Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note
Author's note: This is a repost of a fic. that I took down because at the time, I felt it wasn't good enough. Then I re-read this about a week or so ago, and decided that it wasn't so terrible after all (not the best, but not terrible) and so I took it out of the trash where I had dumped it. But the thing that really motivated me to repost it were all the lovely reviews/comments by the author Carottal regarding my 2 fic.s "Playing Hookey" and "Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy." You see, this was the fic. that was supposed to come directly after those, and it was the one that was supposed to bring Mello up to canon in the series (getting in with mob boss Rod Ross). The circle felt incomplete without this one, and if nothing else, I would like for Carottal to see what I had in mind next for our dear Mello and Matt.:)
So, for my complete pre-Death Note arc, please read: "Playing Hookey," then "Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy," then "Fear and Loathing and Chocolate" (which is the actual prologue to this fic.), then "Revenge, Roulette Wheels, and Sin City." Or, don't read any of them. Or just read this one. Whatever pleases you best...
P.S. And if you've already read and reviewed this one once, don't feel obligated to do so again.:)
Chapter 1: Sin City
"Oh, there's blackjack and poker and the roulette wheel,
A fortune won and lost on every deal
All you need's a strong heart and nerves of steel
Viva Las Vegas, Viva Las Vegas..."
- from "Viva Las Vegas by Elvis Presley
Mello
The midnight sky outside their window shimmered with a thousand winking fairy lights. Neon colors blazed across the horizon, bold and electric. Even as high up as their top floor room, sounds from the streets below echoed and penetrated in a sonorous background symphony of late-night noise. Las Vegas was truly the city that never sleeps...
Mello leaned against a row of floor-to-ceiling to windows, gazing out at the landscape below. They were smack-dab in the middle of the Strip, in the middle of all the 'action.' Surrounded by a riotous mish-mosh of casinos and resorts and convention houses and churches. Lots of churches. In fact, Mello remembered reading somewhere that Las Vegas had more churches per capita than any other city in the U.S. Real convenient that, finding your sin and redemption all in one place. But could it redeem him?
"Oh fuck, I died."
Mello turned to see Matt sitting in the middle of their king-sized bed, hand-held game in hand, eyes trained on the screen. Some things never change, he thought. Matt looked like an overgrown kid in his striped T-shirt and bare feet, hair sticking up at wild angles in a permanent case of bed-head. A rush of warm feeling, which any romantic would call love, burrowed its way in and curled into Mello's heart. A heart which he had long since trained himself not to listen to-not while he was on this wretched quest to find Kira, not while he wasn't free...
The shrill, electronic cry of a cell phone bleated from a nearby sideboard.
Mello whisked it up and tucked it against his ear. The conversation on his end consisted of four words: "Yes," and "I'll be there." He then clicked the phone shut and flung it back onto the sideboard where it clattered and slid. Mello turned to find Matt watching him suspiciously. "What was that about?" he asked.
"I've just bought us into a high stakes game at one of the casinos."
Mello decided then and there that Matt didn't really need to know just how high the stakes were.
"Really?" said Matt. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Mello could see the questions forming in them, questions which he would rather avoid answering.
"Really," said Mello, stalking purposefully over to the bed. He then reached across and nicked the game out of Matt's hands and flung it over his shoulder. It banged against the floor somewhere behind him. Mello crawled onto the bed and claimed Matt's lips with his own, his hands winding their way into his adorably messy hair, making it into an even bigger mess. His erotic strategy had two functions: distract Matt from asking him any further questions, and-
-distract himself from the anxiety, the alien feeling of fear, that was beginning to slide across his nerves like sheets of moving ice...
"Mello?"
"Shhhhh..."
Mello pushed Matt back against the too-fluffy pillows, roughly pulling his t-shirt over his head in the process. He then began his assault in earnest, attacking the other boy's neck with his lips and teeth, his black painted, chipped nails scorching a trail down his sides. Matt's heavy contented sigh vibrated against the side of his head as he worked. Mello felt languid, warm arms sliding around him, encapsulating him, pulling him in close. Like his own personal safety net. Again, he felt that rush of warm feeling as he licked his way along the other boy's jaw line, lovingly making his way back to his lips. Another deep, melding soul kiss, and he had Matt murmuring, sighing his name into his own mouth. Mello pulled back then, and gazed into the other boy's eyes. What he saw there was love, but more: there were accusations, a searing litany of unspoken questions. Ah, he knows, he thought. Mello lowered his head in an attempt to flee those burning questions. He began to delicately, deliberately kiss his way down Matt's unblemished, ivory torso, his lips touching his flesh with the hesitancy, the near-nothingness of moth's wings. Then suddenly, he felt Matt's hands clamping around his arms, stopping him, stalling his progress. Then a quiet voice from above him said:
"Mello, tell me what's wrong."
