Page 3

S arah

I’m sitting in a parking lot, inside a luxury SUV, with a Mafia bodyguard.

Big Boyd.

Or Boyd , as he prefers to be called.

The Mafia fangirl inside me was pretty excited about my plan. I tried to stay playful and happy like always. There was even a little flutter in my stomach, because Boyd is the hottest guy I’ve ever been in a car with.

But he’s starting to scare me. Not shaking-in-my-sneakers scared or anything, but he’s got an edge to him. This guy is in the Mafia. He’s killed people. Maybe not women and children, but still—that leaves a lot of room for dead bodies.

And he has to approve my podcast before I can air it? I can’t even do it live. I was planning a series. Stories from the Mafia nobody has ever heard before. Having to record it knowing it’ll be scrutinized by Boyd makes me rather nervous.

I remind myself that I asked for this as I prepare to answer Boyd’s question.

“Boundaries…” I repeat. “Well, I don’t hurt anybody intentionally. Ever. I don’t lie. Usually. I mean, I understand sometimes it’s necessary in your line of work.”

“Alright, so you’ve never hurt anybody intentionally?” he asks, clicking his tongue. “Ever broken up with anyone before? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“In like middle school,” I laugh, trying not to let my nervousness show. “I only agreed to be his girlfriend so people would stop teasing me about him liking me, but that made it worse, so I broke up with him the next day.”

“Bet you broke his poor heart,” Boyd laughs. “Sounds like it was intentional, too.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “I meant I wouldn’t… stab them or whatever. Shoot them.”

“So, you stick to emotional wounds. Got it. Sometimes those hurt more. You’re a sadist, Sarah. A true sadist,” he chuckles.

“I am not!” I insist. “You’re just teasing me. I don’t like it when people tease me like that. That’s a boundary.”

“Got it,” he says. “Alright, you got two options. Boss said to tell you some stories, like the ones you’d overhear in Rafferty’s. We can go into this bar, have a few drinks, and talk. Or we can go to Rafferty’s, and you can just see what you can overhear on your own. Your choice.”

Both options are tempting, but I need a little more information. Plus, I don’t know if Boyd will be very forthcoming. I might not get much content at all if it all has to come directly from him.

“What is Rafferty’s, exactly?” I ask.

“A place people hang out,” Boyd says. “Not just the Morandi family. We run Las Vegas, but we don’t micromanage it. Rafferty’s is neutral ground. No violence inside. You break that truce, and your own family will turn against you.”

“And the guys just talk about stuff there?” I raise my brow. “Openly?”

“Well, they’re not going to own up to murders or talk about where the bodies are buried, but you’ll hear some stuff if you listen,” he answers. “It’s a rough atmosphere, though, and not really a place for little girls.”

“I’m not a little girl,” I fire back for the second time, taking a quick puff of my vape. I haven’t been a little girl for a long time. I’m not even that short—unless I’m standing next to Boyd. “Besides, I don’t think anyone is going to mess with me if there’s no violence allowed.”

Especially if I’m with this giant of a man. He looks like he could take out an army without breaking a sweat.

“Nobody will mess with you,” he says confidently, shaking his head as he opens the door. “Let’s go then. Rafferty’s is across the street.”

I glance at the bar we’re in front of and across the street. Rafferty’s is much fancier. The front looks more like a restaurant than a bar. That could be a good thing. I’m a little hungry. I skipped lunch because I wanted to see Massimo.

Boyd walks to the corner and I follow him.

The intersection isn’t very busy, and Boyd starts walking before the light says we can, so I scurry behind him.

I’ve explored Las Vegas a little since I started coming here, but I’ve never been to this part of town.

Rafferty’s is well-maintained, but everything around it looks fairly rundown.

Boyd reaches the other side of the street ahead of me by what feels like a mile, so I hasten my steps.

I’m still catching up when we get to the front door of Rafferty’s.

There are two guys standing there, both wearing black suits with red ties.

They’d be intimidating as hell if I wasn’t standing next to the human embodiment of a mountain.

“Morandi,” Boyd growls. “Boyd Sagona.”

Sagona? Is that his last name? That’s very unusual.

“And her?” the guy on the right asks, motioning to me.

“She’s with me,” Boyd says.

The man on the right nods to the man on the left, and he opens the door. Boyd leads me inside, and I’m nearly knocked off my feet by the strong smell of smoke. Thick cigar smoke. I look around in confusion, and then I realize what kind of place Rafferty’s is.

“This is a cigar bar?” I ask, doing my best not to gag.

“Yep,” Boyd confirms, straightening his jacket. “I told you it wasn’t a place for little girls.”

“I’m not…” I start, then bite my tongue and breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. “It’s fine. I’ll manage. Do we get a table, or what?”

Why does he keep calling me that?

Why am I starting to like it?

“Follow me,” Boyd grunts.

Food is out of the question. I don’t think they serve it, and even if they did, I don’t think I could eat it here. Breathing through my mouth is working. It’s like that time I went to the city and the smog was really bad.

I finally test a few lighter inhales through my nose and it’s not entirely unpleasant. Just a big cloud of earthy-cherry-vanilla and a few other things blending together once I get used to it.

I follow Boyd to a table that is located close to the right wall. Boyd takes the seat closest to the wall, which is a good thing, because he’d block the aisle. I don’t have that problem. Plus, this puts me closer to the conversations happening behind me.

“Do you want a cigar or just a drink?” he asks sarcastically.

The cigarette was a mistake, so I think I’ll stick with strawberries and cream.

