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Italian Americans, Including Francis Albert. There was also a signed promotional shot of Rocky Marciano, who Santini senior proclaimed to have been the best fighter to ever climb into the ring. Maybe he hadn’t had the footwork or finesse of an Ali, Frank would opine, but he came out swinging with a killer instinct, and did the business, every time. Another wall could have been out-of-date mug shots of the FBI’s Most Wanted: Al Capone, his cousin Joe Fischetti, Lucky Luciano, Vito Genovese, Sam Giancana, Frank Nitti, and Benny Siegal, the New York gangster who had contracted hits for Murder Incorporated, and had turned the dusty, one-horse desert town of Las Vegas into a glittering, glamorous and hedonistic gambling capital; a money pit with no equal, that had laundered vast sums of dirty green for the mob.
    Dom stood up and checked himself out in a full-length mirror. Damn, he looked good! Only the slightly thinning hair dismayed him. He was a victim of hereditary male pattern baldness, and supposed that at thirty-eight it could be worse, which gave him little comfort. One thing he wouldn’t do was wear a rug. It would be better to wear his hair ultra short than succumb to the vanity that his father had fallen prey to. Frank’s toupee was a joke. At the moment, Dom chose to keep his hair long, tied back in a ponytail. He turned to look at his profile, admired the diamond that graced his left earlobe (a rock that any woman would give a lot to have on her finger), and smiled at his reflection, pleased with the strong, handsome image. Dom was six foot three, and had shoulders so broad that his head looked a little on the small side for his body. He still pushed weights, did not smoke, or do drugs...to excess. He drank in moderation, and required – needed – sex at least once every twenty-four hours, preferring to use the high-class whores owned by the organisation, than to form relationships. Women in general expected to be taken out and pampered, which was too much like hard work. He didn’t confuse lust and love. The working girls knew the score and were paid well for their services. He did not have demands made of him by anyone, with the exception of his father.
    “Eddie, I don’t like the idea of that injured cop or the woman being able to finger the hitter,” Dom said when his aide returned from downstairs. “Check them out and get back to me with the story of their lives. Then I’ll decide whether we have a problem, or if there’s enough leverage to shut them up. If they don’t have the sense to quit while they’re ahead, then we’ll vanish them.”
    “The shooter was sloppy, Dom,” Eddie said. “I thought he came highly recommended?”
    “He’s a pro, Eddie. He did the job at short notice and got that creep, Little. Leaving witnesses was an oversight that proves he’s human. Maybe I’ll get him to clean up his own leftovers. I’ll sleep on it. In the meantime, tell Courtney to get her cute little arse up to my suite in thirty minutes.”
    Eddie grinned. “You got it, boss.
    Dom nodded. “Yeah, Eddie, I have.”
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER EIGHT

 
    IT was ten o’ clock the next morning when Tom knocked at Matt’s door and waited; knowing that in his present condition it would take his DI a while to hobble through the house.
    “I just put the coffee on” Matt said, opening the door, then turning awkwardly to make his way back to the kitchen.
    “All you need is a bloody parrot on your shoulder,” quipped Tom, closing the door and following him, with the image of Long John Silver coming to mind as Matt clumped along the hall under crutch power.
    Matt took a seat as Tom placed a carrier bag on the table, and then went to pour the coffee.
    “What’s in the bag?” Matt asked.
    “Take a look. It isn’t grapes or Lucozade.”
    Matt reached into the bag and withdrew a nine millimetre Beretta and shoulder rig. “Thanks, Tom,” he said. “I feel safer already.”
    “Sign for it,” Tom said,