Vegas Moon

46.

“I’m going to ask you just once,” I say.

“Did I kill her? No. Did I have her killed? No. Would I kill her?”

I arch my brows.

He pauses a minute, then says, “Yeah. I would’ve. If she stole from me.”

“And did she?”

“She was paid to get me information. After she married a millionaire, and didn’t deliver the goods, I felt a reimbursement was due.”

“How much?”

“Fifty, give or take.”

I look at this old warrior and see a grandfather lying on a reclining theater chair, wearing a housecoat and slippers. His housecoat’s been open the whole time I’ve been here, his old man underwear showing, and he never even noticed. This was and is one of the most feared men in the country. Carmine “The Chin” Porrello, a man who once boasted he could lift his chin and cause the death of ten men.

And his underpants are showing.

He was and is one of the most ruthless mob bosses in the history of the mob, and his nuts are hanging out of his tighty-whities, along with a thatch of coarse, gray hair.

Some Indian tribes used to believe if you killed a powerful man, his power would add to yours. I doubt that’s true, but as with all things Native American, it wouldn’t surprise me, either. What does surprise me is Gwen working as a stripper for Carmine Porrello for two years, and taking money from the mob to marry Lucky. I mean, I’ve heard of women getting lucky, and women marrying for money. But this story takes it to a whole new level.

I think about it awhile, and realize none of this matters. And the reason it doesn’t matter is because, like Carmine said, it’s history. Okay, so she stripped in a club for a couple of years. Got knocked up a few times. Was part of the mob. Married a man she didn’t love. Took money to steal his secrets. Got off on fucking hot lesbians and powerful men.

But which of us is perfect?

I liked her. Might have even been able to love her, given the right opportunity.

“What happens now?” Carmine says.

What indeed?

My cell phone vibrates.

It’s Callie.