Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Let’s go,” Christopher said. He flashed another hand signal toward the door, and the men quickly began moving out.

  Vinny walked around the mixing rivulets of blood from the boy and Frankie, who was rattling out his last few breaths.

  The asshole had been right—not all the Moretti soldiers were coming home tonight. But neither was a seven-year-old boy.

  -17-

  Don Antonio relaxed in the back seat of a BMW M7 as Lino drove away from the Moretti compound. Vito loosened his tie in the passenger seat, grunting. All three men wore Armani suits—even Antonio.

  It felt good to dress like a king again. It also felt good to leave the compound. Aside from his sit-down with Esteban Vega, it had been months since Antonio traveled outside the secure walls.

  He checked his watch for the third time in the past hour. His brother’s crew would soon be entering the storm sewers outside the Nevsky compound. The Russians took their security just as seriously as Antonio, but they were about to get something their security wasn’t designed to repel.

  He wished he were there to see the look on Sergei’s face.

  But Antonio’s days of night raids were over. He would always miss the rush that came with fighting in the darkness.

  Back when he was an Alpino fighting in Afghanistan, he had earned a nickname from a night mission that lagged into the dawn. Low on ammo, injured, and exhausted, he threw on the black clothes of a dead insurgent and stormed the enemy stronghold, disguised as one of them. He killed most of them with his rifle. When the magazine ran out, he used his knife and, finally, his bare hands.

  From that night on, his men called him “il folletto nero,” the Black Jinni.

  By the time the sun rose, he would have a new nickname: King Killer. As soon as Sergei Nevsky drew his last breath, Antonio would control most of the city, with only the warring Vega brothers, a few old-school gangs like the Bloods, and the underdog Saints to stand in his way.

  He was glad the Saints had left behind those RPGs. It helped sell the urgency of destroying the Nevsky family to anyone who might question his orders.

  If all went to plan, the Vega brothers and the Bloods would move on the Nevskys’ zone 3, and he would sit back and let them duke it out.

  Four black Suburbans, which his soldiers had found in the underground garage of some former rap star, closed in around the BMW, like soldiers surrounding their general. Antonio wasn’t taking any chances tonight.

  He had been thinking more about his mortality lately, and what would happen when he was gone. It was another reason he had broken his promise to keep Marco out of this life. Selfishly, he wanted his boy to take the reins when he was capable.

  Christopher was the natural successor, but despite their fraternal bond and his love for his nephew, something wouldn’t let Antonio see the family banner passed into Vinny’s hands instead of Marco’s if something should happen to both Antonio and his brother.

  Lights flashed on the horizon, distracting him from his thoughts. The spotlights raked over the dark sky above a newly opened club.

  This was the only section left of the old Hollywood. And this was exactly where he knew he would find his only son, and the heir to the Moretti fortunes.

  “Which club is Marco at?” Antonio asked.

  “He’s with his friends at the Dragon,” Lino replied.

  “That shithole?” Vito asked.

  “What’s wrong with the Dragon?” Lino asked, taking his eyes off the road to look at Vito. “I thought you loved Asian girls.”

  Vito laughed. “I don’t discriminate.”

  “This we know—and so does your wife,” Antonio said.

  All the men laughed, just like old times, but the laughter faded as headlights hit the back of the BMW.

  Antonio checked the side mirror as a black Mercedes came up on their right. In front was a mounted brush guard. The SUVs moved over to keep the car away from the BMW.

  Vito raised his submachine gun as the Mercedes passed. Metal plates over the doors, and shutters over the windows disguised the driver. These vehicles were a common sight out here, where people took their security seriously.

  Vito lowered his weapon.

  A few minutes later, they pulled off the Hollywood Freeway and rolled past Sunset’s restaurants and strip clubs.

  The new addition had gone up since he last saw the Golden Oyster. Business was good. Most of its clients were Moretti soldiers, city officials, cops, and businessmen.

  He still found the casino’s dazzling gold top arresting. From being a barefoot urchin on the streets of Naples to owning half the largest remaining city in the United States had been a long journey. And this was just the beginning.

