I knew what that meant. Michael and I spent the rest of the night crashing all the usual hot spots where hitmen were known to wag their jaws while blowing off steam. We paid off whores and bartenders, threatened a few contacts, even dropped a couple ounces of weed as bribes. Other than instilling more fear and respect for our family, we got nothing.
Somewhere around four a.m., during a coffee stop at some dive, Michael’s pager went off. After a quick call on the payphone, we were off again. This time Michael drove us to an older bar not far from the strip. We parked on the side and went to the back entrance. Michael knocked out a tune, and a bouncer answered and showed us to a small, cluttered office. He cleared coats off the sofa and invited us to sit.
“Tom’ll be in in a second,” he said after we were situated.
A few minutes later, a guy who couldn’t have been much older than me and Michael joined us. He took off his apron and tossed it on the desk. “You must be Mike and Dom,” he said, shaking our hands. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Tom.”
With introductions out of the way, Tom leaned against the desk and got right down to business. “One of my regulars was in here tonight… a loud mouth dipshit who goes by the name of Chains. He’s always braggin’ about one fight or another, and tonight I overheard him sayin’ he and a few friends jumped a warehouse. He was all hopped up on coke, so I thought it might be connected.”
“Chains?” I asked.
“That’s what they call him. I don’t know his real name. Always pays with cash. Brags he got the nickname from some sort of chain whip he uses.”
My stomach turned as I connected the nickname with the flayed skin and clothing on two of the soldiers.
“Sick bastard,” Michael said.
“Yeah, he’s a real piece of work,” Tom said. “Short guy… about five foot five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, but built like he spends a few days a week in the gym. Brown hair, droopy eyes, usually wears a suit, but I’ve seen him in jeans a time or two. Hits on all the girls but never leaves with one. Sometimes he comes in with a couple friends. I wish I had more to tell you. I’d like to see this lowlife come to an abrupt end, if you know what I’m sayin’. I’ve got plenty of patrons warmin’ my bar stools, and I don’t need him bringin’ trouble into the establishment.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, trying to give him a hundred-dollar bill, but Tom shook his head and pushed off the desk.
“If you guys can keep Chains from bringin’ his sorry ass back here, that’d be thanks enough,” he said, showing us out the back door.
Now that we had a name and a description, Chains wouldn’t be too difficult to find, but it was almost six a.m. by the time we left the bar.
Michael drove to my parents’ house to let the old man know what we’d found out and see what he wanted us to do from there while I tried to get a little shut-eye in the passenger’s seat, but couldn’t. The images of those two flayed men kept playing in my head. We needed to find this Chains son-of-a-bitch and make sure he never used that weapon again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dominico
MY FAMILY OWNED two and a half acres outside of Vegas. Surrounded by eight-foot-high security fencing, the property kept guards posted around the clock. In addition to the main house, there were two in-laws’ quarters. Michael and I lived in one of them, and off-duty family soldiers, who had been personally vetted by my father, slept in the other.
The traditional stucco buildings—combined with the swimming pool, armed soldiers, and high fences—made the estate look like some sort of Spanish villa for the cartel. Guards waved us through the gate, and Michael and I went straight to the main house where Mamma greeted us at the door, fussing about how tired we looked.
“Look at those bags under your eyes,” she said, kissing Michael’s cheeks. “I read an article the other day about missing sleep. They say it takes years off your life. You’re both still growing, so you need your rest.”
Mamma wasn’t stupid. Her father had been the Mariani family boss, who—without any sons—had made her husband his heir. Mamma grew up as aDona, the female equivalent of a Don, and she knew who we were, what we did, and that the chances of old age taking us to the grave were slim to none. Yet she still insisted on making sure we regularly ate well-balanced meals and nagged us about annual doctor and dentist visits like we were normal kids. We humored her whenever we could. After all, the fires of hell are nothing compared to the nagging of an Italian mamma.
“We’re fine, Mamma,” Michael assured her. “And you better hope Dom’s done growing, or he’ll have to duck to get in the doorways.” My big brother had been sore about my height since I outgrew him right after my sixteenth birthday.
“Don’t listen to him, Dom,” she said, tugging on my suit until I bent down so she could give me a kiss. “You grow all you want. You’re perfect. Both my boys are. Now go see your father, and I’ll make you breakfast.”
I wasn’t hungry, but if Mamma had it in her mind to feed someone, you’d better believe they were gonna get fed, and no arguments could dissuade her. She scurried off toward the kitchen to do her thing while we headed to Father’s office.
My old man’s office was located on the main floor in the back of the house, overlooking the swimming pool. The room held a permanent fragrance of pine, gun oil, cigar smoke, and whichever monthly plug-in air freshener Mamma used to try to mask the odors. This month’s vanilla scent hit us before we even opened the door. Reclining and fast asleep in his desk chair, Father startled awake when the door creaked open. He had his hand on his gun before we crossed the threshold.
“Father,” Michael said by way of greeting, easing into the room.
Looking from Michael to me, the old man released his Glock, lying it on the top of his desk. “Come in, boys. Sit.”
The assortment of office furniture could comfortably seat eight. Sometimes Father held family meetings here, squishing us all together and making the soldiers stand in the back while those of higher rank sat in front. Pleasing the old man meant you got a seat, but if you pissed him off, you could be standing for years while fighting to get back in his good graces. It was his version of public humiliation and was surprisingly effective. None of the bosses liked to stand.
“I trust you have news,” Father said, once we sat. His exact orders had been, “Don’t come home until you know something,” and neither Michael nor I would have been stupid enough to disobey that command.
Michael relayed the tale from the bartender while I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, trying to stay awake. Despite my best efforts my eyes must have drifted closed, because the next thing I knew, Michael’s elbow was digging into my side. My eyes sprang open to find my father glaring at me.
“Shall I have your mamma bring you your blankie and teddy bear?” he asked.
