pushing the chair back. "Mr. Moretti, I thought you'd left town."
"You thought wrong." Vito took off his hat and set it atop a coat rack beside the door. He strolled over, plopping down in the chair the man had vacated, barely giving him a chance to move out of the way. Vito motioned toward another chair off to the side. "Have a seat, kid."
Tentatively, Corrado sat on the edge of the chair, his eyes darting between his father and the other man.
"Uh, I'll give you some privacy," the man said.
"Yeah, you do that," Vito called, a dimpled smirk lighting up his face. "And bring me a drink, will you? Scotch, straight up. Top shelf. Don't bullshit me."
"Of course, sir."
"And something for my kid. A pop or whatnot." Vito's eyes darted to Corrado. "What's your favorite?"
"Cactus Cooler."
Vito stared at him blankly for a moment before turning to the man. "You heard the kid. Cactus Cooler."
"Uh, yes, sir. Right away."
The man walked out, muttering under his breath. The sounds from the casino muffled to a droning whisper once the door latched behind him. Vito kicked his feet up on the desk as he leaned back in the chair, his hands clasped together at the back of his head. "We'll see how long it takes him to dig up one of those coolers."
"Are you his boss?" Corrado asked hesitantly.
"Depends on what you mean by that."
"Well…" What did he mean? "Do you run this place?"
"I run this town , kid."
"How?"
"Carefully."
Carefully.
Corrado stared at him, remembering his mother saying that word. Vito noticed his son's baffled expression and sat up, his feet again dropping back down to the floor. He leaned forward, his expression serious. "You learn about the Boston Tea Party in school yet?"
"No."
"The people didn't want their tea taxed by the British, so they dumped all the tea out in protest. Screw you and your tea, they said. The British lost control of their empire. And well, I don't plan to lose control of mine anytime soon, so I make sure I'm careful." A light laugh escaped Vito's lips as he relaxed again. "You know, when I collect my taxes."
Corrado remained confused, but he didn't ask his father anything more. Vito hated being questioned.
The man returned with their drinks—a glass of scotch and a cold can of Cactus Cooler, the price tag from a local shop still affixed to it—followed shortly thereafter with another visitor. This man, tall and lanky, wearing a casual gray suit, clutched a manila envelope. He handed it to Vito, who opened it and pulled out a thick stack of cash. Corrado stared at it, audibly gasping and choking on his drink when he noticed the amount of money in his father's hand.
Vito painstakingly counted it by hand, bill by bill, dollar by dollar, as the man stood in front of the desk. There had to be thousands of dollars. It took ten minutes of strained silence, the only noise in the room the sounds from the casino filtering around the cracks in the door, before Vito was satisfied. He returned most of the cash to the envelope, save for a few stray bills, and opened a drawer in the desk, tossing it in. He handed the leftover money back to the visitor.
Without a single word spoken, the man left.
"They say if you give a man an inch, he'll demand a foot," Vito said, "but I find if you steal a foot from a man, he's grateful to be given an inch."
Corrado still didn't understand—not really—but one thing was sure to him then. His father may not have been James Bond, but he was definitely someone special. He felt like he had witnessed Bruce Wayne put on his Batman suit for the first time.
And that left Corrado spellbound.
They spent all afternoon in the casino office, sipping drinks as a steady flow of men visited. Each brought with them stacks of money, very little spoken beyond the occasional small talk. Corrado made himself at home, scooting his chair closer to the desk... closer to his father.
He had no idea where the money had come from, or why they were giving it to Vito, but as stacks
"You thought wrong." Vito took off his hat and set it atop a coat rack beside the door. He strolled over, plopping down in the chair the man had vacated, barely giving him a chance to move out of the way. Vito motioned toward another chair off to the side. "Have a seat, kid."
Tentatively, Corrado sat on the edge of the chair, his eyes darting between his father and the other man.
"Uh, I'll give you some privacy," the man said.
"Yeah, you do that," Vito called, a dimpled smirk lighting up his face. "And bring me a drink, will you? Scotch, straight up. Top shelf. Don't bullshit me."
"Of course, sir."
"And something for my kid. A pop or whatnot." Vito's eyes darted to Corrado. "What's your favorite?"
"Cactus Cooler."
Vito stared at him blankly for a moment before turning to the man. "You heard the kid. Cactus Cooler."
"Uh, yes, sir. Right away."
The man walked out, muttering under his breath. The sounds from the casino muffled to a droning whisper once the door latched behind him. Vito kicked his feet up on the desk as he leaned back in the chair, his hands clasped together at the back of his head. "We'll see how long it takes him to dig up one of those coolers."
"Are you his boss?" Corrado asked hesitantly.
"Depends on what you mean by that."
"Well…" What did he mean? "Do you run this place?"
"I run this town , kid."
"How?"
"Carefully."
Carefully.
Corrado stared at him, remembering his mother saying that word. Vito noticed his son's baffled expression and sat up, his feet again dropping back down to the floor. He leaned forward, his expression serious. "You learn about the Boston Tea Party in school yet?"
"No."
"The people didn't want their tea taxed by the British, so they dumped all the tea out in protest. Screw you and your tea, they said. The British lost control of their empire. And well, I don't plan to lose control of mine anytime soon, so I make sure I'm careful." A light laugh escaped Vito's lips as he relaxed again. "You know, when I collect my taxes."
Corrado remained confused, but he didn't ask his father anything more. Vito hated being questioned.
The man returned with their drinks—a glass of scotch and a cold can of Cactus Cooler, the price tag from a local shop still affixed to it—followed shortly thereafter with another visitor. This man, tall and lanky, wearing a casual gray suit, clutched a manila envelope. He handed it to Vito, who opened it and pulled out a thick stack of cash. Corrado stared at it, audibly gasping and choking on his drink when he noticed the amount of money in his father's hand.
Vito painstakingly counted it by hand, bill by bill, dollar by dollar, as the man stood in front of the desk. There had to be thousands of dollars. It took ten minutes of strained silence, the only noise in the room the sounds from the casino filtering around the cracks in the door, before Vito was satisfied. He returned most of the cash to the envelope, save for a few stray bills, and opened a drawer in the desk, tossing it in. He handed the leftover money back to the visitor.
Without a single word spoken, the man left.
"They say if you give a man an inch, he'll demand a foot," Vito said, "but I find if you steal a foot from a man, he's grateful to be given an inch."
Corrado still didn't understand—not really—but one thing was sure to him then. His father may not have been James Bond, but he was definitely someone special. He felt like he had witnessed Bruce Wayne put on his Batman suit for the first time.
And that left Corrado spellbound.
They spent all afternoon in the casino office, sipping drinks as a steady flow of men visited. Each brought with them stacks of money, very little spoken beyond the occasional small talk. Corrado made himself at home, scooting his chair closer to the desk... closer to his father.
He had no idea where the money had come from, or why they were giving it to Vito, but as stacks
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