  In an effort to expand into legitimate businesses, he had already bought two nightclubs and a half-dozen restaurants, and he owned dozens of apartment buildings in Los Angeles besides the Four Diamonds. Business was booming, and even with the loss of the drugs at the port, he was having the best year ever, distributing 5 percent of profits to new green spaces, playgrounds, and apartment buildings for the impoverished. He did it not so he might sleep better at night but to keep the mayor and the cops from intervening.

  Eventually, when he was strong enough, he would expand his empire to Sin City, where he had yet to tap the huge drug market. The Vega family had tried, but they were forced out by a former AMP lieutenant who had slaughtered his rivals and taken over the city.

  “Vito, Lino, get the word to Mayor Buren. We’re increasing our donations to the city by ten million dollars this year.”

  Vito twisted to look in the back seat. “That’s a lot of cheddar,” he said.

  “To keep everyone happy,” Antonio replied. “After West Hollywood, we might have some new enemies. We don’t want the Saints to get any more allies.”

  A few blocks from the casino, Lino parked the BMW next to a pair of Honda sedans with souped-up engines. Their owners, two muscular African American men wearing large silver chains over Hawaiian shirts, stood on the sidewalk.

  Bangers didn’t dress as they had in the old days.

  Lino opened the back door, letting Antonio out. He stepped onto the street, straightening his collar. One of the bangers took a hit off a joint. It smelled like good stuff, Antonio would give them that.

  “Ah shit, is that . . .” said the man with the joint.

  The other guy stepped out of the way, opening a path between the vehicles to the sidewalk as a sign of respect—or perhaps fear.

  Lino, chewing on a toothpick, winked at the two men as he passed.

  “You sure you don’t want to take a back entrance?” Vito asked.

  “No,” Antonio said. He wanted to be seen tonight, especially after gunning down the cops. Everyone here had heard about it by now, and everyone knew that the Morettis were likely behind it. But no one could touch him. Even the cops patrolling the area wouldn’t dare, lest they end up like the crooked fucks from the port.

  What worried Antonio more was some underdog with nothing to lose, like the Saints, taking a shot at him. But they would have to get through a lot of muscle to do so.

  His guards quickly formed a phalanx, some walking along the sidewalk, others fanning out into the street. He wouldn’t make the same mistake his enemies had made when he came to Los Angeles. They should have killed him on day one, when he was nobody.

  “Move it,” Vito growled at some punks ahead. The kids, all sporting colorful Mohawks, laughed. One of them, who had a nose ring, stepped forward, a bottle of beer in his hand.

  “Who the fuck’s this guy supposed to be?” He glanced back at his friends. “Fucking wannabe gangster pricks think they—”

  When the kid turned, Vito’s pistol caught him in the face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crack. Vito pointed it at the other kids.

  “We’re the Morettis, jerk-off. Now, trot the fuck out of here.”

  They scattered like rats from fire.

  Antonio followed his men around the crowds and toward a fl
ashing sign with a dragon’s head and a curled tail. Lino kept looking across the street, and Antonio finally saw why. Two police officers stood next to their motorcycles, arms folded across their uniforms, eyes following the Morettis. And they couldn’t do a damn thing but watch.

  He almost smiled, but remembered his cardinal rule: never get drunk on power. Instead, he took in a breath of warm air. It felt like freedom filling his lungs.

  Ahead, a line of thirty teenage girls in skintight dresses and a few boys in designer suits were hanging outside a roped-off entrance where five armed bouncers in black suits held security.

  It was odd to see so much wealth gathered in a single place. Most of these kids had rich parents. They were the 1 percent of the 1 percent. Wealthy citizens who were in Don Antonio’s pocket.

  “Get back,” shouted a husky Asian man guarding the rope. He shooed away the girls at the front of the line. Two of them protested as they were brushed aside.

  Several of the Moretti soldiers went inside, then came back to give the green light. Vito, Antonio, and Lino strode right through the opening, and the rope clicked behind them as the bouncers re-formed their wall of muscle. Half the Moretti men remained out on the street to stand guard.