“A drink is fine,” I say, looking around. “I guess I can vape in here?”

“Yes,” he says. “You could have sex in here if you wanted to.”

“Wait, what?” My brow rises.

“As long as nobody bleeds, they’re pretty lenient,” he says, motioning a server over. “If you look really close you might be able to spot some heels poking out from under a table or two.”

My eyes dart around and look back at him as soon as I see a pair of Louboutins doing exactly that.

“Holy shit, you were serious,” I say, taking a hit of my vape.

“I’m not much of a liar,” he mutters, then turns to the server as soon as she gets to our table.

The server is a redhead named Gina who seems overly enthusiastic to be our waitress for the evening. Boyd orders a cigar and a single-malt scotch. I’ve never had scotch, so I decide to try it.

I’m not sure what to make of Boyd, yet. He’s interesting to the point of almost being captivating.

It’s hard to pay attention to anything else when I’m sitting across from him.

He’s grumpy, sarcastic, and his cigarettes aren’t the only things that are unfiltered.

I kind of like that, even if his crudeness does catch me off guard sometimes and scare me a little.

“So, how do we do this?” I ask, glancing around and taking a hit of my vape.

“We sit here quietly and listen,” Boyd says. “We’re not here for conversation. Not to have one, at least.”

“I don’t suppose I’m allowed to take notes?” I joke.

“No,” he says firmly. “Hope you got a good memory.”

It’s not the best, but it’ll have to do.

The server returns with our drinks and Boyd’s cigar.

It looks like one that will take a while to smoke.

He lights it immediately, but is kind enough to blow the smoke away from me.

The scotch isn’t as harsh as the shots of whiskey I’ve had in the past, but it isn’t my favorite.

After a few sips, I dump what is left of my glass into Boyd’s and ask for a cocktail that is much more to my liking.

Between sips of my drink and hits from my vape, I pick up some interesting conversations around us.

The two older men at the table to our left are discussing the good old days, but their stories sound like ancient history.

To my right, three men are talking about women they’re interested in, and they’re very descriptive. That isn’t useful for my podcast.

I focus on some other conversations, pick up a few useful tidbits I might be able to spin into stories, and make mental notes.

I look around while I listen, putting faces to the conversations I can, although it’s hard to isolate some of them.

Rafferty’s is like a permanent dull roar and it’s difficult to make everything out.

“Valerie… Catherine…” I mutter, listening to a couple of guys facing away from me discussing something. “Something about a Sadie.”

“No names,” Boyd growls. “Seriously. I know you’ll probably try to write down everything you hear tonight, but don’t use anyone’s name. Names are how you get into trouble.”

“I won’t use names,” I say, losing the conversation I was focusing on. “I’m just trying to make sense of everything. That’s hard to do when you’re just getting bits and pieces.”

“Isn’t investigation part of journalism?” he asks. “Even for podcasters?”

“Well, yeah,” I admit. “But how can I investigate if I don’t write down the names?”

“By using your brain,” he rumbles. “That’s what it’s for.”

Boyd has more faith in my brain than I do, but I try to continue listening to the conversations around me.

It’s interesting to hear Mafia guys and whoever else is allowed through the door discuss things openly, but they’re still rather cryptic.

It also sounds like the kind of bragging you’d hear in a locker room, so I’m not sure what is true and what is being embellished for the sake of the others at the table.

But I guess that doesn’t matter. I just need content.

Embellished stories will still get listeners, if I can layer them with truth.

It’ll be a lot better than constantly recycling old Mafia Prince Killer content or being the thousandth podcaster to do a deep dive into a cold case very few people are still following.

“Getting anything?” Boyd asks, puffing his cigar a few times and tapping it against the ashtray.

“A few things,” I admit. “I really wish I could take notes, though.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he says. “Just keep listening.”

If I were taking notes, I’d have at least a dozen interesting things to follow up on.

I keep repeating the interesting things in my head while listening to the conversations around us.

The crowd thins out, along with some of the smoke, and it’s easier to isolate the conversations.

Unfortunately, there aren’t as many people sitting at the tables closest to us now.

“Want to stay a while longer or have you got enough?” Boyd asks, putting out his cigar and finishing his scotch.

“I’ve got enough for one day,” I answer, looking around and inhaling a hit from my vape before turning my attention back to him. “But if the offer is still open, I wouldn’t mind having another drink with you. Maybe somewhere we can get some food? I skipped lunch.”

“Sure,” Boyd says, pushing his massive frame back from the table. “I can always go for a bite.”

I follow Boyd outside and get my first breath of fresh air in what feels like forever.

Rafferty’s was an experience, but I’m glad to be out of there.

I replay everything I overheard in my head while I follow Boyd back across the street.

He heads straight to his SUV, so I assume the bar we’re parked in front of either doesn’t serve food or doesn’t serve anything he likes.

“Any preferences?” Boyd asks once we’re back in the SUV.

“Not really,” I answer. “I’ve been eating at the casino since I got to Las Vegas because it’s free.”

“Ah, the boss gave you the VIP treatment, huh?” Boyd chuckles.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Well, Lea took care of it, but Massimo said it was okay.”

“I think we can find somewhere better than the casino buffet to eat tonight,” Boyd says, turning left. “My treat.”

I’m not one to turn down a free meal and I’m curious to see what kind of place Boyd chooses. We didn’t get to talk much at Rafferty’s. The stories I overheard will give me a few things to work with, but if I can get Boyd to open up, I might get something even juicier.

He still makes me rather nervous, but it’s time to turn on the charm.

I’ve got a podcast to save.