Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Caterina
No one is leaving today.
Maybe not tomorrow either, though no one says that part out loud. The decision is made over breakfast.
Everyone stays under one roof. For security, coordination. For the children, the family.
All reasonable. All practical. All deeply infuriating.
I am standing near the kitchen island with my second cup of coffee in my hand, because the first one did absolutely nothing. I love my family, and I love gathering with them. And I appreciate everything they've done for me…
I just want to be home, alone. Away from all the chaos, the noise.
At the moment, everyone is crowded into the kitchen, and there's a headache forming at my temples.
Vito is near the back windows with Cristiano in one arm and his phone in the other.
Nico stands with Erica beside him, one hand absently at Emma’s back while she rests against her mother’s leg, still sleepy and clutching some stuffed animal by one ear.
Antonio has his laptop open on the island, and looks like he has slept approximately eleven minutes.
Roberto sits close to Olivia at the table while they talk and eat.
Bianca is at the stove again, because apparently the world can be on fire and she will still find a way to put food in front of people.
Teresa leans against the counter with her arms crossed, watching everyone like she is taking mental notes.
Adrian is at the far side of the room.
Standing.
Of course. Because his twenty-four hours are over, and apparently that means a bullet wound is now a closed matter.
He is dressed in black, one hand resting near his side only when he thinks no one is looking. He has been pretending not to lean against the wall for twenty minutes. He is failing.
I am pretending not to notice.
I am also failing.
Papà’s gaze moves over the room, watching his family. I know it pleases him to have us all under one roof. Maybe the circumstances are not ideal, but it doesn't change that fact.
But under all of that, I see something I don't see in him often:
Fear.
It doesn't make it easier to accept, but I understand it. Especially where the children are concerned.
The children.
It always comes back to the children now.
I look at Isabella, sitting on the floor with Victoria and Emma near a pile of toys someone found in a closet.
The twins, Mia and Elio, are trying to stack blocks into a tower.
Alessandra and Stephano are in the next room with a movie playing low, old enough to understand something is wrong, not old enough to understand what.
We are all here.
All the branches gathered in one house while someone out there is trying to prune them.
I force myself to take a sip of coffee.
It is too bitter now.
Or maybe that is just me.
I'm itching to get back to work, and it's even more upsetting that Antonio came back with my laptop and my briefcase from the casino with the expectation that I would be able to work here.
But I can't work just anywhere. I have the board, staff, investors, meetings, management. I need real access, not virtual.
I let my gaze drift over to Adrian and see his flick to me then away again.
Still nothing from him.
No look that lasts too long. No acknowledgment of the night before. No sign that he remembers the way his hand felt in my hair or the way his mouth moved against mine or the way everything in me went hot and reckless and stupid for a few terrifying seconds.
Good.
That is good.
That is exactly what I wanted.
Probably.
So why do I hate it?
A half hour later, I sit in front of my laptop in my childhood bedroom, unable to focus. My frustration is mounting, and I'm about ready to burst.
The room is exactly the same and completely different.
Same pale walls. Same built-in shelves. Same window seat where I used to sit with textbooks balanced on my knees and pretend I was studying while actually listening for my brothers coming home.
Not because I wanted to hang out with them or anything. No, I was too old for that by the time I was fourteen. Or at least I thought I was.
I can admit now that it was because I wanted to know when they were home, so I could finally relax. Too many of my family members walked out the door one day and never came back. Lucia, Papà, and then Mama. One of them never walked back through.
I let my eyes drift around the room. Same dresser. Same mirror. Same ridiculous little chip in the wood near the closet door from when I threw a shoe at Vito when I was sixteen and missed his head by a full two feet.
Different because I am twenty-five years old now, and I do not live here anymore.
Different because my briefcase is open on the desk with casino reports spread across it, and my laptop is connected to a secure remote portal that keeps lagging at exactly the wrong moments.
Different because Adrian is in the room next to mine again.
Or he was. I do not know where he is now, because I am not tracking him.
I am absolutely not tracking him.
