10. Cassandra
Cassandra
Plié in second .
No, wait. That’s not what they call it.
Down?
That’s all the instructor keeps saying.
Then up, turn on my heel, hit, hit, hair, attitude.
But not the ballet position attitude, like a sassy attitude.
Ugh.
I’m never going to get this.
“Okay, from the top!”
I turn to Whitney, exasperation written all over my face. How the hell am I supposed to keep up with this hip-hop routine? I should never have come to class with her. I’m a ballet dancer. I don’t belong here.
Whitney laughs and sends me a flippant, “You’ve got this.”
So, without another choice, I take a deep breath and hit my beginning position. The music starts, bass thumping, and I force myself to relax, feel the vibrations, let my body move to the beat.
I’m standing in the back, allowing the seasoned girls to lead from the front. I keep my eyes half on the mirror and half on them so I can follow their steps if I lose the choreography.
Hit, pop, pivot, down.
Trip over my own feet.
Damn it. I recover and fall back into step. I spot myself in the mirror and want to groan. I’m not exuding any of the confidence I usually have when I dance. I look as lost as I feel.
The piece ends, and my shoulders slump.
That was a burning dumpster fire.
“See, that wasn’t bad.” Whitney turns to me with a grin.
“Maybe not for you.” I scoff. “Did you see me? I look like a baby giraffe that hasn’t learned to walk. All stiff limbs.”
“You’re exaggerating.” She steps aside to grab her water bottle. “It just takes some time to get used to new choreography, that’s all.”
I sip my water through the straw of my Stanley cup. “If you say so.”
“All right.” The instructor, a man with dark skin, dreadlocks, and more positivity than I’ve ever seen in a dance teacher, claps once, spurring us back into the center of the floor.
“You guys killed it, but let’s work on loosening up.
I can tell who my jazz and ballet dancers are.
” He winks, and I groan. “From the top!”
We run through the dance again and again, getting corrections each time. By the end of class, I understand the movement minutely better, but I’m nowhere close to a professional level.
“I hope to see you all again on Thursday morning,” the instructor says as we collect our belongings. “I’ve got new choreo you’re gonna love!”
I dry my neck off with a towel while Whitney chats about last night’s date: a guy she met at a club. She’s sure he’s the one. He drives a Porsche, which in her world makes him marriage material.
“Hey, new girl.”
My head snaps up, and I find the instructor headed our way.
“You did a great job today.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping my towel into my bag. “Hip-hop isn’t really my thing, but I’m trying.”
“You’ve got potential. What’s your name?”
“Cassandra.” I reach out to shake his hand.
“Jaxon,” he replies. “So, what’s your background?”
Whitney snorts. “She’s the most ballerina that ever balleted.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jaxon smiles, his full lips stretch wide, and he shows off perfectly whitened teeth. “What’s got you taking hip-hop?”
I shift my bag on my shoulder, shrugging. “I dance with Whitney at Il Palazzo. Our director is planning to add some hip-hop pieces into the show, and if I don’t perfect the style, I doubt he’ll cast me in the numbers.”
Jaxon crosses his arms and looks me up and down. “I think we can get you there. Are you going to come to class on Thursday?”
I glance at Whitney. She nods.
“Yeah, I think I will.”
“Sounds good. The more comfortable you are, the easier the moves will be. Repetition is key. But you already know that.” Satisfied, he turns and heads to the stereo, calling out, “See you then,” over his shoulder.
As we exit the studio, I sip on my water, fighting off feelings of defeat. I’ll give hip-hop my all. If it doesn’t work out, maybe that’s my sign that it’s time to move on from dance.
“Hmm.” Sadie twists side to side, inspecting herself in the full-length mirror that’s temporarily positioned in the penthouse living room. The afternoon sun from the floor-to-ceiling windows gives us the perfect lighting for dress shopping.
“I love this on you.” Il Palazzo’s personal shopper, Jaqueline, fusses with the crisscrossed straps on the back of the long burgundy dress. “You look spectacular.” Her French accent makes her compliments feel more sincere.
