Chapter Six
Caterina
The car was clean, of course it was clean. He moved with an unnerving economy of motion, not wasted, not theatrical. Just efficient. His hands were not delicate, but the way they moved over the upholstery, under the seats, into the glove compartment, was precise, almost clinical.
He didn't ask for permission. He didn't explain what he was doing. He simply did it, and I was left standing there in the cool, quiet garage, watching a man I had known for less than an hour invade my space with an authority that felt both insulting and, to my immense irritation, necessary.
He finished with the convertible, a car I loved for its speed and its sleek lines, and moved to the SUV. I could feel the judgment radiating from him, a silent appraisal of my choices.
This one was for errands, for days when the weather was poor, for hauling things. Practical. But I knew what he saw: a larger target. Softer corners. More places to hide a device.
He straightened up from the SUV and held the keys out to me, palm flat.
"Satisfied?" I ask with one brow lifted. The question is petty, and I don't care. I'm still annoyed he's here at all.
"I won't know until I do a full sweep with my own equipment," he says. "These aren't secure. But I needed to make sure there wasn't any sort of tracking device on them."
"You think someone would be so obvious?"
"It's obvious because it works. It's the easiest way to track your patterns without getting too close," he says, then looks at the empty bay. "Do you have any other cars or use any other type of transportation?"
"No," I say. "These are the only two I use."
"Good," he says. "We won't be using them."
My jaw tightens. "Excuse me?"
"We'll be taking my car," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "It's a more secure vehicle. Armored."
"You expect me to arrive at my own casino in your car like some damsel in distress?"
"I expect you to arrive alive," he says, his gaze unwavering. "How you get there is irrelevant to that goal."
I hate him. Just for a second. A hot, clean flare of it. He's so reasonable, so direct. He doesn't rise to my bait, he doesn't get flustered, he doesn't apologize. He simply states his reality and expects me to step into it.
And the worst part is, I will. Because he's right. The thought of driving my own car now, knowing someone out there might be watching, waiting, sends a cold trickle down my spine.
I would never admit it to him, but the image of the armored vehicle is a comfort.
"Fine," I say, the word clipped. "But this will not become the norm."
"Yes, it will," he says. "This is one of my non-negotiables. The car, the route, and the timing. That's my domain. Until the threat is eliminated, that's how it will be."
"Your domain?" I scoff. "You're here to protect me, not to run my life."
"And if you keep seeing it as me trying to run your life," he starts, "we're going to get nowhere fast. This is about mitigating risk, and that starts with controlling your environment."
I stare at him, my mind racing for a counterargument, a way to push back, to reclaim some piece of the ground I'm losing with every word he says.
But there isn't one. Not a logical one. And arguing with him about logistics feels like a losing battle. He's built a fortress of reason around himself, and I'm throwing pebbles at the walls.
I don't know what makes me angrier, that he's so damn logical or that I'm the one who's usually logical. But right now I just feel emotional, and that's not a place I like to be.
This is not me.
I am calm. I am in control. I am not the kind of woman who lets a man in a suit, no matter how well-fitted, turn her into a bundle of raw nerves and petty defiance.
I take a slow, deep breath, and the air in the garage feels cooler, more solid.
"Let me be clear," I say, my voice lower now, more measured. "You are here as a consultant. A very expensive, very well-armed consultant. But this is still my life, my business, my city. You don't get to walk in here and start making unilateral decisions."
"I'm not," he says, and for the first time, there's a hint of something in his voice.
Not frustration, not anger, but a kind of.
.. weariness. As if he's had this conversation before, many times, and he's tired of it.
"The only unilateral decisions I make are the ones that are directly related to your safety. The rest of it is negotiable."
"And what if I don't want to negotiate?" I challenge.
"Then we'll argue," he says, and there's no hint of a smile on his face. "And then you'll do what I say, because I'm the one with the expertise to keep you alive."
My fists clench at my sides. The arrogance of it is breathtaking. But it's not the arrogance of a man trying to dominate me. It's the arrogance of a master craftsman who knows his trade. And it's that, more than anything, that disarms me.
