Reno and Sal Gabrini: Fire with Fire Read online

  RENO AND SAL GABRINI:

  FIRE WITH FIRE

  BY

  MALLORY MONROE

  Copyright©2018 Mallory Monroe

  All rights reserved. Any use of the materials contained in this book without the expressed written consent of the author and/or her affiliates, including scanning, uploading and downloading at file sharing and other sites, and distribution of this book by way of the Internet or any other means, is illegal and strictly prohibited.

  AUSTIN BROOK PUBLISHING

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  THE AUTHOR AND AUSTIN BROOK PUBLISHING.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious. Any similarities to anyone living or dead are completely accidental. The specific mention of known places or venues are not meant to be exact replicas of those places, but are purposely embellished or imagined for the story’s sake.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

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  PROLOGUE

  Levoca, Slovakia

  PRESENT DAY

  The security gate opened wide and the military-grade Jeep drove through. Three hours on the road and it still felt like they weren’t getting anywhere. Sal checked his watch again, but all the good that did. It was too dark to see shit because of the blackened windows, and the driver was driving so fast he couldn’t calculate the miles they’d already traveled.

  Reno fidgeted in his seat. “Got us in a fucking jungle,” he murmured as he heard the slashing of tree limbs brushing against the already scratched-up Jeep, and the splashing of water puddles as they rode a bumpy ride through hole after hole across the treacherous terrain. Then he looked at Sal. “If they harm one hair on their heads,” Reno said.

  A sad look appeared in Sal’s eyes, as if he didn’t even want to think about that. He was nodding agreement before Reno could finish his sentence. “He knows better than that.”

  “How would you know what he knows?” Reno asked. “Oh, yeah! How could I forget? You know all about him, don’t you? It’s your ass that got us in this fucking nightmare to begin with.”

  “It wasn’t my ass that got us into shit. Did I put that cap in Pump? Did I do that? I didn’t start this shit!”

  “I know that,” Reno responded. “I just need somebody to lash out at.” He gave a half-smile. “And since you’re available,” he added.

  Sal gave a half-smile too. And then both smiles were gone. Because reality hit. Because there was nothing about their situation worth smiling about.

  But when the Jeep came to what felt like an unexpected stop, both men sat up. And waited. Their heartbeats were beating so loud they glanced at each other. This was crazy. Why the fuck were they subjecting themselves to this craziness? It was Reno Gabrini they were fucking with, the owner of the largest hotel and casino on the Vegas Strip, the son of a mob boss, the nephew of Mick fucking Sinatra! It was Sal Luca Gabrini, one of the most feared mob bosses in the world, the nephew of Mick fucking Sinatra, and they were pulling this shit on him too? But the fucker had them by the balls. There was no denying it. There was no better way.

  Both back-passenger doors were flung open by armed men in military fatigues, casting such a bright light into the darkened jeep that Reno and Sal had to squint their eyes and place a hand over their eyebrows.

  “Chod’ von!” said one guard. When they didn’t respond, he said it again. “Chod’ von!” But neither Reno nor Sal spoke the language.

  “Get the fuck out!” said another guard in heavily-accented, fractured English, and Reno and Sal spoke that language very well.

  With both men carrying a briefcase; with both men dressed in well-worn suits that had traveled much too far to maintain any elegance, they got out.

  Guns were pointed at them from all directions. Before they could get their footing good, they were pushed in front and escorted down a long dirt path that led to what looked like a guard house that sat in front of a bigger building. Everywhere they looked were armed men. It was like a compound with one purpose: to protect the man inside. And when the door to that guard house was opened, and Reno and Sal were shoved inside, the man himself was just standing there. His back was to them: but they knew that fucker.

  When he turned around, he motioned for the guards that had shoved Reno and Sal inside to leave them alone. The guards glanced at each other as if they didn’t think it was a good idea, but they didn’t exactly have a say in the matter. They left, closing the door behind them.

  Bartholomew Garbo walked past Reno and Sal and over to the door. He locked it. Then he walked back past Reno and Sal and stood in front of them. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said.

  Reno nor Sal were interested in any small talk, and that included a greeting. Reno tossed his briefcase onto the table. Sal did so too.

  Bartholomew smiled. “You behave as if this is a hostage situation. I told you it is not.”

  “There’s your product,” Reno said. “Top grade like you wanted. As much as you’d ever need where that came from.”

  Bartholomew walked up to the table and opened Reno’s briefcase. Inside were uncut diamonds, all rich, all rough, more than he’d ever seen at one time. Worth tens of millions of dollars.

  “They’re the real deal,” Reno said. “We don’t fuck around. Have your experts check them out. Then give us what we came for.”

  Bartholomew grinned. “I know about Sal. I know all about Sal Luca. But I heard about you. I heard you were a very impatient man. Rich. Powerful. Accustomed to . . . How do you say it? Accustomed to getting, no, to having your way?” Then his smile left. “But you are in my world now. You do not run anything, or get or have any way, in my world.”

