Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty Two
Roberto
I make my circuit because that’s the job.
Handshakes, names, a nod for the ones who like it short and sweet, a minute of small talk for the ones who need to feel seen. I can do this in my sleep. I don’t enjoy it. It isn’t about enjoyment. It’s about making sure people leave with the sense that this place runs on attention and respect.
“Counselor,” a councilman says, touching my elbow like we’re old friends.
“Councilman,” I say. “Good to see you here.” I schmooze, laying on the charm, and ease out of the conversation like an expert.
I move on before he even realizes what’s happened.
The floor is full without feeling cramped. The air is the perfect temperature—cool enough to make jackets comfortable, warm enough that a dress doesn’t need a wrap.
Dealers hold neat attention, not stiff, not lax. Security is where they should be, where no one notices them.
My brothers Luca, Antonio, and Giovanni are doing what they do.
Don Luca stands near the grand staircase with Elena on his arm. People look, then pretend not to. They never get to see him like this.
The Don doesn’t stroll a casino opening every weekend.
He wears The Regent Club comfortably, carrying the pride of ownership and unquestioned authority expected of him.
Elena stands brightly beside him in a gorgeous skin-hugging dress that sits on her perfectly.
You’d never know she had a baby at home.
The former prosecutor is beaming at a board member from the hospital foundation.
Luca listens like the man is the only one in the room.
He’s good at that—making people feel important when he looks their way.
Every few minutes, his eyes sweep the room.
Mine meet his. A nod passes between us: good, good.
Alessandra is home with a sitter. It’s not the place for a one-year-old.
Stephano is home, too. Giovanni’s eyes have that slight pull toward the kitchens anyway.
He’s on the floor because duty demands it, but his mind is with wife Bianca, who is now marshalling her kitchen staff to make this opening a culinary experience not soon forgotten.
He shakes hands when he must, accepts congratulations with a polite curve of the mouth, then drifts toward a railing where he can stand and watch without being pulled into a circle. People leave him alone because they can feel he wants it that way.
Antonio is the opposite. He laughs, he shakes hands, slaps backs.
He takes a woman’s hand and twirls her over the shiny marble like he’s showing her off.
He’s harmless when he wants to be, and tonight he wants to be.
He makes investors and partners feel like they backed a winner.
That’s his gift. Antonio is the Family’s charmer.
Nephew Vito’s got a drink in his hand that he doesn’t need.
I clock it, then clock the next one twenty minutes later.
His smile is a little too bright; his jokes, a notch louder.
I mark the bartender and the nearest security lead and make a mental note to run interference if someone says the wrong thing at the wrong time.
With Vito, anger doesn’t need a reason, just an opening.
Vito’s brother Nico does what Nico always does.
He’s present, quiet. He posts up on the edge of circles and lets silence do some of the talking.
He makes a point of introducing himself to a pair of small-business owners I flagged last week—people who built their places the hard way and will appreciate being treated like they matter in a room full of titles. He doesn’t overdo it. He never does.
Mostly because he doesn’t want to.
Their sister Caterina is a force in high heels. She’s got a glass she doesn’t drink from and a list of names in her head. She works the donors with real warmth because she means it.
She points at an usher with two fingers, and the usher moves like he can read her mind. She leans into a conversation with the tourism board and somehow answers a question from an AV tech at the same time. Her dress looks simple; the work she’s doing is not.
I watch for Olivia in the gaps.
She slides through a doorway with an earpiece whispering to her all night. She’s in black, which translates as staff to those in the know, and reads as elegant to those who aren’t.
She touches a server’s elbow and shifts the tray height an inch. She checks a flower arrangement with her eyes, keeps moving. A vendor stops her. She answers, points, thanks him. Someone from Facilities comes up behind her with a question.
Then she slides through another door and disappears.
I don’t catch her eye. I don’t try to. I’m not here to make her job harder.
A couple from the County offices steps into my path. I shift gears.
“Beautiful space,” the woman says, taking in the chandeliers.
“Thank you,” I say. “The first impression was meant to be one of welcome.”
“It’s definitely all that,” the man says. “Our board appreciates the way you’ve looped local vendors into the opening.”