Hell, he'd been caught.
Mello knew that his strategy had been a complete failure. He'd been too soft, too delicate in his ministrations-not his usual M.O. at all-and that had only served to tip Matt off even more. Damn it! Mello sighed and buried his face into Matt's stomach. "Don't go out with me tonight," he murmured against the tender flesh.
"What?"
"To the casino. Don't go. Stay here." Mello's face remained buried as he spoke.
"No. No." Matt shook him. "Mello, look at me."
Mello reluctantly raised his head. Matt's gaze was full of despair. "What's going on?"
"It's going to be dangerous. The...the person I'm playing against-"
"Another mob boss?"
Mello nodded his head in confirmation. He didn't want to say any more.
"You can handle it, though-right? Right? God, why won't you let me help you-"
"-you can't help with this one." He all but cut Matt off with this statement.
"But why?" Despair again in those beautiful emerald eyes...
Mello simply allowed the "why" to hang, unanswered-allowed it to hover in the air with the heaviness of a brick. With a promise of blood and broken bones.
Blood and broken bones.
Why, indeed...
Matt
It was their biggest fight since their reunion back in the city of New Orleans.
And Matt was seething. Seething and pacing and yelling and banging on the bathroom door. The bathroom door, which Mello was currently ensconced behind. Like a bratty child, he'd locked Matt out. His withdrawal, his lack of response, was making Matt insane.
"Goddam it, Mello! Don't do this!"
"Just stay out of it, Matt." There was an air of defeat in his voice.
Matt didn't like Mello's tone at all. Something was wrong. Really wrong. He knew it before, when they were making out on the bed. Knew it because Mello's actions had been off-he'd been different in the way he'd been handling him. He had been too romantic, too wistful, too...
...desperate.
"Why won't you fucking talk to me?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Asshole!" And Matt slammed the flat of his palm against the bathroom door. His actions were met with silence. He turned and walked away in frustration, plopped down on the edge of the bed. He glared at the cream carpet on the floor. Why wouldn't Mello let him help him?
The bathroom door creaked open. Matt's head snapped up, a ready glare waiting in his eyes. A glare which softened at Mello's appearance. He was dressed to the proverbial nines in tight black leather: pants and a sleeveless zippered vest-the sharp, standing collar of which was practically digging into his neck. His red and black rosary glinted like a holy beacon against a too-shiny, too sinful backdrop. He looked ready to go hustling out on the Strip. Or ready to go into battle. And Matt knew which one it would be.
"Are we going to talk about this?" he finally asked.
"No."
Matt winced. "I'm going with you," he said, a steely resolve in his voice. "I meant it, you know. When I said that I would always have your back..."
"I know."
"But...you're afraid?"
No answer.
Matt felt a sick sense of foreboding overtake him. He had never seen Mello afraid before, had never seen him in such a serious, anxious light. No, the boy he knew was completely and utterly fearless. Always was, always had been. His confidence, his swagger overwhelmed everyone-always-including Matt. He relied on it, lived on it. Mello had never been the hesitant, thoughtful type-he acted, all consequences be damned. And so far, he had managed to come out mostly unscathed. So why was this time so different?
He watched as Mello grabbed the car keys from the bedside table. "C'mon, we're going," was all he said.
"Unarmed?"
Mello paused by the door. "We won't make it through the casino's metal detectors that way."
Matt hesitated, but then he got up and followed Mello to the door.
And all the while, that sense of foreboding grew-like a choking, creeping vine around the bounds of his doubting heart.
Mello
The drive to the casino was punctuated by a desolate, awkward silence. Mello turned up the radio in an attempt to cover it. He wanted noise; he needed noise. He needed distraction. He needed release from the fear; he needed to be in top fighting form. He knew what he had to do. He knew it, only...
...he was afraid to go through with it.
The radio crackled and hissed out music. He could feel Matt's mirroring anxiety, felt it sitting like an unspoken accusation, but Matt's anxiety was the result of a simple fear of the unknown. Whereas Mello's fear was the result of knowing far, far too much. He knew exactly what he was walking into. He was about to walk across a lake of fire, and there was no guarantee that he wasn't going to get scorched, get burned.
