Page 1 of Caesar DeLuca
1
CAESAR
There’s a line in the Bible that says every prudent man acts with knowledge, but a fool flaunts his folly.
I’m not religious beyond my Italian Catholic heritage, and I damn sure ain’t a saint by any stretch of the imagination. But I’ve always believed that line to be a fact of life. Wise men are measured and have foresight; fools don’t think at all, they act and then boast. They’re loud and obnoxious because they think it gives them the upper hand.
They’re fools that are always surprised when the tables turn.
As I sit among my inner circle and we raise our glasses for a toast, I’m reminded of that fact. The table has finally turned against Alfredo Carisi, my family’s most threatening rival in Atlantic City.
For almost two decades, his family moved in on my family’s territory. The DeLucas were once royalty in Atlantic City, dating all the way back to my grandfather Arnaldo’s ambitious undertakings. He branched off from the various empires the DeLucas had built in other parts of the country—and the world—so that he could establish dominance in New Jersey’s Las Vegas.
It worked. Grandpa Arnaldo opened up the successful casino known as the Crown. People flocked from all over the city and country just to walk the plush carpets and be dazzled by the sparkly slot machines.
But when Ermanno DeLuca, my grandfather’s brother and previous Don of the family, was murdered in cold blood by the Saldano family, everything changed. The DeLucas were pulled into a brutal war with the Saldanos and another family by the name of Bianchi. Our influence in some territories was damaged.
In Atlantic City, the Carisis took advantage. They moved back into our territory as the Crown struggled to keep momentum and my father, the DeLuca capo over the region, suffered a fatal heart attack at the age of fifty-two.
For years, it seemed nothing would ever destabilize the Carisis’ run. Alfredo Carisi rose to prominence around the same time I was coming up the ranks. He made no secret of how proud he was the Carisis had bested the DeLucas. He flaunted their win and hefty profits, thinking nobody would ever come for his spot.
He never met anybody like me—the long-game type, the wait, study, and observe type that lurks in the shadows and then takes over.
I raise the toast to the rest of the table, and we all sip on our alcoholic beverages. Everybody from my closest confidants like Rocky and Vasco to my newest business associates like Bacardi Silva and Sergio Malcone. The latter two are happy to conduct business with me instead of Alfredo because I’m decent enough to offer them a fair price.
Not only is Alfredo Carisi a fool, he’s a cheap fool who wants to stiff his allies.
I welcome them into the fold. I treat them to dinner at the nicest Italian restaurant in the city, Napoli. Later, they’ll be treated to the VIP game tables at the Crown.
“Free drinks all night, gentlemen,” I tell them as the alcohol flows and the waiters deliver large plates of eggplant parmigiana and every kind of pasta imaginable. Several men around the table nod their heads wearing satiated expressions. “This evening isn’t just my celebration—we all achieved this. We’ve turned the highest profits of any casino in the city’s history.”
“All we had to do was set up a few not-so-legal underground operations,” Bacardi hacks out with a drunken laugh. His diamond-encrusted teeth flash in the dining room’s lighting. He’s not in the mafia, but he is a gangster—a crime lord that has close connections with drug cartels.
He once was loyal to Alfredo… ’til I made him an offer too good to refuse.
The celebratory dinner flourishes. Everybody eats and drinks themselves full.
Everybody except for me.
I’m in good spirits, which for me means indulging in a drink or two, but my mind’s still hard at work. My overactive mind that I’m never able to shut down no matter what. I’m always thinking, analyzing, strategizing on what’s to come.
My father was a history buff. He admired no historical figure more than Julius Caesar. The moment Ma told him she was pregnant, he knew his son would be Caesar. He knew he would shape me to be the kind of tactician that he was, and that Julius Caesar was too.
From a young age, I’ve learned to be calculating. Composed.
I didn’t come out from under Alfredo Carisi by luck. It took years of strategy and hard work.
“You’re a genius, Caesar,” Rocky says, chinking his glass of brandy against mine. “You said you’d do it, and you did it.”
“Did you ever doubt I would?”
“After knowing you since we were kids on the blacktop, not for a second.”
Rocky claps a proud hand to my back as the two of us wander out of the noisy dining room. He’s correct when he says we’ve known each other a long time. We’ve both grown up in the lifestyle, his father and uncles working for my father. If there’s anybody who’s a part of my inner circle, it’s Rocky.
“Listen,” he says, “I know tonight’s all about celebrations, but I wanted to talk to you about what some of our guys on the street have heard. It has to do with Alfredo.”
“I’ve considered just about every move he might try to pull.”