“We can’t be a good neighbor if we don’t spend like one,” I say. I give credit where it belongs. “Caterina drove that. She’ll be glad to hear it’s being well received.”
They move on happy. They’ll talk about that line later at dinner. Good.
A man laughs too loudly near a blackjack table. I clock him and the drink in his hand and file his face in my mind. I spot Giovanni doing the same from the sidelines. He’s always been good at that. I leave him to it and carry myself to the next knot of hands to shake.
I let my eyes wander to my family again. Luca offers an older woman his arm. Elena must be telling a joke because the woman laughs in her direction. Antonio gets a laugh from a table of people who sell insurance for a living.
Vito has a new drink in his hand. A look at a junior manager has him making his way to me promptly. I nod to Vito. “Introduce him to the head of the union,” I say under my breath. “Now.” The manager nods.
Give him something to do that isn’t drinking.
“Roberto,” a voice says near my shoulder. It belongs to a hotelier I respect.
“Good evening,” I say, shaking his hand.
“Congratulations,” he says. “Opening a place like this is no small feat.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “Thank you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Olivia slide into the room again smoothly. This time, she’s escorting a couple who are looking around, amazed and fascinated. I know immediately they aren’t investors or hoteliers or councilmen. They must be family of the staff.
There’s a certain look about them. Not jaded or used to seeing glamorous things.
It’s novel in a way, and it says something about Olivia that she’s treating them no differently than any other guest. I slide smoothly out of the conversation and head their way.
Years of practice have me across the room with only minimal stops.
I slide in beside them with an easy smile. “Good evening. Welcome.”
Olivia keeps her smile in place, though I can practically feel her tense.
“Mr. and Mrs. Arroyo, this is Roberto Conti. He and his family are the owners of The Regent Club.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Arroyo,” I say, offering a hand. “It’s a pleasure. Thank you for being here.”
“Teresa,” the woman says, flushing a bit when I take her hand and bring it to my lips. “This is my husband, Miguel.”
I give him my hand, and he takes it.
“I do hope Olivia’s been taking good care of you,” I say.
“Oh, she’s been wonderful,” Teresa says, then laughs a little. “We’d be lost without her. Literally. We were wandering the halls before she found us.”
“We were looking for the casino and ended up by the mezzanine,” Miguel says, a little embarrassed.
Olivia’s smile is bright as she says, “Speaking of the mezzanine, I’m needed there.”
“You go on, Olivia,” I say.
Her eyes meet mine, and a flash of heat passes between us. Then she’s gone, already answering, “On my way,” as she sweeps out of the room.
Teresa watches the door a beat. “She’s lovely,” she says.
“She is,” I answer. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“We are,” Miguel says, eyes wide, taking it all in. “It’s… a lot.” He smiles. “Good, and a lot.”
“First time inside a place like this,” Teresa admits, lowering her voice as if it’s a secret. “We’re here for our daughter—Sofía. She’s a sous chef. She said we had to come see her ‘real kitchen.’”
I remember a young woman in the kitchen, petite with dark hair.
“Sofía’s excellent,” I say. “You raised a pro. Have you two had a chance to eat yet?”
“We just did,” Miguel says, pride lifting his chin. “She sent out something with clams and fennel. I don’t even like fennel. I liked that.”
“Then she did it right,” I say. “Would you like to try the tables? A quick spin? On us.”
They trade a look that’s equal parts curiosity and panic.
“We wouldn’t know where to start,” Teresa says, laughing at herself. “We’ve never… gambled.”
“Then start with learning, not gambling,” I say. I signal a floor host, and an envelope appears in my palm. I offer it to them. “A few chips on the house. A little welcome. No pressure, no expectation. We’ll keep it simple.”
Miguel takes it carefully, as if it might bite. “What do we do with them?”
“We start with blackjack,” I say. “Simple rules. I’ll walk you through a hand or two.
If you hate it, we stop, and I point you toward the pastry table I’ve been trying to stay away from all night.
If you love it, we celebrate”—I smile, quick and charming—“at the pastry table I’ll end up at before the end of the night. ”
Teresa laughs, nerves breaking. “Sounds good either way.”
“This way,” I say, offering my arm. “We’ll go slow. You’ll be experts by dessert.”