It's a decision that was made between you and me
And the division that was lately this odyssey,
Believe me
I'm bad enough and I guess that we're doing fine
But I'm scared of something more that is on the line
Well, I got five on the five
And I've been taking time
Doing it all along
If we keep it alive
I'll ignore all the signs
And keep driving home
Right back to you...
Right back to you...
Mello pulled the car directly in front of a great, slanting Frank Lloyd Wright-esque fountain, right in front of the casino's valet station. The approaching valet raised an eyebrow at the bumper that was lashed into place with a frayed piece of old rope, but said nothing as Mello handed over the keys, along with a ridiculous amount of bills. Matt followed along silently. Normally, his was a comforting presence-a wanted, needed presence. But not here, not now. Not before the gates of hell...
Pale Blue neon spelled out the words "The Terrace," above the broad front entrance. Design-wise, The Terrace was one of the lesser-offensive looking casinos on the Strip. The building's lines were clean and modern, and there wasn't an over abundance of those tacky palm trees. Mello wasn't surprised by this. Because he knew the owner's method of design-all bland and sleek and urban chic. Cold and rigid and decidedly angular...
...like those expensive cases for electronic gadgets that he designs in his regular, legitimate job, thought Mello. And the fact that a freakin' gangster would bother to maintain a legitimate day-time job was just another oddity in an unusually long check-list of various oddities.
"So...who are we here to see?" asked Matt, "or am I not privy to that information?" The two of them forced their way forward, weaving their way through a sea of slot machines and craps tables and poker stations and bars. The casino was filled with people, but not overly so-it was a weeknight, after all. And there were far more glittery peacocks to be found on the Strip, and the Terrace didn't attract all that much attention. Just the way its owner preferred it.
"Roland Ross," stated Mello flatly.
Matt flicked a glance at Mello and waited. Mello could feel his look, could feel it weighing on him, pressing on him like the lever of a slot machine. Mello sighed, decided how much information to give up, and said:
"Roland Ross is the little brother of Rod Ross, the L.A. crime boss. Getting to Rod is my main objective. But..."
"...in order to get to Rod, you have to go through Roland first," finished Matt. Mello nodded. Mello was trying to get to L.A., but, like some sinister, underworld sentinel, Roland was barring the gate to the West...
Or, to put it another way, he was the ferryman you paid in order to cross the river Styx...
Or, to put it still another way, if they were standing on a chess board, then Rod would be the lumbering, slow-moving king, and Roland the versatile queen, capable of any and all movements...
Mello didn't like any of those analogies.
"There..." said Mello, and he came to a sudden stop, and Matt halted with him. Matt followed his gaze to a roulette wheel platform, back-lit with an eerie, sickly blue light, its station currently occupied by four people.
Mello started forward again.
"Okay, here we go..."
Matt
Matt's eyes raked across the four figures at the roulette wheel through the safety of his yellow-tinted glasses. On the far left sat a woman with retina-searing purple hair cut into a severe french bob, dressed in a black cocktail dress and knee high boots. To her right sat what looked to be a college kid, one of those urban hipster-types in horn-rimmed, Buddy Holly glasses, hair styled into a dark pompadour, wearing a trendy green cardigan and matching Converse all-stars. To his left was an intimidating giant of a man, with a shaved bald head and red goat-tee, decked out in a deep blue suit with a loud plaid tie. And to the far right sat another young man with a long pony-tail and clear round-framed glasses, dressed in a silk-screened T-shirt and jeans, currently tapping away on a blackberry he held in his long-fingered hands.
If this was what constituted a mafia entourage, then this had to be geekiest entourage that Matt had ever seen...
"So...which one is Ross? The big dude with the tie?" Matt had seen pictures of Rod, back when he'd been obsessed with tracking Mello. Back when he'd been trying to figure out his trajectory, his most likely path of destruction.
Mello smiled wryly and leaned in to whisper: "No, but that's the mistake everyone makes-I made that mistake myself, two years ago in London." Matt's eyes widened a little at this admission. "Ross is the little one in the horn-rimmed glasses."
"You're joking."
"No," and suddenly Mello stopped him with a hand on his arm. His look was intense as his eyes bore into Matt's. Like bright, neon turquoise. "You should turn back."
"I'm not going to leave you here with these people," insisted Matt. And he felt his own courage, his own determination, begin to rise-an answering counterpoint to Mello's own obvious fear and hesitation. He felt himself striving to be strong, in order to level out the other's emotional weakness. He was doing it without even realizing it.
