Author: Nicky Santoro

You only exist out here because of ME!!!
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Calciopoli Crisis

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INT. BACK ROOM, BACK OF THE TANGIERS CASINO – NIGHT

The room is hazy with cigar smoke. ACE ROTHSTEIN (sharp suit, gold rings, calculating eyes) sits across from NICKY SANTORO (shirt half open, chest chain gleaming, rage simmering under the surface). A bottle of red sits between them. They’re alone, except for the hum of Vegas outside the bulletproof windows.

NICKY SANTORO
(leaning in, whispering like it’s a hit)
You ever hear of Calciopoli, Ace?

ACE ROTHSTEIN
Yeah, sure. That Italian soccer scandal, right? Juve got relegated. Whole league was a mess.

NICKY SANTORO
Nah. See, you think it’s about some referees getting a couple phone calls. But it’s way deeper than that. We’re talkin’ the Black Hand, old-school shit. Not just mobbed-up bookies—mafie unite—Naples, Calabria, Sicily. The whole Mezzogiorno.

They couldn’t break Juve on the pitch. Too many trophies. Too much Agnelli dynasty, Fiat money, northern muscle. So what’d they do? They rigged the goddamn justice system.

ACE ROTHSTEIN
Wait, you’re telling me Juventus didn’t really fix games?

NICKY SANTORO
They all fixed games. Every big club called refs. Milan. Inter. Roma. But they picked Juventus to take the fall. Why? ‘Cause Luciano Moggi didn’t kiss the ring. He ran the game like a boss. He was the Don. And when a Don don’t play ball with the other Dons, they bury him.

ACE ROTHSTEIN
So it was a setup. A frame job.

NICKY SANTORO
No doubt. They wiretapped Moggi like he was John Gotti. They leaked transcripts to the media before the trials. Juventus wins two straight Scudetti—poof—gone. Stripped. Relegated to Serie B like some amateur squad.

And guess who benefits?

ACE ROTHSTEIN
Let me guess. Inter Milan.

NICKY SANTORO
Bingo. Moratti’s team. Clean as a choirboy in the papers, but behind the scenes? They were just better at hiding the bodies. The whole FIGC—Italy’s football commission—they were in on it. They wanted to “clean the game,” right? But they only cleaned one side.

ACE ROTHSTEIN
It’s like Vegas in the ‘70s. Clean one casino, let the others keep skimming.

NICKY SANTORO
Exactly. And you know what happens next? Juve goes down, loses players, loses face. Meanwhile, Inter wins five titles in a row. Like a gift from the Vatican. And Moggi? Banned for life. But the guy still knows where the bodies are buried. He just don’t talk.

ACE ROTHSTEIN
So it’s not about justice. It’s about power.

NICKY SANTORO
Always has been. Always will be. In this life, it ain’t about what’s true. It’s about who’s got the black hand on the judge’s shoulder.

(Nicky takes a slow drag of his cigar, blows smoke toward the ceiling. Ace just stares, the numbers still running in his head.)

ACE ROTHSTEIN
Jesus. And I thought Vegas was dirty.

NICKY SANTORO
Vegas is kindergarten compared to Italian football. Over there? The pitch is just another battlefield. And the war never ends.

[FADE TO BLACK]

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Fucken Bankers

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INT. DARK STEAKHOUSE BOOTH – NIGHT

Low light, clinking glasses, Sinatra playing faint in the background. NICKY SANTORO sits with a cigar, leaning in close like he’s telling you a secret nobody else is supposed to know.

NICKY SANTORO (V.O.):

Alright, look—this one ain’t about blackjack, alright? This is the real scam. Bigger than skimmin’ off the top. Bigger than parking money in offshore accounts. I’m talkin’ about compound interest.

Yeah, that boring-ass thing they teach you in school—if you’re lucky. But lemme break it down for you street-style. ‘Cause once you see it, once you really get it, you’ll wanna burn down a f***in’ bank.

He flicks ashes, eyes sharp.

See, the banks—these fin’ guys—lend you money, right? House, car, business. But they don’t lend you money. They lend you debt. Thin fin’ air. It’s numbers on a screen. They tap a few keys, boom—you owe ‘em 300 grand. And the kicker? They charge you interest on that fake-ass number.

But it don’t stop there. See, it’s not just interest. It’s compound. That means they charge you interest on the interest. It’s like loan-sharkin, but with spreadsheets and a Christmas bonus.

Let’s say you borrow $100K at 5% a year. In 10 years, you owe $162K. You paid sixty-two grand to borrow a hundred. And where did that extra money come from? Your blood, sweat, and f*in’ tears.**

Meanwhile, they take your payments, flip ‘em into other loans, make more interest off your money while you bust your ass tryin’ to stay afloat. And God forbid you miss a payment? BOOM—fees, penalties, your credit’s wrecked, and you’re their slave for life.

NICKY (leans closer, quieter now):

And the scariest part? They do it legally. The mafia got RICO’d for extortion. The banks get bailed out.

He chuckles bitterly, sips his scotch.

You wanna know who runs the world? It ain’t presidents. It ain’t wiseguys. It’s the motherf***ers who charge you to borrow your own future.

Compound interest? That’s the long con, baby. That’s the scam of the millennium. And they teach it like it’s a gift.

He stubs out his cigar.

I used to think I was the shark. Turns out I was just swimmin’ in their tank.

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Counting Blackjack With Nicky

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INT. BACKROOM OF A VEGAS CASINO – NIGHT

NICKY SANTORO (Joe Pesci type), dressed sharp but sweating slightly under the lights, leans in close to the camera. His voice is gravel, soaked in menace and street knowledge.

NICKY SANTORO (V.O.):

Let me tell you somethin’ about this guy—Joseph Wong. Now this ain’t your average Chinatown bookie, alright? This guy? He’s a ghost. Quiet. Calculatin’. Wears a smile like it’s a blade, and behind that smile? A f***in’ mainframe of numbers, algorithms, and—get this—blackjack-counting software the Triads been using to rinse Vegas dry since ’98.

They say he coded the whole thing himself, right? A program that doesn’t just count cards—it predicts shoe flow based on pit boss behavior, player fatigue, and even cocktail waitress timing. It’s like Rain Man with a grudge and a MacBook Pro.

Now here’s the kicker: Wong didn’t sell it. He licensed it. To the Triads. On a subscription model. Monthly fees, encrypted updates. Like he’s f***in’ Microsoft.

He taps the table, smirks.

You know how humiliatin’ it is for a made guy like me to see Wong’s guys walk in—Gucci belts, no chips, no fear—start lightin’ up the tables, makin’ eye contact with the dealer like they’re best friends?

And they clean up. I’m talkin’ $800K on a bad weekend. Not flashy either. They play dumb. Act drunk. One of ’em pretended he didn’t know how to sit in the chair. Next thing you know? He’s got five blackjacks in a row.

And the feds? Please. They don’t touch Wong. Too slippery. They think he’s just some tech nerd with a gambling problem. But I know. I seen him at the Wynn, talkin’ to a guy who once threw a pit boss out a tenth-floor window in Macau. You don’t talk to guys like that unless you got serious backing.

He leans back, sighs like he’s telling a ghost story.

You wanna know the future of organized crime? It ain’t muscle. It ain’t guns. It’s guys like Wong. Guys who speak code and Cantonese. Guys who can take your casino apart with three lines of Python and a burner laptop.

And you can’t whack a hard drive.