  A short Asian woman in a black dress with pink cherry blossoms stood inside the glass doors. She smiled warmly and stepped in front of a waterfall emptying into a koi pond.

  “Welcome to the Dragon, Mr. Moretti. If you would please follow me to the VIP lounge . . .”

  He could hardly hear her over the thumping bass as they walked past palm trees growing toward skylights overhead.

  Vito glanced over his shoulder as they followed the hostess. “Want a drink, Don Antonio?”

  “Vodka. Bring me a bottle.”

  “Vodka?” Vito asked.

  It was an unorthodox choice, and especially ironic on this evening. Antonio nodded.

  With one hand inside his coat, Lino scanned the room from the dance floor to the packed couches in the sitting area.

  Several Moretti men were already walking through the masses, looking for any signs of potential trouble. They were experts at spotting that certain mix of cockiness and stupidity.

  “I fucking hate clubs,” Lino grumbled.

  As they entered the packed area outside the dance floor, the throng parted like the Red Sea for Moses.

  Now he remembered what he once liked about these places: the stares, the whispers, the seductive smiles from beautiful women.

  It was still a rush.

  Most of the movie and music stars were gone, but there were still celebrities in the City of Angels, like Regina Díaz. Antonio saw former Dodger catcher Mike Hendricks, a regular craps player at the Golden Oyster.

  Jango Thomas, a former Lakers forward, was sitting at a table with several hard-looking men who fought in the diamond cage at Memorial Stadium.

  But Don Antonio Moretti was the only A-list star left.

  The Black Jinni.

  He walked across the dance floor, toward the stairway. At the top of the stairs, Vito took a right toward the VIP lounge, a blocked-off area of sectional couches. They navigated the packed area toward the farthest corner, where Antonio got a first glimpse of his son.

  Marco sat on a leather couch, with his arms around two girls.

  Four soldiers guarded the roped-off area. They both stepped away, and Lino unclicked the rope, allowing Antonio into the section.

  As soon as he walked through, Marco threw up his arms as if to say, What the hell are you doing here? Whatever his son did say, Antonio couldn’t hear him. He put the bottle of vodka on the glass table centered between the three couches and Marco’s friends. He didn’t know the girls, but he recognized the boys: Nick, Giovanni, and the twins Alex and Pietro.

  At least the boys were smart enough to pay their respect by rising to their feet. Nick even raised a glass and said, “To Don Antonio!”

  Glasses clinked together, but Marco turned his head slightly, wiping his nose.

  Antonio knew what he was trying to wipe away, but it was a moot point. Cocaine lines were still in plain sight on the glass table.

  “Dad, we’re just here celebrating . . .” Marco tried his million-dollar smile, but it fell flat.

  Antonio resisted the urge to slap his son into the couch. Instead, he gestured for the scantily dressed girls to move out of his way. Then he walked to the rail overlooking the club below and waited for his son to join him.

  “Dad, I’m . . .” Marco’s slurred words trailed off again.

  That wasn’t good. He would need to sober up for what came next.

  “Lino, bring us water,” Antonio said.

  Lino snapped his fingers at a waitress.

  Returning his gaze to the crowd below, Antonio watched sweaty young people mushed together on the dance floor. Men kissing women. Women kissing women.

  It was time for Marco to put this scene behind him, as Antonio had at the same age—around the same time he met Lucia.

  Red and blue lights flashed outside the club. Through the windows, Antonio saw several squad cars and a half-dozen officers.

  Lino walked over and leaned close. “Don Antonio, we got company.”

  “I can see that.” He remained at the railing with his son, both of them watching the police enter the club. A dark-skinned man suddenly bolted from the dance floor and ran up the stairs, two cops on his heels.

  The men guarding Antonio formed a fence around the entrance to the VIP lounge, and most of the officers moved past. Only one stopped to look at the Moretti crew.

  Lino waved and flashed a shit-eating grin.