Partners in crime for life...
Mello sighed hopelessly. "Okay, then...promise me two things before we go up to meet them?"
"What?"
Mello's tone was unnervingly serious as he spoke. "No matter what Ross says, no matter what comes out of his mouth, DO NOT react to it."
Matt was startled a bit, but answered, "Okay."
"And second: trust that I know what I'm doing here. Can you do that?"
"I'll always trust you," Matt replied without hesitation.
"You're certain of that?"
"Absolutely," said Matt with perfect conviction. And Mello nodded at this, though his expression was doubtful. Matt then watched him as he turned and walked up to roulette wheel platform, and Matt hurried to dutifully-and protectively-follow him.
The noise coming from the platform was deafening-the roulette table seemed to have stereo speakers set in the sides of it, and it was currently thumping out some heavy 70's rock, like something from one of those cop films with all the bell bottoms and afros and porn 'staches. The four people at the table were yelling at one another over the electric guitars and sinuous, grinding bass beats:
When you need a friend
Through thick and thin
Don't look to those above you
When you're down and out
Well, there ain't no doubt
Nobody wants you..
But you're rock candy, baby
Hard, sweet, and sticky
Well, you're rock candy baby
So hard, sweet, and sticky
When you're seventeen
Reaching for your dreams
Don't let no one reach them for you
Pull up you pants
Stretch out, take a chance
If it can be done, then you can do it
'Cause you're rock candy baby
Hard, sweet, and sticky
You're rock candy baby
So hard, sweet, and sticky...
The moment Mello stepped up to the table, Ross turned and yelled over the din: "Wheeler, turn that thing off!" And the kid with the pony-tail reached over to a nearby remote-without ever looking up from his blackberry-and switched off the speakers. Total silence. Somehow, it was worse than the music.
"So-you're finally here," said Ross in a soft-pitched, merry voice. His tone was light, affable even. As if they were all just friends, chatting and hanging out together. His eyes, however, told a different story: they roamed over Mello's approaching form with the scaly, cold-blooded eyes of a reptile, with a possessive, invasive, hungry scrutiny that made Matt's stomach do flip-flops. Matt's reaction was natural, instinctual. He felt nauseous. His gut knew he was in the presence of a sadistic, vicious predator-despite the camouflage of Ross's meek appearance and trendy clothes and friendly tone. Of that he was utterly certain. And Ross's undisguised, predatory stare also made him certain of something else:
This man meant Mello deep, personal harm...
A few years earlier...
Richard Ross was the leading Don of the west coast. He had two sons: Rod and Roland. Rod, the eldest-as expected-followed dutifully in his father's footsteps. He dropped out of high school and led heists and gang assaults and ran drugs with the best of his father's foot soldiers. He worked hard and managed to carve a place for himself within the criminal underworld, through sheer intimidation and brute force. Rod wasn't afraid to use the bargaining chips of his fists, nor did he hesitate to put a couple of slugs in a man's brain, if needed. It was all just business to him. Namely, his father's business, which he intended to one day claim as his own. And all through his mercurial rise in the ranks, his father remained proud of him-of all the detestable, horrid things he had achieved. So much so, that the Don awarded his eldest son with the city of L.A., to rule over and do with as he pleased.
But as for Richard's youngest son...
Roland was the complete opposite of Rod. Small and delicate, with an artist's sensibilities. Whereas Rod hadn't finished high school, Roland went all the way. He went to Savannah's College of Art and Design, and earned his degree there. A fact which caused the rest of the family to snicker and shake their heads behind his back. Rod especially. "It's an embarrassment," people would hear him say, "being stuck with such an artsy, pansy-ass kid brother." It was believed that Roland would never be able to contribute to the family business. He was simply not the type. And so Richard, the father, hung his head in shame, feeling nothing but a sad disappointment in his youngest son. It came as a relief to him when Roland declared his intentions to go off to Europe after college, in order to complete his Master's degree at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. Better to just have him out of the picture, his father thought. Better to save the family's reputation from any further embarassment.
So it came as a complete surprise when Roland, like the true prodigal son, returned home three years later, and proclaimed himself ready to join the family business. He had brought with him a loyal entourage of European miscreants: an oaf of a Scotsman named McKinnley, a London girl with strange (then blue) hair named Gretchen, and a Welsh techno nerd named Wheeler. Roland told his father that he intended to take the city of Las Vegas for his own. His father thought this was absurd. Vegas was the territory of Richard's long-time associate, Albert Weiss, and Weiss would burn in hell before he turned the command of Sin City over to some puny, young upstart!
