But those investors don't know my share of the initial capital came from dirty money. Came from the Genova family—or what’s left of them. I'm the only one left standing, but I don't claim that name. Now I go by Ace Royalle. Nothing less, nothing more.
“We have a problem,” I say. “Grotto's back. He's been gone, what? Six weeks, eight weeks tops?”
“Grotto?” Mark asks, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What's he want?”
“He showed up at Spades last night, blazing. Says he has shit on me and my family.”
Mark leans in, eyes narrowed. “What sort of shit?”
“I have no fucking clue. I made a clean break, Mark, I swear it. I changed my name and never looked back. Haven't set foot in New York for five years. But Grotto knows something. I can gain thirty pounds of muscle but that isn't gonna fix my fucking face. He knows who I am.”
“So what, Ace? Even if he does know, the money has been redistributed a hundred times over. Spades is a clean establishment, unless there’s something you're doing there you aren't telling me about?”
“Fuck no, I tell you everything.”
“Then what's this about?” Mark asks. “Why is he coming after you?”
“He says he's gonna get that property off the strip. The property on the South end, you know the one I’ve had my eye on forever? Spades is legit, sure, but I want another piece of real estate, and you know as well as I do that property around here doesn't come around every year. I've already talked to the conglomerates at all the big hotels. They aren't bidding.”
“Why not?” Mark asks.
“They don't think it's a good investment. It's in old town Vegas. They want property on the strip, or nothing at all.”
“But you think this is a viable venture?” Mark asks. “For another hotel?”
“Not a hotel,” I say.
“Then what?”
“I don't want to talk about my next business. I want to talk about how we can get Grotto off my fucking nut sack.”
Mark rubs his jaw, thinking. “Look, I don't know what I can do. If you want to move forward with this property, I guess I should go out there and look at it, see what sort of investors you'll need in order to purchase it. I don't think our other guys will want back in until there’s more profit on the table with the Spades.”
“Fine, but not today,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
I shrug, not wanting to talk money right now—even though I know that is exactly what I’m going to need. I came here to deal with Grotto. Not talk shop.
“That stuff can wait. Right now I need a plan to get Grotto the fuck out of this town before he tries to ruin me.”
“Ace, you're over your head. I feel it. All the media lately, and you were on the cover of Vegas Weekly. You're the person everyone is talking about right now. That attention is good for the Spades, but it doesn’t sound like it’s good for you. The last thing you need is an enemy who knows your past showing up, dragging you through the mud.”
“Fuck, I know.” My smile disappears. I know Mark has my back, but right now it sounds like his belief in me has its limits. “I don't want to get dirty. I just want this land. And Grotto knows it.”
“As your counsel, I think you need to drop this land deal. If Grotto really wants to come after you, it's going to make the Spades Royalle look bad. You can't have that right now. The hotel just got into the black.”
“I know you've stuck your neck out for me before, but with Grotto, this isn't business. This is getting fucking personal,” I tell him, seething.
“Personal or not, Grotto's not going anywhere. He's been in Vegas for as long as me. And whether you like it or not, he's not leaving anytime soon. The cops haven't got shit on him.”
“I'm not letting him push me in a corner.”
Mark snorts. “Nobody puts baby in a corner, is that right?”
“Fuck yeah, it is.” I stand, needing a fucking drink. Needing to fucking breathe.
“Look, Ace, don't get all pissed off.” Mark opens a drawer in his desk and shuffles around papers. He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. “Call Trenton. He's a PI, he'll help you out. If there's dirt to be found on Grotto, he'll find it.”
“Thanks, man.” I take the card and turn to leave. I pause in the doorway. “Hey, your lady doing better?”
“Yeah, Judy's doing okay. Out of the hospital and back home. That pneumonia really got to her. But she's hanging in there.”
I see him swallow, like he has a lump in his throat; this year has been a bitch for him. Judy is the fucking light of his goddamned life, and after three rounds of chemo she's finally on the mend. Except for this latest run in the hospital.