  The officer, panting, ran after their suspect.

  You can’t touch me, Antonio thought. I own you, your boss, and his boss.

  He pointed at the bottle on the table. “Grab the vodka and follow me.”

  Marco was intoxicated, but he was with it enough to know that look from his father. He scooped the bottle off the table.

  “Where we going?” he asked.

  “To do something I should have done a long time ago,” Antonio replied. “Tonight, you will see what being a Moretti means.”

  * * *

  Dom had snagged a few hours of sleep on the couch in the garage safe house. When he woke up, Rocky and Tooth were back at it in the boxing ring. Cayenne stretched and yawned.

  Dreams about his family had Dom on edge. He wiped away the sweat that always came with the nightmares, and blinked away the grogginess as the two boxers pounded away at each other.

  “You got to work on the right hook,” Moose said, miming one. “Want me to come in there and show you boys how it’s done?”

  Rocky walked over to the ropes, panting.

  “I’m good, bro, but I will take some water.”

  “Me too,” Tooth said.

  Dom got up off the couch and walked over with a bottle, tossing it to Rocky. The garage was lit with battery-operated lanterns, and he didn’t see any other Saints in the glow.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  “Bettis just left to take Camilla back to her crib,” Moose said. “Namid and Pork Chop went home.”

  “Feel free to head home too, man,” Dom said. “You got a family to look after.”

  Moose pulled out his cell phone. “I better take this,” he said.

  Dom cracked his neck from side to side and stretched. He hated splitting the team up, but they couldn’t stay here forever. Some of them had families waiting, and until their cover was truly blown, he wasn’t going to keep everyone against their will.

  The dust would settle soon, and in the meantime, he would plan their next move.

  Moose lowered his phone and gave Dom the look that said something major was going down.

  “What?” Dom asked.

  “That was my buddy working the Goldilocks Zone.”

  “And?”

  “Fucking Antonio Moretti,” Moose said. “He’s at the Dragon with a small crew.”

  Dom was moving before Moose f
inished his sentence. Tooth and Rocky jumped over the ropes of the improvised boxing ring.

  Five minutes later, all but one of them had piled into the Jeep Cherokee, vests strapped, weapons loaded, masks on.

  Only Tooth remained behind with Cayenne to watch Sammy.

  “Put a bullet in the motherfucker’s dome for me,” Tooth said with a grin. Cayenne wagged her tail and hopped over to the Jeep as Tooth opened the garage door.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Dom said. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Moose eased out of the garage, careful not to hit Cayenne.

  “I know I’ve been hard on you in the past about your shitty driving,” Dom said, “but tonight you drive as fast as you want, as long as you get us to the Dragon before the bastard leaves.”

  Moose chuckled behind his mask and floored it.

  “Even if we do get there before he leaves, Don Antonio is going to have a lot of firepower with him,” Rocky said. “Don’t you think we should call Camilla and Bettis for backup?”

  “No time, and I don’t want us all out there at the same time. But I am calling Namid. He lives just a few minutes away.”

  “ ’Sup, boss?” Namid answered.

  “You at home?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “The king is at the Dragon. We’re on our way. See if you can get eyes on him. Don’t let him out of your sight. We’ll take him once he leaves.”

  “Hell yeah. You got it.”

  Dom reached in his pocket for his last speed pill, drawing a glance from Moose.

  “I’m done with this shit after tonight,” Dom said. “I promise, but I need this to focus.”

  “Nah, you don’t, bro.” Moose looked away.

  The drive to the Goldilocks Zone was agonizing. Everything they had fought for could come about tonight—with a single bullet, if they got really lucky.

  The engine protested as Moose stomped the pedal: 90, 100, 105 miles an hour.

  “That’s her top,” Moose said. “Don’t want to push it beyond that.”

  “This is it, I can feel it,” Dom said. “We haven’t had this kind of opportunity in a year.”

  They pulled off the Hollywood Freeway thirty minutes later and took the next right toward the neons and the spotlights raking back and forth over Sunset Boulevard.