And so the struggle began...
Roland Ross began conducting a war of attrition on Albert Weiss's heart and soul that secretly made all the other bosses in the near vicinity cringe with fear. His methods were brutal. Roland Ross had three tenets in life which he followed unerringly, the first being from a great philosopher who said, "Men may differ in their virtues, if any, but they are alike in their vices." This tenet formed the basis of most of his criminal transactions, which consisted mainly of bribes and sex and drugs. All the things that men desired. The second tenet came from the immortal question, "Is it better, as a leader, to be feared or to be loved?" Roland's answer was a mixture of both. He took Gretchen's two little sisters out of the brothel they'd been trapped in and put them through school, with full room and board. He made sure McKinnley's mother received the best treatment available for lymphoma when she grew sick. Wheeler had been talented, but penniless, living on the streets, until Roland took him in. Roland could be the charming savior when it suited him, and it won him the unswerving loyalty of his followers, in a way that he knew intimidation and fear could not. He was nothing, if not calculating. He wore several masks. He was the lackadaisical, happy-go-lucky university student when it suited him. He was also a design geek who created casings for gadgets for a world-wide electronics firm. He was also a generous and empathetic soul to those closest to him.
And he was a demon from hell to those who dared to cross or impede him in his progress...
Then, of course, there was Roland's third-and favorite-tenet: always strike for the heart.
And so that's how he approached his battle with Albert Weiss. Roland bought a run-down casino in the middle of Vegas called the Terrace and set up shop there. Like a spider in a web, he plotted. Nothing was off-limits; nothing was out-of-bounds to him. He began his first strike with Weiss's teenage daughter, Rachel. The poor girl had the misfortune to wind up drunk and incapacitated at a Vegas frat house, where she was raped by several masked assailants who took turns filming the whole sordid incident. The footage was then placed on the web for all to see. Roland then went after Albert's wife, Darla, whom, he found out, took demerol shots for crippling migraine headaches. Roland paid the doctor to up the amount of the dosages to lethal levels. This act led to Weiss finding his beloved wife, prone and over-dosed on the bathroom floor of their home, close to death. When Weiss finally found out that it was Roland behind all his misfortunes, the Vegas boss threatened retaliation over the phone: "I will kill your whole entire goddam family, you sick little son-of a-bitch."
And Roland had answered calmly: "Go ahead then, Albert. Nothing would please me more."
And the scary part was, he meant it.
To Roland, a man who loved nothing had no weaknesses to exploit. And Roland didn't give a shit about his family. What had they ever shown him-had ever given him-other than their open disappointment, their disdain? The truth was, Roland was a stone-cold sociopath who cared for nothing, and no one. His only joy in life, it seemed, came from inflicting intolerable pain-both mental and psychical-on others.
It took time-weeks-but little by little, bit by bit, Roland Ross was able to steadily chip away at everything that Albert Weiss loved and held dear, until the Vegas boss was forced to yield. The night came when Weiss showed up at the Terrace, broken and beaten, to beg for Ross's mercy. To beg for what remained of his family. Roland seemed to be pleased by this act of supplication. And feeling generous-or what to Roland passed for generosity-he gave Weiss a choice. He would spin the house's roulette wheel, and if the ball ended up on red, he would let Weiss go the easy way-by a large bottle of pills which he sat in front of him. But if the ball landed on black...well, then-he'd have to go the hard way.
And Roland didn't bother to explain what the "hard way" entailed.
So when the ball rolled and clinked and finally ended up on the black square, Weiss didn't even flinch. Roland merely shrugged and said, "Looks like tonight isn't your lucky night, Albert." And then:
"McKinnley, if you please..."
A sharp rap on the back of the skull, and Albert Weiss's whole world went black...
He awoke hours later, supine on a cold tile floor, a strange hissing sound coming from somewhere above his head. Snatches of conversation floated through his shaky, barely-held consciousness:
"...macchiato is an Italian word meaning 'stained' or 'marked.' See how, when you pour the espresso through the top, it makes a lovely gold film. Ah-ah! Don't stir it-you'll ruin the layers."
"You make the best drinks, boss."
"Of course I do, Wheeler. I take the art of espresso making seriously, as I do all the arts. And speaking of which, it seems my current masterpiece has finally decided to wake up."