I refresh the portal for the third time and glare at the loading wheel as if I can intimidate it into obedience.
It keeps spinning.
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
This is what Papà thinks working from home looks like. Sit in a bedroom, open a laptop, answer emails, stay safe.
As if The Regent Club is a spreadsheet and not a living, breathing organism with moving parts that need constant attention. As if I can manage a casino floor from my childhood desk while everyone downstairs whispers about security rotations and dead men in stairwells.
I open my email.
The board wants an emergency meeting.
The press office wants a statement review.
My assistant wants confirmation on whether I am available for afternoon calls.
Compliance wants clarification on incident-report language.
Finance wants approval on the delayed marker review procedure changes.
Three department heads want to know if they should continue scheduled staff meetings or postpone until further notice.
And every single message seems to carry the same question underneath it.
Are you still in control?
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I am.
I should be.
I have to be.
Instead, I can barely string three sentences together because every time there's a sound outside the door, I wonder if it is Adrian moving in the hallway.
Every time I look at the door, I remember standing outside his last night.
Every time I try to think about the casino floor, I see the blackjack table, the shove. I hear Adrian's voice calling my name, feel his hand wrap around my arm.
And every time I try not to think about Adrian’s mouth, I think about Adrian’s mouth anyway.
I close my eyes.
This is untenable.
Not the kiss. Not even the humiliation. All of it. The house. The lockdown. The waiting. The men making decisions. The women pretending they are not terrified. The children playing downstairs under armed watch. The world shrinking down to my father’s house when I need it to expand.
I cannot sit here and answer emails like this is a snow day.
I open a blank document.
Then I close it.
I open the incident timeline.
Then I close that too.
My gaze drifts to the notebook beside the laptop.
That, at least, feels like something I can touch.
Paper. Pen. Questions.
Not just sitting here and waiting for… something. Anything.
I pull it toward me and flip to a clean page.
At the top, I write:
“What do we actually know?”
For a moment, I only stare at the sentence.
Then, beneath it, I start making columns.
Threats.
Access.
Information.
Business impact.
Family impact.
The action steadies me in a way the emails do not. They’re an outlet for the panic pressing against the edges of my mind. It’s not real information. Not a conclusion. But enough to make me feel less like I am floating aimlessly.
I pick up the pen again, and I start writing. Everything I can remember and all the details.
The note. The route change with Erica and Emma. Regalia. Halloran. The attack on the floor. Press sniffing around. Board wanting a meeting.
I tap the pen once against the page.
The men downstairs are probably focused on shooters, badges, routes, weapons, and who had physical access.
They should be. That matters.
But it is not all that matters.
Someone knew when to pull me onto the floor. Someone knew Halloran would make noise. Did someone somehow cause it? Someone knew how casino operations respond under pressure. Someone knew enough to create chaos and hide in it.
The thought sinks in slowly.
Not fully. Not yet.
But enough.
I sit back, the pen still between my fingers.
Maybe this is not just about Papà.
Maybe it is not just about blood, revenge, or some old enemy with a gun and a grudge.
Maybe part of this is about the casino.
The second I think it, something inside me sharpens.
The casino is not only where the attack happened.
It is where I am most visible.
It is where the family is most public.
It is where legitimate power and old power overlap. All of the moving pieces of the casino. A thousand small openings wrapped in polished marble and velvet ropes.
I lean forward again and write:
“What if The Regent Club is not just the stage?”
Then, after a long second, I add:
“What if it is the target?”
The words stare back at me.
I do not like them, but I do not cross them out.
Instead, I turn to a new page.
If I am going to understand what is happening, I cannot only ask the men. They will tell me the tactical pieces. The violent pieces. The things they think matter because those are the things they are trained to see.
But women hear different things.
Staff says things to women they would never say to Vito or Nico.
Wives know the routines no one writes down.
Olivia knows guest services and VIP behavior.
Bianca knows restaurant staff and vendors.
Erica knows exactly what happened with the reroute.
Elsa knows money and access. Teresa knows the note and understands the mind of someone who would write it.
And me?
I know the casino.