Page 76 of Caterina
“His assistant is with him.”
I glance down the corridor that leads toward the casino floor. Unfortunately, we have to go through it to reach the high-limit area.
Caterina squares her shoulders.
I turn to her before we move again.
“Once we step onto the floor, you stay tight to me,” I say. “No drifting, no stopping for anyone else, no letting him keep you in the open longer than necessary.”
Her eyes flash. “I know how to talk to a difficult guest.”
“I know,” I say. “That isn’t what I’m talking about.”
She exhales through her nose. “Fine. We go in, fix it, and get out.”
We go through the doors that lead to the casino floor, and the noise hits at once.
Light, music, voices, chips, machines. The whole place is bright enough to feel artificial and alive enough to make every instinct in me sharpen.
Caterina is beside me in black and white, chin up, expression composed, already shifting into the take-charge version of herself.
I don’t like any part of this.
Not the floor. Not the exposure. Not the fact that she is about to walk straight into a confrontation, because that is what this job requires of her.
But this is where we are.
I stay half a step ahead and slightly to her side as we move through the crowd. The path to high-limit is not long, but it is too open for my taste.
Too many people. Too many bodies. Too many eyes. I keep mine moving the entire time—faces, hands, reflections in glossy surfaces, security angles, open lanes, dead ground, anyone who looks too interested or not interested enough.
Caterina doesn’t slow. Doesn’t hesitate.
She knows this floor. Knows the rhythm of it, the places where guests drift and where they bunch. She cuts through it with the calm assurance of someone who belongs here so completely that nobody thinks to question it.
Useful.
Still not safe.
The Bordeaux room sits just off high-limit behind heavy doors and deep red walls meant to signal privacy and status. Better than the open floor. Still not ideal. But there are walls, one entrance, and fewer variables, which is enough for me right now.
The host waits outside, one hand clasped over the other in front of her, face composed now that she’s no longer delivering bad news.
“He’s still upset,” she says softly. “But he’s inside.”
Caterina nods. “Thank you.”
I catch the host’s eye for one second. “You stay out here.”
She nods immediately, relieved.
I open one of the doors and step back so Caterina can enter first.
I open the door, let her enter first, and step in behind her.
The high roller is exactly what I expected.
Late fifties, expensive suit, face red with anger and self-importance, standing in the middle of a room built to flatter men like him. His assistant is younger, thinner, more polished, and currently wearing the expression of a man who spends a lot of time cleaning up after other people’s messes.
