Page 11 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 10

NERO

I sit by the pool for most of the afternoon, but the cerulean waters reflect only my own growing irritation back at me as Gabriel fails to appear. It’s disappointing. I so look forward to our duels these days. And I want to make sure he knows I still plan to make his life as miserable as possible—especially after I stood up for him with Roxanne Rochford. I don’t want him thinking I have a soft spot for him.

That woman is a menace. But a necessary pawn in La Contessa’s plans.

But Gabriel doesn’t make an appearance at the pool, and eventually the shadows lengthen. I need to get ready for my “dinner date” with Ray Ventura.

He arrives at the main house as excited to pick me up as he was last night to drop me off. I get into the car with a nod of greeting, but Ray is transfixed, staring out the window at the statue of Venus rising out of the ocean on a shell—the fountain in front of which Roxanne Rochford will have her wedding. The marble is gilded in the setting sun, the water catching the light and running like liquid gold. The model was Julian’s mother, I believe—her beauty preserved forever in stone, much like her death is preserved in the other fountain’s darker waters.

“Should I head to the usual place for a couple of sandwiches?” Ray asks as we exit the gates.

“Certainly not,” I tell him. “Tonight we will dine at the Chateau de la Lune.”

Ray looks uneasy. “Uh…that place is kind of off-limits to us Castellanis.”

“Nowhere in this city is off-limits to us, Ray. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you might rise through the ranks.”

He does a double take. “I appreciate the thought, Andretti, but I’m just waiting out my time till I can get the golden handshake, if you know what I mean.”

“Ray,” I sigh, “think of the younger man inside you, the one who longed for adventure, wealth, glamour. Now hold onto that vision and turn right. The Chateau is that way. Besides,” I add, as he looks ready to argue again, “didn’t Johnny Jacopo himself tell you and your Capo to treat me with hospitality? I am Sandro Castellani’s oldest friend, Ray, and a word from me in his ear could turn that golden handshake platinum instead.”

He still looks as though he’d rather refuse, but then I see him remember his younger self, the one I conjured up for him, and he gives me a grin. “Okay,” he says. “Long as you’ve got my back. The Bernardis who hang out at the Chateau aren’t the nice kind.”

I wait until we’re halfway to the Chateau before I pick up that conversation thread again. No point in making Ray suspicious. “I was under the impression that the Bernardis had united under Gino.”

Ray looks troubled. “Maybe that’s what the Boss hoped after AJ got whacked,” he says slowly. “But half of them swore they’d never follow Gino B—that they’d rather die themselves. They’d already been palling around with PacSyn, and I think they’re getting the band back together, if you know what I mean. Gino B’s in real trouble, if you ask me.”

I wonder if Sandro knows about this.

More importantly, I wonder if La Contessa knows.

I had several aims in attending the Chateau de la Lune tonight, but the extra information from Ray is the cherry on top.

When we arrive, the parking attendant doesn’t even blink at Ray’s car—which isn’t much better than Jacopo’s—but I tuck a hundred-dollar bill into his pocket as a tip in apology.

The inside of the Chateau is vintage Hollywood, and we’re apprised of the rules before we’re allowed to sign in. No cameras, no filming, and no trouble. The Chateau is, infamously, the party ground of major Hollywood players, but the plebeians are allowed in the dining area. And that’s where I take Ray tonight for his dinner.

We’re too early for any celebrities of interest, but Ray’s eyes remain as round as they’ve been since we entered. While we eat, I get him talking, drawing out information about the state of the other Bernardi faction—the one that still considers the Chateau de la Lune their turf.

After dessert, Ray glances reluctantly at his watch. “Guess we better get moving. Linda doesn’t like the shift work as it is, and if I’m home any later than normal, she’ll start texting.”

“‘Happy wife, happy life,’” I quote his words back at him. “Still, it would be a shame not to have one drink at the bar, don’t you think, before we tear ourselves away?”

Ray glances at the bar and a wistful look crosses his face. “Hell, I guess one won’t hurt.”

He hasn’t noticed the small group of men who entered the bar as we were ordering dessert. They’ve gone into a private room at the far end, but I know my own kind.

They’re made men. Bernardis. And not the nice kind, as Ray himself suggested.

“Let’s have one for the road,” I agree.

Ray ambles after me into the bar area, where I order him a whiskey and soda and ask for a Frangelico and lime for myself. Ray looks immensely pleased with himself—and with me—as we sit at the bar. And for the first time, I’m happy that Ray’s laugh is so loud, because it doesn’t take long before the men in the private room emerge with thunderous expressions. From there, it’s a simple matter to draw them over with one arrogant look.

“Oh, shit,” Ray mutters. “We better scram.” He sets his drink down, but I place my hand on his wrist.

“We’re having a drink and causing no trouble,” I tell him. “Remember what I told you, Ray. Castellanis go anywhere they like in this city.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what Ray was made of before now, but the pride in his eyes tells me what kind of man he is, and why he was accepted into the Family in the first place.

“You’re damn right,” he growls. “Okay, then. I’ve got your back, Andretti.”

“And I have yours.”

That’s all the conversation we have time for before the Bernardis crowd around us.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” one growls, “but you better leave now before something starts.”

