Chapter 5 - A Dishwasher's Son in the High Tower
By midnight, the private gaming floor on the top tier of the Santoro Casino had been converted into an emergency tribunal.
The public elevators were locked off with biometric security passes. Twenty heavily armed tactical operators in black pea coats stood sentinel along the perimeter of the roulette tables, their submachine guns unslung, their faces hard and unreadable.
Seated around the green-felt high-limit baccarat table were the seven casino bosses who controlled every legal and illegal game in Nevada.
Every man sat in rigid, terrified silence, their hands resting flat against the felt, their highball glasses untouched.
At the head of the table sat Dante Santoro.
He did not use an orthopedic backrest. He sat tall in an antique mahogany armchair, his broad shoulders filling out his charcoal suit, his gray eyes sweeping across the seven bosses like an artillery commander assessing a breached wall.
And sitting on the velvet stool directly to his right, swinging his boots six inches above the carpet, was nine-year-old Toby Quinn, eating salted cashews from a crystal dish.
The double doors of the counting room burst open.
Frank Morelli and three enforcers dragged Silvio Ramos into the salon.
Silvio was barefoot, his silk trousers shredded at the knees, his face swollen and purple from an hour in the concrete holding vault, his hands secured behind him in heavy steel transport cuffs.
They dropped him onto the Persian rug before the baccarat table with a dull, wet thud.
Dante did not stand up.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the gold Patek Philippe with its exposed circuit board, and tossed it into the center of the green felt table.
CLINK.
The metal case rattled against the chip trays.
“Explain the frequency, Silvio,” Dante said, his voice quiet enough that the air conditioning hum sounded like a jet engine in the room.
Silvio wept, his forehead pressed into the wool fibers of the carpet, his aristocratic voice reduced to a broken, gravelly sob.
“Dante... the Chicago syndicate... they wanted forty percent of the digital revenue! They said if you were running the floor, you’d start another turf war! They promised me the license if I kept you in the suite!”
“The Chicago syndicate didn't install the mine outside Reno, Silvio,” Marcus Falcone said, leaning forward from his chair across the table, his face twisted in ancient disgust. “I spoke to my uncle in Chicago twenty minutes ago. The Commission never authorized the hit on Dante Santoro. You acted alone to steal the cash vaults.”
Silvio’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes darting frantically between the seven mob bosses.
“Falcone! Listen to me! We were going to share the points! Every house on the Strip was going to get five percent of the unmanifested drop!”
“You don't steal from a Don by putting him in an iron cage, Silvio,” Falcone said, spitting onto the carpet near Silvio’s head.
The old capo turned toward Dante, bowing his head with deep, absolute reverence.
“The Commission recognizes the blood debt, Don Dante. The house of Ramos is extinguished. His properties, his points, and his private vaults belong to the throne.”
Dante nodded once.
He looked down at Silvio with cold, absolute detachment.
“You asked me to retire my crown, Silvio,” Dante whispered. “My retirement begins tonight. Yours begins at the bottom of the old silver shaft outside Tonopah.”
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Silvio shrieked, clawing at the felt as two armed operators hauled him backward out of the salon, his heels digging grooves into the carpet until the reinforced double doors clicked shut forever.
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