Albert Weiss raised his head, his movements as weak as those of a new born calf. He tried to focus on the voice before him-which was obviously Ross's-but his vision kept blurring in and out, like a camera lens that refused to focus. After a few moments, Weiss realized he was lying on the white, spotless tiles of a large, stainless steel kitchen. And Ross, in a red designer cardigan and matching sneakers, stood behind a wooden island that served as the platform for a giant, gleaming espresso machine. The sound Weiss had been hearing was the irregular hiss of the steam wand, which Ross was currently cleaning with a blue dishcloth.
"Mornin' Albert. Have a nice nap? I was just making the crew here a few drinks to get them started."
"Why are you doing this?" Weiss managed to rasp out.
"Is that a rhetorical question? No? It isn't? Then I'll tell you why: I want the city of Vegas, plain and simple. And you're standing in the way of my getting it. C'est la guerre..."
"Huh?"
"War, Albert. This is about war. And in war, there are casualties. And I'm not the prisoner taking kind... Right, kids?"
There were noises of assent all around, and Weiss realized that Ross had his whole demented crew with him.
Weiss watched Roland thump the shiny arm of the espresso wand. "Normally, the milk of a good hot drink should be steamed anywhere between 160 and 180 degrees," he said conversationally, not looking at Weiss. "But for you, I'm gonna crank this baby up to 220...just to be on the safe side. Gentleman?"
Weiss had no idea what was coming next. One minute, he was on the floor, the next he was being hoisted by the arms toward Ross, who had the calmest, most peaceful expression on his face, just before-
-he jammed the end of the steam wand into Weiss's right eye and hit the lever...
The screams that came out of Weiss's mouth were inhuman. They were beyond pain. The former crime boss bucked and seized under his assailants' grip like a man in the midst of a seizure. Cackling, feminine laughter filled the room. "That is one frothy cappuccino, boss," said a woman's voice.
Weiss was allowed to fall, moaning in agony, to the white-tiled floor. The scent of burning flesh filled the room. Another voice said, "Oh, damn, where's the Febreeze when you need it?" More cackling laughter followed.
Weiss felt a welcoming blackness begin to overtake him...
"Oh no you don't, Albert," said Ross. "Gretchen, hand me that syringe with the adrenaline shot in it." Weiss felt something sharp and metallic jab him in the leg. He could feel a presence looming over him, could feel the threat he could no longer see. And then an evil voice whispered directly into his ear:
"Don't go into shock just yet, Albert. I'm not done playing with you. Not by a long shot. I can keep this up for days."
"Boss, I think you're going to need some Clorox for this steam wand," said the steady voice of Wheeler.
"Hey, you're the germ-a-phobe of the house-you clean it," said a voice that had to be McKinnley's.
"He is so not hot, boss," said the woman's voice-Gretchen-again. "Can't we get something better to play with?" Her tone was petulant.
"Quite right, Gretchen-quite right" answered Ross. "Why don't you go down to the Strip, ma ange noire, and pick us up something pretty for later? Something hot and in the Gothic line. You know my tastes. Here, take this cash and the unregistered car..."
The din of conversation went on undeterred around him as Albert Weiss lay on the ground writhing in unbearable agony. And then to make matters worse, he heard Ross's voice say, in a clipped, chipper tone:
"So...are we ready for round two then, Albert?"
Albert Weiss held out for three more days, before his body finally succumbed to the endless gambit of tortures that Roland Ross's creative, devious mind concocted for him. Ironically, on his death, little Roland-formerly known as Rod's "pansy-ass kid brother"-took the city of Vegas, unopposed, in complete triumph. And, after finding Weiss's system of checks and balances in its criminal operations lacking, he set out to rearrange the running of Vegas like one would an HR department in hell. Ross vetted and handpicked everyone who worked for him, right down to the lowliest errand boy. He scrutinized and rejected and scrutinized some more. He only slept four hours a night, had an IQ that was off the charts, and worked hands on, at both of his jobs, night and day. His energy was boundless, tireless-as was his appetite for mental and physical sadism. Some of the people who worked for him thought him unusually kind, a saint. Others thought he was the spawn of Satan. The truth was, he was both. And no one ever knew which version of Roland he was going to get...
And to add to the irony of ironies, Richard Ross now declared that he was finally proud of his youngest son...
End Chapter 1.
The two songs used in this chapter are "Five on the Five" by the Raconteurs, and "Rock Candy" by Montrose. Chapter 2 will be posted on Monday, followed by chapter 3 on Tuesday.