  “We made a deal,” Sal said. “We brought you what you wanted. And like Reno said, there’s boatloads where that shit came from. But you’ve got to hold up your end of the bargain too.”

  Bartholomew balled up his fist and slammed it on the table. “Don’t tell me what I have to hold up!” he angrily decried, his fat cheeks jowly and red. “How dare you?!”

  Sal wanted to lash back, but he knew what he was up against. He maintained his cool.

  But Reno gave Bartholomew the side eye. He thought he was crazy. He’d heard some pretty out-there stories. Now he knew he was.

  Because, as easily as Bartholomew’s temper ro
se, his smile returned. “Good old Salvatore Luciano,” he said. “Sal Luca. We met a few times. Years ago. They told me then that you were this mobster with the big heart, but yet feared by so many men this world over. An odd combination, I think. Love and fear. But because of that dichotomy; because of that . . . how do you say? Because of that contradiction, they call you Sal the Fair in the underworld. But you know what I call you?” The smile left again. “I call you Sal the Fairy.”

  Sal angrily made a move to go after Bartholomew, fuck the circumstances, but Reno, using every muscle in his muscular body, held him back. “He’s baiting you, Sal. That’s all he’s doing. He’s baiting your ass!”

  Sal kept pushing against Reno. He was muscular as hell too, and wanted to break every bone in Bartholomew’s fat-ass body. But deep down he knew Reno spoke the truth. That place was a fucking military installation. Could only get to it by train and then by Jeep. What was he going to do to that asshole with all of those guards and firepower everywhere, in the middle of nowhere? He regained his senses and gave it up, and angrily untangled himself from Reno’s grasp.

  Bartholomew smiled. “Sal the Fairy,” he said again. “Always being led by the nose by his bombastic cousin Reno. Or if not Reno, by his big brother Tommy. Dapper Tom they call him, right? Dapper Tom! You let a fucker they call Dapper tell you what to do? But you do it. You let them lead you around like some punk when you could kill both of those assholes with your bare hands! But you don’t. You remain solicitous to them. You allow them to have rule over you as if it’s their birthright. And that, my friend, baffles me.”

  Sal frowned. “Fuck you!” he said angrily. “You think I give a fuck about you being baffled? Cut all the lecturing and let’s get this shit over with!”

  Bartholomew laughed and clapped his hands. “Now we’re talking. Now I have before me the bulldog I know and love!”

  But then, as Reno expected would happen with a crazy fuck like him, Bartholomew’s smile left again. And he was serious again. “I must admit a problem, however,” he said.

  Both Sal and Reno stared at him. Now what, they wondered.

  “I must admit,” said Bartholomew, “that you have come all this way, to my adopted country, under false pretenses.”

  Sal’s heart dropped. “Spit it out,” he said.

  Bartholomew pulled out a cell phone. Sal and Reno stared at him as he made a phone call. When a person on the other line picked up, he spoke. “Start it now,” he said, and ended the call.

  “Start what now?” Sal asked him.

  “The timer,” said Bartholomew. “If you do not find what you came all this way for in twenty hours from this very hour, it’s over. Completely. Kompletne.”

  Sal looked at Reno. Both of them felt as if their very souls were on fire.

  “Why?” Sal asked.

  “Why?” asked Bartholomew. “You ask me such a question?”

  “Why are you doing this? We don’t even know you like that. Why are you doing this to us?”

  Bartholomew nodded. “That’s your pattern, is it not? To not know things? You killed him. That’s why!”

  “We killed who?” Reno asked.

  “My son! Miklos Garbo. But he called himself Michael Bramm in America. Michael Bramm. He worked for a mobster there, and you and Sal Luca killed them all in a shootout. My son was one of those men you killed.”

  “Who did he work for?” Reno asked.

  “What difference does that make!” Bartholomew yelled. “He worked for some Italian. How should I know his name? But you killed my son. That’s why I am doing this!”

  Reno and Sal looked at each other. They knew it was possible. A shootout with a mobster and his capos? Hell yeah it was possible. They’d been there dozens of times! But how were they to know this man’s son was one of those killed? They couldn’t possibly know his name, nor most of the names of the men killed. It didn’t work like that in shootouts.

  But Reno and Sal also knew that the hundreds, maybe even thousands of men killed in those shootouts had loved ones who knew their names. That was why this shit was never going to end. That was why once mob, always mob. That was why there was always going to be people hunting them down like dogs in the street and gunning for them, and almost all of those people were going to be strangers to Reno and Sal. There were always going to be enemies out there, archenemies, they didn’t even know they had.

  But before they could attempt to explain their position to this man who apparently was still a grieving father, Bartholomew pulled out a gun.

  Sal and Reno backed up quickly as they looked at that gun. And then they looked at Bartholomew. “What’s that supposed to prove?” Reno asked him. “You got our asses out here. You got what you want. What you need that for?”

