Bones and I made it to the waiting area only minutes before my father's associates. The two Italians and one orange-haired Irishman dressed like wiseguys, complete with hard-ass attitudes, barely grunted in greeting. We collected their bags, and then the family limo took us on a tour of the strip before stopping in front of a five-story glass building, one of Father's office buildings. The driver let us out, and Bones checked in with the guards before leading us to Conference Room B.
Six black high-backed ergonomic chairs surrounded a rectangular stone table. A fifty-two-inch flat-screen television hung on one wall, just above a built-in glass-door refrigerator stocked with bottled waters and sodas. Large tinted one-way windows looked out over the strip and gave us a scenic view of the hills beyond. I offered up refreshments and took a seat as Bones stood guard by the door.
When my father entered the room, everyone rose to their feet like he was the goddamn president of the USA or something, rather thancapo dei capi(or boss of bosses) of Vegas. Standing about six and a half feet tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair and features, his very presence demanded respect. Where Bones and the other bodyguards intimidated, my old man practically crackled with power. He was known for being a hardass who didn't suffer fools or put up with bullshit, but I couldn't blame him. He'd worked his ass off to rein in the crime syndicate of Vegas and the second he dropped the whip, the bastards would turn on him.
He introduced himself to his guests and took his seat at the head of the table. "Angel, check the room."
I'd created a handheld device, about the size of a thick cell phone, that could pick up wires, taps, or pretty much anything with the ability to record or transmit audio or video files. I slid it out of my pocket and ran a quick scan of the room. According to the readout, everyone in the room had a cell phone and two people had tablets. I showed it to Father and he nodded and gestured for me to retake my seat seat.
He turned his attention to the suits. "Did you bring the plans?" That was my old man... cut the shit, get right down to business.
"Yes, of course," the Irishman replied. He pulled papers from his briefcase and held them up uncertainly.
Father gestured for me to take them. Curious, I grabbed the pages and studied the design.
"A bomb," I said. Not like the tricky little shit I was working on, but a bomb nonetheless.
"Not just any bomb," the ginger replied, pointing to the plans. "Controlled impact. Small radius, so it takes out the victim without doing a lot of damage to the surroundings. These sensors here and here help it to activate when someone approaches, and we found a way to produce it cheaper and faster than anything on the market. If you take a look at the production schedule, I'm sure you'll see..."
He droned on, but my focus remained on the implications behind the sensors.
"Angel, what do you think?" Father asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Morally speaking, the bombs were fucked up, but this was business. "It is economical, and the design is simple; production would take no time at all."
"Exactly," the ginger said.
Father glanced at the paper in my hand. "Look at it again. Would we use it?"
It was a bullshit question since he was the sole determiner of what we would and wouldn't use, but he must want my eyes on it for something. I studied the design once more, committing it to memory.
"How precise are the sensors?" I asked.
The ginger's brow furrowed. "As you'll see in the bottom left hand corner, the range is--"
"I didn't ask about the range, I asked how precise the sensors are."
He blinked.
Dumb ass. "Say I put this on a car and a child goes running by. Does it sense the movement and blow up the kid? Or is there a way to calibrate it for a specific size or even weight of a person?"
The ginger shared a look with the two Italian men before shaking his head. "We were determined to keep costs down, and what you're talking about would be much more innovative and expensive to create."
I handed the papers back to the ginger. "No, we wouldn't use it. Our family is precise, and our hits are clean."
The men looked at me like I was speaking fucking Greek, so I broke it down into terms they could understand. "We always get our man. With this bomb, there's no guarantee of that, whereas if I'm lookin' through the crosshairs of my sniper rifle when my bullet splits the skull of my target, I'm certain. If I'm starin' the son-of-a-bitch in the eye when my pistol pumps two rounds into his heart, I know the job's done. If I slide my knife into his throat and carve him a second smile, I can go home knowing the bastard isn't gonna recover to come lookin' for me. Personally, I'm a little too hands-on to place a bomb and hope it gets the job done."
"There you have it." Father stood, letting us know the conversation was coming to an end. "The Mariani family frowns on collateral damage, so that is a concern, but we also make sure our hits are dead. Still, we might have a use for your devices. Now that Angel has seen the specs, we'll discuss it and have an answer to you within the week. I have another meeting I must get to, and my security is calling the limo. They'll be waiting downstairs to take you wherever you need to go. Angel will walk you out."
And with that, Father shook hands and vacated the room.
Open-mouthed, the trio stared after him. They'd flown across the country and were no doubt expecting more than a five-minute chat with the head of the Las Vegas families. To be honest, I'm surprised they even got that much of his time. After a moment of stunned silence, the ginger packed up his paperwork and the three wiseguys followed me and Bones down the hall, the tension radiating from them betraying their outrage.
"Well, that was awkward," Bones said, as we watched them climb into the limo.
I chuckled, shaking my head. "I don't even know what that was."
My phone rang. Knowing the old man would be calling to debrief me, I clicked on my bluetooth and answered.
