolished and converted into a space for banquets. Uncle Jackie managed the bookings—birthdays, confirmations, baptism, and graduations—all important milestones for an Italian family. But they were no comparison to the obscene money made from illegal gambling.

The lower floors were renovated for transient bedrooms. Most of the gamblers didn’t want to waste time going to a hotel. All they required was a place to crash for a quick nap, and then it was back to gambling. Some of them could go for the whole thirty-six hours. The rumor that casinos pumped oxygen into the rooms was a myth. The trick was to keep the area chilly and well ventilated.

While Eric parked on the streets, I shook off my jacket and strapped on a sidearm harness. Openly carrying was not allowed, even if we knew almost every mafioso had a weapon on them. We depended on good faith to keep the peace under the threat of being blacklisted. Drugs and prostitutes were prohibited in the building. We didn’t need complications from that shit either. The rules were clear.

Two De Lucci soldiers stood by the front steps and gave us a nod to let us in. From there we took the scissor gate elevators to the top floor. Four flights up, we reached our destination.

Unlike the first night of the games when the players were dressed in their expensive suits, mingling around the buffet table and drinking expensive wine, this morning they’d lost the jackets and ties and had their sleeves rolled up. A few were sprawled on couches catching a nap while others were stuffing their bellies with donuts and drinking coffee. Two tables out of five remained occupied.

All the guests in this game were expected to play. Unlike the ones invited to the underground casino I operated at a castello in Italy’s Lake Como, they could bring their wives or girlfriends, but stringent background checks were done. The guest rooms of that castle had the amenities of a five-diamond luxury hotel. If this Palermo game was exclusive, then that one was elite, where the minimum bets started at a hundred grand, and there was no limit. A mansion or an oilfield could be on the line, and no one would bat an eye. From sheiks to Chinese businessmen, to Russian oligarchs, I offered the thrill of illegal high-stakes gambling to pad their ego.

“The Money Man.” A voice called behind me.

Gritting my teeth, I turned around to see Tony Cap smiling like a shark and heading my way. Fuck. Behind him were two men in leather jackets. There wasn’t any attempt to cover the tattoos on their necks. Russian organized crime.

Tony introduced his guests as Ivan and Anton Petrov. I needed to have a word with my uncle since these Russians were not on the invite list.

Handshakes were exchanged.

“Didn’t see you last Sunday,” I told Tony.

“I sent Silvio.” His eyes were scrutinizing.

My face gave nothing away. “All’s well with him then?”

“Haven’t heard from him. I’m getting worried,” he said, still watching me. There was a double meaning to that. Worry that his cousin was dead … or worry that he’d turned.

I snuffed out scum like Silvio without second thoughts. Did that make me a murderous psycho like Tony?

Maybe.

I could live with that. “I told Jackie if I remembered anything more, I’d call him.”

“One more thing,” Tony cut in before I could turn away. “We have something important to discuss with you.” He nodded to the uninvited guests. “Ivan and Anton are part owners of O’Toole’s.”

“So rumor is right?” My smile was derisive. “What are Russians doing owning an Irish pub? You should have stuck to a tea room or a vodka bar.”

The two interlopers scowled in a way that made me glad I had my piece on me.

“Not like you to stereotype, De Lucci,” Tony said.

“I don’t need the lecture,” I told him. “This is my card game. And they”—I nodded to the Petrovs—“were not on the guest list.”

Ivan smirked. “Oh, you owe us this.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The other Russian nodded to Tony. “Show him.”

“Sure you don’t want to go someplace more secure?” Tony slipped a brown envelope from inside his suit and handed it to me.”

Caught unaware, I managed to keep my face impassive as I casually accepted the envelope. I slipped out its single content.

A photograph.

Eric, who’d been quiet, looked over my shoulder. “Well, fuck me.”

I jerked my head for them to follow me. Turning right on the hallway, I stalked straight through French doors and onto a balcony. The brisk fall air needled at my skin.

I handed the envelope back to Tony. “I don’t know what you want to prove here. Surely I’m not the only man who has a taste for strip clubs.”

“True. But I imagine you don’t want Miss McGrath to know. After all, you left her apartment and went straight to that joint.”

A muscle jumped under my eye. “Having someone follow me, Tony?”

“We need you to stop sticking your nose in our business. The Gorski business.”