I swivel on the barstool to face them, leaning back with my elbows on the bar. “If you don’t know who I am, then you won’t like the answer when you find out.”

“I know this one.” Another guy kicks the leg of Ray’s stool. “He’s a Castellani,” he says with disdain.

Then and only then does Ray turn as well, and I see the glint in his eye, the look of a man interested in having a fight. I could take these three clowns myself with no trouble, but it’s nice to share the moment.

“What’s it to you?” Ray asks, raising a challenging eyebrow.

“You walk into a Bernardi joint and ask that question? You must be a real fucking moron. But you can be a moron with your insides still intact—if you leave now.”

“Far as I heard, the Bernardis are our buddies these days,” Ray says. I’m impressed. He’s good at taunting, finding that painful place and pressing down.

“We don’t follow that traitor, Gino,” the first guy spits. “And we sure as fuck are no friends of some–”

“You want to be careful how you talk about Don Castellani,” Ray says, sliding off his stool before the slur can leave the goon’s lips. “I don’t take kindly to people who talk bad about him.”

Now I’m more than impressed. I am actually touched by the loyalty that the rank and file seem to show to Sandro. I wonder if he knows.

I wonder if La Contessa knows.

We’ve just about reached the end of this back-and-forth, so I decide to make a move before they can. I focus on the quiet, weasel-faced man at the back. He’s higher ranked than the loudmouths, I can tell. And I know they won’t move until they get a go-ahead from him. So it’s my job to speed things up.

“Come on, now,” I say with a smile. “I’m sure we can settle this like gentlemen.”

And I punch the tall guy right in his weasel face.

Ray is ready for it, launching himself at one of the other men even before Weasel Face hits the ground. Two more men barrel out of the private room toward us, and I shout a warning to Ray.

The simple thing to do would be to take out my switchblade and cut their throats, but I have a goal here—one that bloodshed would obliterate. So I keep my blade hidden, even when one of the new arrivals draws a knife of his own and lunges for my stomach.

I disarm him and throw him over the bar, making sure to avoid the bartender. Ray has been swarmed, the Bernardis sensing an easier target, so I go to work pulling men off of him.

Other patrons of the bar have fled, screaming, and I can hear hotel staff shouting for security. I take a moment to grab Weasel Face by the shirt to deliver my message—“You’re done here. Move on, because next time I won’t be so generous as to let you live.”—before hitting him again. Lights out.

I grab Ray by the shoulder, just as he’s about to charge after the remaining men who are scattering like cockroaches from the light. “Enough. Let’s get out of here.”

We run for a side entrance since the police have already been called to a disturbance in the bar, and jog into the residential streets behind the Chateau, Ray huffing and panting like a steam train, but too proud to ask me to slow down.

I’m already going slow, anyway. And after a moment I pull up into a walk. We don’t want to make ourselves memorable.

“What—about—my car?” Ray puffs, gratefully falling into step beside me.

“We’ll come back later, my friend, when there’s less heat. Or send someone else to fetch it.”

“But what about the collections route?”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about the route tonight.”

I’m correct about that. By the time we flag down a cab and get over to the sandwich shop, Johnny Jacopo’s Pinto is parked outside on the street, and the man himself is waiting in the back room for us with a stony face, standing against the wall in the shadows, while Legs Liggari is in his usual chair, looking worried.

“Jack!” I hold out my arms in welcome. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Jack doesn’t move. Legs Liggari, brow sweat-wet and face gray as the cold eyes behind him, glares at Ray. “What the hell you been doing, you motherfucker? Word is your fat ass started a bar fight at the fuckin’ Chateau!”

Ray looks suitably chastened, but I know the man better now. He enjoyed himself this evening, even if he tries to sound conciliatory when he starts, “Let me explain, Legs?—”

“It’s not you who needs to explain,” Jack says in a low, tight voice. He’s staring at me.

“Indeed,” I agree. “Please don’t blame Ray for the events of the evening.”

“I don’t,” Jack says. Then he puts a heavy hand on Liggari’s shoulder. “And nor should you, Legs. Give Ventura a break. He was bamboozled, that’s all.”

“He always did have shit for brains,” Legs says, breathing heavily. Whatever the conversation with Jacopo was like before we got here, Legs doesn’t seem to have enjoyed it.

Ray looks as though he’s about to argue, which tells me he’s loyal, proud, and foolish enough to put himself out on a limb for someone like me.

“I insisted,” I break in, before Ray can dig his own grave. “I’m afraid this is all my fault. Mr. Ventura is blameless in this matter.”

Legs begins to bark at me, but Jack squeezes hard at his shoulder, and he falls silent. “Nero, you come with me,” Jack orders. “Ray, you do your run as usual.”

“The man has no car,” I protest. “I made him leave it behind.”

“Then I’m sure Legs will be happy to send someone else back to the Chateau to pick it up. Right, Legs?” Legs grunts, but dares not demur. “Make sure there’s no more trouble tonight or I’ll have something else to say about it. Understand?”

Legs and Ray nod their heads.

Jack points at me. “You. Let’s go. Boss wants to see you.”

I wait until I’m walking behind Jack through the sandwich shop before I let my smile of satisfaction bloom.