Cesare groaned as he rolled over on the mattress that was laid out on the bare floor for him. Somehow this wasn't what he had imagined when he came out west. The "Higher Ups" in Las Vegas had called for all the made guys to hit the mattresses and that meant trouble was on the way. Cesare's brother, Dub, had arranged for him to have a spot in one of the safe houses with some of the crew soldiers. Since Cesare was still just an associate to the crew, there wasn't much danger of getting into any trouble, but he still appreciated the thought. Apparently some goomba named Tyler Durden had rounded up a bunch of characters and decided to wage war on organizations like his all across the country. Mobsters everywhere were fighting a common enemy.

Cesare slid his 1911 into his waistband and threw on his jacket. He had never really felt comfortable carrying a piece. For him Las Vegas was about easy money and nightly romance, all the violence was really taking the fun out of things. Careful not to wake any of the other guys up, Cesare splashed some water on his face in the side room. Tip-toeing over the snoring men, he made his way out the door and onto the street.

A few blocks walked and he was back on the Strip, his personal playground. Business had been slow with the family and the taxi racket Cesare was looking after. No one was traveling to the casinos with all the heat right now. Instead, Cesare was going to the home of one of his bookies. He had been kicking around the idea of getting into sports betting and Las Vegas had offered the perfect opportunity. It was also how he planned to become a true Earner for the SPOF crew he had hooked up with. He liked the idea of running horses somewhere. One of his dreams was to make enough money to open up a stable of his own and breed. He had an equestrian heart and liked fast horses.

A few steps from the door of the bookie's house a street or two over from the Strip, Cesare could already tell something was off. The street was eerily silent as if Cesare had just interrupted a conversation where he had been the subject. He felt like the eyes of the street were watching him approach. As he climbed the front steps he made the unsettling discovery that the door was open already...

Inside, the house was ransacked. Sofas and tables were overturned, betting slips and books were strewn across the floor, and a small fire had been started in a waste basket in the corner. Cesare slowly slid his gun from his waistband, but was stopped cold by the appearance of a figure entering the room from a side hall. A woman no less. She was obviously as startled as he was and immediately raised the pistol in her hand and pointed it dead at Cesare still standing on the threshold.

"You dumb guinea greasebags just can't leave well enough alone huh?" the woman hissed vehemently.

"Listen," Cesare began, hands still stuck behind his back palming the handle of his Colt, "I don't know who you think I am...but I think you've got the wro-"

"Shut up!" the woman shouted, "I know exactly who you are. We came here cause one of our boys was knocked over on a taxi ride to the Fremont. Seems the wise guys in Las Vegas only know about one guy running that game in town... one Cesare Torretta. Judging by the look on your face, I'm gonna bet that's you. Tyler will give me a button for sure when I bring him your balls."

Shit. Cesare thought to himself. He knew the man in the taxi had seemed different. Luckily he hadn't been a "made" guy in the real sense but he obviously had some connected friends. Now he was staring down the barrel of .22 caliber street revenge held ironically by probably the prettiest dame in Vegas. She was brown haired with long legs and Cesare thought she would fit the bill as the last thing he ever saw.

"What's your name doll?" Cesare asked, hoping to get her off her stride.

"My name doesn't matter asshole, you're won't remember anything in a couple seconds."

"Come on," Cesare persisted getting a better grip on his weapon, "a guy should know the name of the person who kills him."

A faint grin almost appeared on the woman's face. Cesare knew he wouldn't have a second chance...

"Rena Frost." The woman said, tightening her finger on the trigger.

Cesare suddenly dropped to his knees producing the pistol from his waistband. The room lit up like a lightning strike as the sound of two gunshots thundered through the air. Time slowed down. Cesare was acutely aware of his own breath and the sinewy tension of his arm as he raised the gun. Cesare was on the threshold, his knees on the carpeted mat by the door, smoking pistol in his hand and the fresh hole of the .22 bullet fired at him buried in the door frame where his neck had been. Across the room Rena staggered over one of the overturned couches clutching her stomach.

Enraged Cesare rocked to his feet.
BANG!
His Colt produced another thundering roar. Rena rolled over the back of the couch and onto the floor.

He was shouting now.
"YOU STUPID WHORE!"

BANG!
BANG!
BANG!

"You come HERE? To where I WORK? And try to shoot ME?!"

BANG!

"Fuck you!"

BANG!
*CLICK*
*CLICK*

Cesare looked down at his handiwork. What was once the beautiful Rena Frost living and breathing was a bloody mess laying in his bookie's front room. He backed up against the nearby wall to regain his senses. Blood pulsed through every part of his body, beating the death drum of what had just happened. He had almost been shot. And by a broad no less! He flexed his fingers around the grip of his pistol and stared at the scattered pages around the floor. Silence was echoing through the macabre scene. Moving over into the corner of the room he lightly tipped the burning waste basket onto the floor. Pages began to burn and spread across the floor.

Cesare walked out of the house and started down the road...

For some reason he kept hearing something in his head. Something his father had told him a long time ago...

"Fast women and slow horses will ruin your life."