I look away, at the sleek lines of my convertible, the car I chose for myself, a symbol of my independence. And in that moment, it feels like a toy.
"So what now?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "You do your sweep, we get in your tank, and you drive me to work?"
"Yes," he says. "We'll take a route I've already mapped out. I have several routes mapped out, and we will be taking them at random.
I nod, a single, sharp jerk of my head. I can feel the fight draining out of me, replaced by a cold, hard knot of resignation. This is happening. It's real.
"I need to finish getting ready," I lie, turning away from him. I was up early and have been ready, but I need to escape the intensity of his gaze, the sheer unwavering presence of him. "I'll meet you in the foyer at 8:30."
"I'll be waiting," he says.
I walk away without looking back, my heels clicking on the concrete floor of the garage, a sharp, angry sound echoing in the quiet space.
I am in the middle of explaining projected Q3 gaming revenue to three people on a Zoom call when Adrian Donato crouches beside my credenza and runs his hand under it like he expects to find a bomb taped there.
I keep my face perfectly still.
Or I try to.
On the screen, Harold Benton from one of our financing groups is talking about debt service ratios and phased expansion costs, his voice tinny through my laptop speakers.
To his left, in another square, Marissa from Compliance is taking notes with that same brisk, unreadable efficiency she always has.
On the third square, a consultant with a face like damp toast is nodding along to the points I’m making.
Normally, this kind of meeting is easy territory for me.
Numbers. Timelines. Projections. Risk.
The simple kind, the kind that can be measured and modeled and adjusted in a spreadsheet until it makes sense. I know these people and others like them, and I know these numbers.
I know how these conversations go. I know how to keep my voice even and my expression sharp and professional while steering everyone exactly where I need them to go.
What I do not know how to do is conduct a polished financial strategy call while an enormous man in a dark suit silently inspects every inch of my office like he is preparing it for a coming siege.
“And if the licensing review slips into next quarter,” Harold says, “what does that do to your revised forecast?”
I keep my eyes on the screen.
“It pushes the timing, not the viability,” I say smoothly. “The demand assumptions remain the same. We would simply shift the rollout window and recalibrate marketing spend accordingly.”
As I’m speaking, Adrian opens the cabinet beneath the built-in shelves along the far wall.
Not loudly. Not rudely. Just efficiently, like he has every right in the world to open my cabinets while I am trying to work.
I hate how little sound he makes.
That is part of the problem.
If he were clumsy about it, if he banged drawers or interrupted or inserted himself into the room in some obvious, bumbling way, I could be angry. I could dismiss him. I could decide he was an obstacle and be done with it.
Instead, he moves with that same unnerving economy he has had all morning. Quiet. precise. Impossible to ignore even while he is technically staying out of the way.
He checks the cabinet, closes it, lifts his gaze to the window behind my desk, the one on the other side of the room that looks out onto the casino floor, then to the door with frosted glass that leads into the hall.
Every entrance. Every sight line. Every vulnerable point.
Every one of them apparently his business now.
On the screen, Marissa says, “Would you still maintain the same staffing assumptions on the finance side if the timing shifts?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because the internal infrastructure doesn’t change. We’d front-load some of the preparation and delay some of the public-facing costs, but the staffing model itself holds.”
I click to the next slide in the deck and do not look at Adrian.
I absolutely do not look at Adrian.
That would be giving this too much importance, and I refuse to do that in my own office.
This office.
Mine.
It sits in the administrative wing at The Regent Club and has been mine since opening. I designed every inch of it and bought every piece of furniture in here, carefully and precisely, to project the image I wanted.
The walls are pale cream, the shelves dark walnut, the desk broad enough to spread out reports and still have room for my laptop, docking station, two monitors, and the stack of annotated folders to my right.
The window behind me gives a view of the water. The window in front of me gives me a view of the casino floor. The monitors on yet another wall give me a view of everything else. The art is restrained. The furniture is comfortable without being soft. It looks like a serious person works here.
Because a serious person does.