Blood in the Golden Palace

Chapter 1: AngeloA lot of factors went into what made a nightclub hot. Sometimes it was the location, other times it was the crowd. The whispers that high ticket celebs made their weekend mistakes behind certain lobby doors made for some of the best advertising out there. And in a city like Santa Notte, without making an impression, businesses rose and died with the changing of the seasons. There were only a few ways to make a name last. Either through miraculous reputation, dubious funding, or, as in the case of The Golden Palace, both. It also didn’t hurt that it was in prime real estate, the size of three moderate clubs squished together, and exquisitely beautiful. Smack dab in the middle of Downtown, the Palace was a night club that took up nearly an entire corner block. It had three stories, the front facade decked out with lit Roman archways, which were detailed with gold filigree. The front door sat at an angle, facing the corner of the street. From some of the taller skyscrapers that surrounded it, one could peer onto the roof to observe the massive, bottom-lit swimming pool, and the beautiful patrons playing in the water. No matter what day of the week, there was always music, always valets, and always a line. Once the patrons were through the front door, they’d be treated to a coat and bag check, and led down a carpeted hallway into the main dance hall. The hall itself stretched wide and far, with bars and tables at either end. In the middle of the back wall was a stage for live performances and DJ’s. Currently, a smoke machine operated from beneath the stage, with laser lights strobing to the beat of the house music. On the left hand side, a corner of the dance floor was cut short, with glass doors leading out to a patio and fire pit, outdoor bar and private smoking area. Across from the glass doors were stairs up to the second floor. It was a wide balcony, crowning the floor below, complete with a fourth bar to service guests in their private booths and tables. Beyond the bar was an “employees only” door, guarded by a nasty looking bouncer. Though it was difficult to make out with the main lights off, the walls of the Palace were decorated with intricate wood work and beautiful murals. It was a modern day temple that would make the likes of Bacchus blush. Currently, it was half past ten, which meant that the Palace had quite a few hours to go. Over at the left bar, a group of young ladies had gathered for shots, giddily discussing their night. They were like a flock of exotic birds, their sequined plumage glittering under the neon. One of them, a tiny blonde in a pink bodycon dress, reached over for her lemon drop, when her ankle rolled in that massive high platform, and she swayed to one side. Fortunately, the gentleman in the seat next to her managed to catch her just before she fell, keeping her upright. “Oh—!” The blonde laughed nervously and righted herself, turning to the handsome stranger. “Sorry about that!” He smiled. Even in the dark, it was easy to pick out board shoulders, a chiseled jaw, and a well-tailored suit jacket. He shifted, one arm on the bar. “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “You girls having a good time?” The blonde glanced at her friends, who grinned in approval. “Oh yeah,” she answered. “Absolutely. This is my first time getting in. It’s so exciting!” “Is that right?” the stranger prodded. Another one of the girls, a redhead this time, perked up. “We’ve been trying for months. But we got lucky!” “Yeah,” said another, “super lucky! We met the owner!” The stranger c****d a full eyebrow. “Really?” he said, smile widening. “That is a lucky break. Did he get you ladies in tonight?” They nodded. “How’d you meet him?” “We were standing outside in line,” said another. “And he comes up to us and introduces himself, and he gets us in! It was so crazy!” “For real! Like, I tried to get in on my birthday a week ago and didn’t even get close.” “Sounds like a real stand up guy.” The stranger sipped his cocktail and eyed the empty shot glasses on the bar. “By any chance, did the owner offer to pay for your drinks, too?” “He did,” said one of the girls. “Wait, how did you know?” The stranger finished off his drink and set the glass aside. “Lucky guess.” “Ah! There you girls are!” A new voice joined the conversation. A man stepped forward. A little on the shorter side, his hair was double its weight in gel, and his shirt remained permanently open above its third button. “How’s about we head upstairs to a VIP table? My treat.” “Do I get to come along?” The stranger’s voice made the short man balk, and he turned, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. The stranger’s smile never faded. He propped his chin in his hand, dark eyes twinkling. “It’s a real honor to meet you, Mr. Owner.” “A-Angelo—! Uh—! I was just uh—!” The short man laughed nervously, causing the ladies to glance at each other, confused. “H-hey, buddy! I was just um…it…I was—” “I’m assuming you’re still covering the tab here?” The stranger—Angelo—tapped his knuckle on the bar top, indicating the shot glasses. “That tab is going to include one hell of a tip for Lori, am I right?” “Y-yeah! Yeah, of course!” “Um…who’s this?” one of the girls finally asked. Their host tried waving off their suspicious looks, but it was no use. Angelo got off his seat and stood to his full height. He was on the lower end of six feet, and stood with an air about him that commanded the room. “Why don’t you go dance, girls? Enjoy yourselves. The owner here and I are old friends. We got some catching up to do.” Realizing that this was a dismissal and not a suggestion, the girls took one last look at their host before descending to the dance floor. “Okay, Angelo, before you say anything, I know, I’m sorry, I said I wouldn’t do this anymore—” “Ernie.” “I slipped up, I’m not proud of it, but you