I raised a brow. “The De Luccis merely helped him out of a bind.”

“Because of that McGrath woman.”

“Paulie did it as a favor to a friend.”

Tony stepped into me. “And yet you’re the one chauffeuring her around. She’s a lovely girl, your Ava. Or is she just a passing fancy, hmm? You don’t care if she finds out about those lap dances?”

I imagined these three fucks already dead and bleeding on the floor with their brains blown out of their skull, but I couldn’t show how much Ava meant to me. Not without something to hold over their heads, and I’d be damned before I let these fuckers beat me at my own game.

I rarely lost my temper in front of people. They’d see that as a sign of weakness. That they’d gotten under my skin. By the time they see my rage it will be too late for them. My mind drifted back to Silvio streaming blood on my basement floor, rotting in pieces under the weight of a New Jersey landfill.

Instead, I emitted a harsh chuckle. “You got me there. I haven’t gotten tired yet of Miss McGrath.” I sighed. “So if you don’t mind holding on to that photograph longer, maybe I could use it later to break up with her.”

Tony swatted me on the back like I was his hero. “See this guy?” he told the Russians who were laughing with him. “You’re the man.”

Ivan said, “Maybe when you get tired of her, I can wet my dick in her cunt.”

Red ink bled into my eyes. It was a wonder I didn’t launch myself at the bastard. “I don’t like another man thinking about my girl. I don’t share.”

The Russian laughed, “But you said—”

“Italian men are possessive,” Tony cut in, throwing me a look. “Like a dog with a bone, ya know? They don’t want it no more, but don’t want anyone else to have a piece of it.”

“That’s right.” I clenched my jaw. One more derogatory remark about Ava, and I was calling a hit on this fucker.

“Ahh …” Ivan grinned slyly.

“We have an understanding about Gorski, right?” Tony pulled the subject back to business. “Because … we’re touchy about this. Territory, ya know? And respect. If it wasn’t Jackie, I would have taken offense.”

“I get it, Tony,” I gritted.

He gave an exaggerated series of nods. “Good. Good.”

“What’s going on here?” A voice spoke from the opening to the French doors.

Jackie stood there with Luciano, my partner in the Pandora Resort.

“Nothing,” Tony said and gave me hug. “Your nephew and I talked about Silvio that’s all.”

My uncle glanced at me for confirmation, and I merely shrugged.

“Got something to discuss with you too,” Tony addressed Jackie.

“I need to make my appearance on the floor,” I told them and made my exit.

“Catch you later, nephew.” Jackie was still frowning as I passed him, feeling his eyes trail me.

I walked back inside with Luciano while I signaled Eric that I was fine, letting him know he could blend in the background while I mingled with the rest of my guests.

“Hard to be half-in and half-out, huh?” Luciano said.

“What’re you talking about?

“That,” he signaled over his shoulder. “Heard they’d been after you to join the family.”

That was partly true. But after Lorenzo’s death and the aftermath, Pop had his come-to-Jesus moment. With the feds bearing down on organized crime with the power of RICO and its endless predicates, he didn’t want another tragedy to fall on his children. And he promised Mamma we would have a normal life. Did he frown on my illegal activities? Of course he did. But his criminal heart was secretly pleased.

It was the demon inside the De Luccis.

“We’re born honorable,” he told me once. “But De Luccis have demons. It’s almost a curse. We could never be the nine-to-five husbands who go home to their wives in time for dinner. We get restless. Your Mamma knew this when she married me.”

“Cesar?” Luciano broke through my thoughts.

“Sorry.” I smiled at my friend. “Heard you’re down three hundred grand.”

He winced. “I was going to come see you before I went back to Vegas.”

“The resort doing okay?”

“Yes. Yes. That rock band you told me to hire?”

I tensed. “What about them?”

“They’re really good. We could put them in our front act soon.”

The collar of my shirt grew tight. I yanked at it. “Good. You’re the manager. I trust your judgment. Listen, I need to check the bank.”

“Of course. Of course. Good turn out.”

“Thanks, Lucky.” I itched to get away from him.

“Any time you need the Luciano name.”

It was a miracle I managed to crack a smile as we said our goodbyes. I did not regret what I did. I’d lived my life without getting caught and I had no intention of breaking that streak. And did it really matter? It wouldn’t change anything. But something akin to fear corkscrewed into my chest—a feeling I could lose everything.