  “You thought you were coming to give to me what I ask for, and I give to you. Simple. Clean. Easy. But that is not the case. No, that is not the case at all, I’m afraid. For you are here, not to give, nor to get from me.” He smiled. “You are here to murder me.”

  Reno and Sal stared at the man in front of them. They knew he was eccentric. Who else would live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by that kind of crazy firepower constantly, in some shit country on nobody’s tourism list ever, the way he did? But to make a statement like the one he’d just made was outrageous even for him!

  “We’re here to murder you?” Reno frowned. “What are you talking?”

  “I had to think,” Bartholomew responded. “What would be the best way to serve up my revenge, I asked myself. How could I honor my son in the way he deserves? You shot him down with so many other men that it was as if he was a toy soldier to you. It was as if he was nothing. A nobody. How do I prove to you that he was everything to me?”

  There was a pause. Then the Bartholomew continued. “Should I kill you, I asked myself? Or kill your loved ones, perhaps, the way you killed mine? Or, and here’s the genius in me: should I let you kill me, since my life died with my son, and then force you to try to get off of this property alive, which I’m reasonably certain you won’t. But, if by some twist of fate you actually get out of this situation, then you still will be burdened with trying to figure out where I have them. That, my foes, will be beautiful. Because they will die a horrific death in twenty short hours because you will never figure it out!”

  He smiled again. “Now that would be epic, would it not? That would be great revenge if you cannot pull it off. Admittedly, if you do pull it off, that would be an extraordinary feat. Hats off to you! But my money says no. There is no way. I know this territory like you know yours. But who knows? Maybe I don’t know it like that. Maybe it’s too close to me.” Then he laughed.

  And then, without further hesitation, Bartholomew, laughing uproariously, placed that gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

  “Mother fuck!” Sal yelled wildly as he and Reno jerked their bodies backwards as if they were protecting their clothes and shoes from the sudden outpour of blood, when it was the shock that jerked them back. But the blood did flow, and it splattered all over that room as Bartholomew fell.

  His men outside of the locked door, after hearing the gunshot, immediately began ramming their bodies against the door, doing all they could to force it open.

  Reno ran over to Bartholomew’s dead body and grabbed the gun. But one gun against how many gunmen outside? Reno and Sal knew they didn’t stand a chance that way! Both men also knew they didn’t stand a chance in that tiny room.

  As Bartholomew’s men tried to knock down that locked door, Reno and Sal grabbed their briefcases and ran to the window in the back of the room. They didn’t have time to open it, because the door to the room was busted open as soon as they made it to the window. So they jumped through it. Both men. With glass shattering as they jumped, and with bullets whizzing by them as they landed on solid ground, they didn’t look back.

  They ran.

  They ran for their lives.

  CHAPTER ONE

  24 HOURS EARLIER

  “Re
member who we’re dealing with.”

  Five squad cars, plus three unmarked cars, lined the empty parking lot. All fifteen officers were out of the cars and gathered around their sergeant.

  “Reno Gabrini owns that whole block,” the sergeant continued, “and he comes across the way he wants to come across. He’s just your regular business owner, let him tell it. He couldn’t hurt a fly. A regular boy scout. But that’s a bunch of bullshit. Ain’t nothing regular about that asshole, and every one of you better understand that!”

  The men and the one woman in the group, all wearing bulletproof vests and armed to the T, stared at their sergeant. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, but they were listening intensely. Being asked to join in on the arrest was honor enough. The chance to take down a Gabrini? Damn right they were interested! They weren’t blowing this.

  “Maybe it’s true,” the sergeant continued. “Maybe Gabrini couldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe he is a boy scout. It’s been said he’s a very charming man. But just because he charms you while he kills you don’t mean a damn thing because he’s still going to kill you. So don’t go in that place thinking this will be a slam dunk, no danger, you got this. You go into that place as if John Gotti up in that motherfucker!”

  Some of the younger cops didn’t’ know who John Gotti was. The others found the reference amusing. If Gabrini was that bad, they figured, he would have been locked up already. The sergeant was just speaking in that hyperbolic way he was known for.

  But he was also known for being over-prepared for every operation. This time, they all knew, was not going to be an exception.

  “Reno Gabrini is an OG,” the sergeant continued, “and don’t any of you forget that. He’s a gangster from way back. He’s got mob up and down his family tree. His old man was Paulo Gabrini, and you know what kind of sick fuck he was. His uncle was Benny Gabrini, who used to run the Seattle police department and nearly ran it in the ground with his corruption and mob ties. They’re still recovering from that shit he pulled. His cousin Sal Gabrini is major mob, although he tries to play that just another regular businessman crap to the hilt too. But he’s a don if ever there was one. They might not have been able to catch him yet, but his ass is as mob as mob can get. And his uncle is the legendary Mick Sinatra. Need I say more? It doesn’t get any more vicious than Mick the Tick. I know men on task forces all across this country still trying to figure that crazy motherfucker out!”