gotta admit those girls were—” “Ernie.” “Like when else do I ever get the chance to talk up those kinda girls if I’m not—” Before he could finish his sentence, Angelo held up a finger in front of Ernie’s face, killing his last excuse. “Ernie. Relax.” Angelo shook his head and waved the bartender over. “Hey Lori, close out Ernie’s tab, will ya? And come bring him a pen.” Lori the bartender, a small but fiery punk with spiked hair, put a hand on her hip. “Oh? Ernesto said you’d pick it up, Mr. DeRossi.” “I’m sure he did. A pen please.” Lori obliged, bringing them a bill and a pen. Angelo handed both to Ernie. “Remember,” he said, “big tip.” Ernie winced. “All right, all right, geeze.” Taking out his credit card, Ernie signed over his finances, and Lori went back to the till to close him out. Ernie rubbed his eyes. “I can’t help it, man. Girls don’t look twice at me unless I got something they want.” “You ever tried not fuckin’ lying, Ern?” “Oh come on, Angelo.” When Lori returned with the receipt, Ernie tucked his card back into his wallet and sat down with a heavy sigh. “It’s so easy for you. You don’t know what it’s like.” “Hm. Yeah, I guess I don’t.” Ernie scowled. “Nice.” “You said it, not me.” Angelo felt a buzz in his breast pocket. Ignoring Ernie’s wining for now, he pulled out his phone and checked his messages. “Pop wants me upstairs. Think you can behave yourself without a babysitter?” “f**k, quit bustin’ my balls, Jesus.” With that, Angelo excused himself from the bar and headed towards the staircase. He moved through the crowd easily. Some of the regulars recognized him with a wave, while female eyes occasionally followed his smooth stride in those well fitted slacks. He headed through the employees only door, the bouncer closing it behind him. Immediately following, the noise from the thumping club deafened significantly. Hands in his pockets, Angelo made his way down the hall, and up a second flight of stairs, which landed him in a completely new area. It looked more like a lavish hotel than the office of a night club. The music still thudded beneath their feet, but otherwise, it was fairly quiet upstairs. The third floor was a fraction of the size of the rest of the Palace. There was a private lounge, a poker table, yet another bar, and some luxury couches, all of which was surrounded by pieces of priceless art. While it wasn’t nearly as packed as the club below them, it was plenty busy. Men in suits, ranging from basic business to flashy and colorful, sat in various areas of the lobby, smoking cigars and enjoying drinks. A beautiful young dealer handled the private poker table, the players with stacks of cash next to their chips. The waitstaff here, in fact, were all exceptionally pretty. Angelo’s father had made sure that they were worth being seen on the penthouse floor. Soft jazz played through the overhead speakers, inducing a calm, collected atmosphere. “Angelo. Over here.” Angelo turned to one of the few women in the room who wasn’t working. She was in her late twenties, with tight black curls, thick makeup, and jewelry worth a modest car loan. She casually smoked a cigarette, one knee over the other beneath her black cocktail dress. “Pops is already inside,” she said, stubbing out her smoke. “What’s he want?” Angelo asked. “Beats me,” she said. “Didn’t seem ready to flip a b***h if that’s what you’re asking.” “Yeah, well.” Angelo ran his hand through his inky hair. “When’s the last time you’ve seen Pops want to see me for something good, huh?” “First time for everything.” The doors to a far room opened, and a man stepped into sight. He was well into his sixties, with salt and pepper hair combed back smartly. His suit was an older style, but finely made and well ironed. Despite the crow’s feet around his narrow eyes, Don Luciano DeRossi had not weathered with age. If anything, it only made his features harder. “Angelo. Come.” “You want me too, Pop?” the woman asked. But Luciano waved the question aside. “No, Nicoletta, you stay. This is your brother’s business.” Nicoletta flashed Angelo a sour smile and turned back to the bartender, signaling for a refill of her empty glass. “Of course it is,” she sighed. With an apologetic smile, Angelo left his sister’s side and followed Luciano into the room. Inside had the makings of a standard, high-end office. Wide windows peered down into the swimming pool, and bookshelves were lined with everything from law to philosophy, though many were gathering dust. In the center of the room was a wide, mahogany desk, smartly organized with a matching, cushy chair. And to the right, perpendicular to Luciano’s desk, was a second. On it was an open notebook, a money counter, and almost five million dollars in cash, all in hundred dollar bills. Angelo barely passed his father’s counter a glance; the man was busy keeping tabs on each stack going through the counting machine. Every time his father set up shop at the Palace for the night, someone was always at the counting desk. “Sit,” Luciano instructed. Angelo did so, and pulled out a fresh cigarette. After lighting it, he handed it off to his father, who took it without a word. “Has Gio called you yet?” “No,” said Angelo, taking out a cigarette of his own. “Why would Gio call me, Pop?” He lit it and leaned back in his chair, taking a drag. “Something wrong with operation? Some bad product, what?” Luciano hesitated. Turning to his counting man, he snapped. The man looked up immediately. Luciano waved him away, and with no hesitation, the man shut off the machine and left the room. Angelo sat back up, cigarette between his knuckles. His brows drew in tightly. “Pop…?” “There’s a rat,” Luciano said. Angelo’s eyes widened. “A rat,” he clarified. “You serious?” Luciano nodded. “Not sure who, but one of our more secure facilities uptown was raided. More than that, Tony on 45th Street tells me he thinks he is being followed.”