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Authors: Dominic R. Daniels
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Street; Michael picked up the case from inside the phone booth. Serena wasn’t in sight. “Good girl,” whispered Michael to himself as he got back into the car with the black case. “What’s in the case?” asked Sal curiously.
“You’ll see when we meet the Don,” replied Michael calmly.
Chapter 19: “The Don’s Dilemma”
Back at Turquoise Terrace Tower, old Don Felice Santerini waited. He sat in his favorite chair and the fatigue in his sad blue eyes showed a certain frailty and the many years of leadership to an organization that now seemed to be tearing itself apart in a struggle for survival; gang violence had increased the last few years. The Don was a handsome man even in his old age; his white hair was thick and shone like pure silver, and he had a short grey mustache and always dressed in the richest of suits. Paulie was also present, mulling in his mind how to handle the situation that had just occurred, as he watched the big screen projector play out the shocking news footage of a collection gone wrong.
Paulie Santerini could handle almost anything. A big man with short black hair with gray marks, he was in his fifties. A guy who was always dressed sharp and had the style of a suave movie star, he had it all: charm, charisma, and a proper zeal for business. He ran six of the largest corporate casinos in Las Vegas, owned two night clubs, and was the Don’s right-hand man in the import/export business of smuggling shipments in bonds, paying off teamsters, mass producing pharmaceuticals and illegal drugs, and the production of biodegradable fuel for the United States government. He had a cool head on his shoulders in any situation, and was always one step ahead of the game in the smuggling industry, whether it was before a cop, politician, or Interpol agent.
In the middle the grand entranceway, two large turquoise elevators opened. Michael and company proceeded to the main door of the Don’s office as two guards on both sides opened the double doors. “Gentlemen come in,” said Paulie, upset yet poised. The crew stepped inside with trepidation at what they were about to hear. They sat down. “Gentlemen, what happened tonight was a direct failure of this organization’s ability to do a simple job,” said Paulie.
“Paulie, we had unforeseen issues. However, during the chaos of this extraordinary evening we did recover most of the collection as ordered,” Michael started.
“There is no excuse for failure. This makes us look foolish to the Jews and Koreans working in our organization. I will not tolerate this again,” said Don Felice, seriously disappointed as he drew his pistol to Jackie’s head. Don Felice Santerini, the man who controlled it all. He had taken over after the war between the Costa and Moretti Families ended in bloodshed and after the extermination of most of both families. He was a serious business person all the time; the kingpin of twelve of Vegas’ drug manufacturing plants, running three currency corporations and one large adult entertainment production company, and maintaining ties to three corrupt senators in Washington who closely advised the presidential cabinet. Above all other rules was this: never fuck with the man in charge.
Nervously Jackie stood up, sweating as he said, “With respect, Don Santerini, as we were about to obtain the rest of the capital that was stolen from us, I discovered a bomb that was placed in one of the boxes in the moving truck. So naturally to prevent injury or death we left the scene with what we could.”
The Don lowered his pistol, putting it back in his shoulder holster. “It is obvious that the Scarfos' are behind this, but I’ve known Godfather Scarfo since we were young. He has too much honor to allow a hit like this. This is Franco’s doing, that animal of a nephew of his,” said Don Felice.
“I think I know why,” said Michael.
“Should we call a hit?” asked Anthony.
“No, you do that and the media will be all
“You’ll see when we meet the Don,” replied Michael calmly.
Chapter 19: “The Don’s Dilemma”
Back at Turquoise Terrace Tower, old Don Felice Santerini waited. He sat in his favorite chair and the fatigue in his sad blue eyes showed a certain frailty and the many years of leadership to an organization that now seemed to be tearing itself apart in a struggle for survival; gang violence had increased the last few years. The Don was a handsome man even in his old age; his white hair was thick and shone like pure silver, and he had a short grey mustache and always dressed in the richest of suits. Paulie was also present, mulling in his mind how to handle the situation that had just occurred, as he watched the big screen projector play out the shocking news footage of a collection gone wrong.
Paulie Santerini could handle almost anything. A big man with short black hair with gray marks, he was in his fifties. A guy who was always dressed sharp and had the style of a suave movie star, he had it all: charm, charisma, and a proper zeal for business. He ran six of the largest corporate casinos in Las Vegas, owned two night clubs, and was the Don’s right-hand man in the import/export business of smuggling shipments in bonds, paying off teamsters, mass producing pharmaceuticals and illegal drugs, and the production of biodegradable fuel for the United States government. He had a cool head on his shoulders in any situation, and was always one step ahead of the game in the smuggling industry, whether it was before a cop, politician, or Interpol agent.
In the middle the grand entranceway, two large turquoise elevators opened. Michael and company proceeded to the main door of the Don’s office as two guards on both sides opened the double doors. “Gentlemen come in,” said Paulie, upset yet poised. The crew stepped inside with trepidation at what they were about to hear. They sat down. “Gentlemen, what happened tonight was a direct failure of this organization’s ability to do a simple job,” said Paulie.
“Paulie, we had unforeseen issues. However, during the chaos of this extraordinary evening we did recover most of the collection as ordered,” Michael started.
“There is no excuse for failure. This makes us look foolish to the Jews and Koreans working in our organization. I will not tolerate this again,” said Don Felice, seriously disappointed as he drew his pistol to Jackie’s head. Don Felice Santerini, the man who controlled it all. He had taken over after the war between the Costa and Moretti Families ended in bloodshed and after the extermination of most of both families. He was a serious business person all the time; the kingpin of twelve of Vegas’ drug manufacturing plants, running three currency corporations and one large adult entertainment production company, and maintaining ties to three corrupt senators in Washington who closely advised the presidential cabinet. Above all other rules was this: never fuck with the man in charge.
Nervously Jackie stood up, sweating as he said, “With respect, Don Santerini, as we were about to obtain the rest of the capital that was stolen from us, I discovered a bomb that was placed in one of the boxes in the moving truck. So naturally to prevent injury or death we left the scene with what we could.”
The Don lowered his pistol, putting it back in his shoulder holster. “It is obvious that the Scarfos' are behind this, but I’ve known Godfather Scarfo since we were young. He has too much honor to allow a hit like this. This is Franco’s doing, that animal of a nephew of his,” said Don Felice.
“I think I know why,” said Michael.
“Should we call a hit?” asked Anthony.
“No, you do that and the media will be all
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