If you’ve ever been to Vegas, you know Capos. It’s a modern-day Mafia speakeasy that will take you back in time when the Mob ran Vegas. It’s a parody of the old lifestyle, but the food is good, and the owners understood the need for privacy. The interior dark red, with a deep oak accent, you can imagine this place in a Godfather movie, and Marlon Brando sucking down a bowl of spaghetti. There’s a charm that many newer places shy away from in favor of sleek lines and clinical white walls. That would never do in a place, or with this style of a crowd. The hush money was still passed under the tables here, and no one batted an eyelash when it was.
“Frank, you’re late!” bitched Angelina Paloma. Her voice shrieking like nails on a chalkboard. This bitch was the reason men killed their wives. Sure, she looked good, but when she opened that mouth, those little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. With an allowance of twenty grand a month, you would think she knew how to act in public. Not this one. One day, mark his words, he would put her back in the trash can he dug her out of. She might have worn a crown for a night, but this bitch was no Queen.
Frank gave her the look that told her he would deal with her later, shutting her mouth up with a snarky smirk.
Taken into the back room, it was usually reserved for weddings and things of that nature, but for the safety of not only the customers but the staff, they 5 couples were placed out of sight, out of mind. You don’t line the ducks up on the opening day of hunting season and expect their not to be fowl on the table. It just doesn’t happen that way.
The diners consisted of Frank and Angelina Paloma, Henry and Rosa Gambino, Anthony and Maria Columbo, Rocco and Daniella Lucchese, and Big Tommy and Sofia Bonanno. Each one of those families would bring notoriety to anyone who took them out, but the war that would ensue would be horrific.
“Ladies, would you all excuse yourself to the restroom. We need to talk for a minute without yous here,” Frank spoke, his wife giving him a fuck you look as she grabbed her bag and walked off. The other women respectfully excused themselves without making a scene. It was a meal of acquaintances, but there were some things not to be discussed in front of women. If any of these men went down for tonight, these bitches would sing like a canary if they knew details. That’s what happened to Jimmy Six Fingers. he was popped for murder and his wife “accidentally” handed over the murder weapon. Of course, she was found dead the next day, but no one was willing to take that chance.
Wine poured, a basket of fresh bread and olive oil on the table, Frank nodded to the waiter to shut the door and excuse himself. Without even saying a word, the man knew and took his leave. These are things you know when you’re hired to work here. You learn respect quickly or find yourself in the dumpster on garbage day.
“She fucking better shut her mouth. We trusted you, Frankie,” said Jimmy. He was already forming a nervous twitch from letting the woman witness the hit.
“Don’t worry. She knows when to use her mouth, and when to shut the fuck up. Plus, I got this covered. Her prints are all over the weapon. She’s not singing,” Frank laughed, leaning back in the chair. His dealings with Gypsy in the past led up to tonight. He knew she was as good as they came, and even at a young age, she was a seasoned vet when it came to keeping her mouth closed.
A soft knock on the door, before they could respond, the wooden door opened and a tall male walked in, leaning in to speak to Frank.
“Boss, it’s gone, and so is the contract. Both gone without a trace,” leaning back up, his face contorted with a forewarning of pain.
“The girl?” Frank asked.
Shaking his head before speaking, “Sound asleep. Never left the room. We got eyes on her at all times.”
Before Frank could respond, the waiter walked in with a bottle of champagne, handing Frank a note.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Frankie boy. Kiss the wife for me!”