Page 135 of Caterina
“Yes. Roberto is very difficult.”
That gets a laugh out of me.
I sit in the chair across from her and open the notebook on my lap.
Olivia’s expression changes.
There she is.
Not just my former roommate. Not just my best friend. Not just Roberto’s pregnant wife.
The woman who understands rooms, guests, staff, timing, and the thousand quiet calculations that make a casino look effortless from the outside.
She reaches for her water. “What do you need?”
I look down at the page, then back at her.
“You don’t have to answer anything right now if you’re tired,” I say because I feel like I have to.
“I am tired,” she says. “But I am also bored, trapped, and pregnant, so please give me something useful to do.”
That gets a smile out of me.
Then it fades as I get down to business.
“I need to know if anything strange happened in VIP services over the last few weeks.”
Her brows lift.
By noon, I have spoken to five women and learned a whole lot of unrelated information. The headache that was brewing at breakfast is now full-blown and throbbing.
I stare at my notebook and the disjointed pieces of what I gathered.
Olivia gave me VIP complaints that escalated too quickly, guests who asked for executive attention too specifically, and problems that seemed designed to pull management out of secure spaces.
Bianca gave me staff chatter, vendor schedule changes, and guest questions that may have seemed innocuous at any other time.
Nothing obvious enough to sound like danger at the time. Vendors asking whether she would be there personally to sign for deliveries. A server mentioning that guests always liked seeing “the little Contis.”
Someone asking if Giovanni usually comes in after lunch or closer to dinner. A delivery window changed twice without Bianca approving the change herself, though the system showed approval.
Erica gave me the reroute again, but this time I wrote down every touchpoint before it happened: the appointment confirmation, the driver, the call, and the tiny circle of people who knew where she and Emma were supposed to be.
She can't stop thinking about it, and she doesn't say it, but I know she can't help but think about what would have happened if her driver hadn't been so quick-thinking.
Elsa gave me finance access, insurance inquiries, and unusual pressure from outside firms that might have seemed like normal post-incident concern if we were not already looking for pressure points.
Elena gave me old prosecutions, old family names, and the uncomfortable reminder that people from Papà’s past do not always stay in the past just because we stop looking at them.
Teresa gave me the note again, not the words themselves, but the delivery, the choice of her office, and the possibility that someone wanted us looking at her patients instead of the family.
She tells me it was not written like an impulsive threat. It was constructed to make Papà think in terms of legacy. Tree, branches, pruning. Family as structure. Family as future. Family as something that can be cut down piece by piece while the roots are left alive to feel it.
I write all of it down, as much detail as possible.
Then I sit back and stare.
My notebook is a mess of arrows, circles, underlined names, half-formed thoughts, and questions I cannot answer yet.