Jaqueline shifts her cat-eyed glasses from her crown to her nose. A woman in her sixties with a fashion design background, she’s exactly who Sadie and I wanted to help us dress for the grand opening of Pharaoh’s Temple. The event is only two weeks away, just enough time to get alterations done.
After pinning the straps to tighten them an inch, Jaqueline steps back, admiring Sadie’s silhouette. “You’re the most glamorous mother-to-be I’ve ever seen.”
Sadie laughs, rubbing her belly. “I love the dress, but what am I going to do about a bra? The back is too low for a strapless, and God knows these tits aren’t staying up on their own.” She grabs her growing breasts for emphasis.
“Tape,” Jaqueline says with authority. “I will help you two dress that day. We will make sure everything is perfect.”
Sadie grins, sliding her hands down her sides. “It’s perfect, Jaqueline. I’ll take it.”
“Good choice. Go change and hang it up on the end of the rack over there.” She points as she shoos Sadie away and turns to me. “You’re next, mademoiselle.”
As I walk, I lift the skirt of my gold Cleopatra-inspired gown. It’s long even on my five-foot-six frame, perfect for pairing with a set of high-heeled sandals. In front of the mirror, I pose so that my leg peeks out from the slit running up the skirt.
“The waist needs tightening.” Jaqueline hovers, tugging the fabric to give my torso definition. The low V-neck of the top shows more of my breasts as she pulls. Dominic is going to love this and hate it at the same time.
“And up here, just a bit.” She pinches the thin strap holding the halter-style top behind my neck. “Voilà!”
I scrutinize each inch of the designer dress. The luxurious fabric feels like heaven against my skin, smooth and airy.
“I think this is the one,” I say, picturing the hair and makeup I want to pair with the look. “You’re a genius, Jaqueline.”
“Ah, yes, I know,” she jokes as she pins the dress. “Now, go take this off. I’ll start on alterations immediately.”
As I walk down the hallway toward the main bedroom, I catalog my growing collection of shoes. Despite the numerous Louboutins and Jimmy Choos, I can’t think of a pair that would match the dress. I’m sure Sadie would be up for a shopping trip in the next few days.
I gently hang the dress and slip into form-fitting, bootcut jeans and a black silk top that dips low in the front. I’m supposed to meet Dominic for lunch.
Jaqueline schedules our next fitting in one week, whisks away her wardrobe rack, and heads to the boutique downstairs.
“I don’t know what we’d do without her,” Sadie says after we grab bottles of sparkling water and exit the penthouse.
“Look a lot less glamorous.” I laugh as we enter the elevator. “You interested in a shoe-shopping trip this weekend?”
Sadie’s eyebrow cocks. “Ma’am, when have I not been interested in a shoe-shopping trip?”
“Saturday before the show?”
“It’s a date.”
Once we reach the casino, we share a parting hug, and I leave Sadie to go on her way. She has her first birthing class this afternoon. It’s adorable how excited both she and Lucas are as they prepare for their bundle of joy.
Securing my purse over my shoulder, I turn toward the lobby where Dominic texted me to meet him.
As I stroll through the casino, I catch heads turning my way.
Las Vegas locals whisper when I pass, familiar with the girl regularly pictured with Dominic Tariello.
Out-of-towners cock their heads in question, wondering if I’m a celebrity.
Nope. Just a showgirl who happened to snag the city’s most eligible bachelor.
I settle on a plush bench near the front doors, next to an ornate fountain with Botticelli babies pouring water from a jug. A young girl runs up to toss a penny in before scurrying back to her parents.
I spot Dante hovering nearby with a few of the new Romano-Tariello associates. He nods when he catches my eye. I should have known better than to think Dominic would allow me to be in the lobby without protection.
A bellhop passes through the front doors with a luggage rack. He weaves around a retired couple, focused on his job, before his steps stutter and his eyes widen. Suddenly, his back straightens and his head lifts. He’s all business, as if delivering suitcases has become life or death.
I twist to find out what he sees that has garnered such a reaction, and I chuckle.
Across the lobby, near the entrance of the casino, a group of men walks in, three in front, two behind. They’re all business with black suits and shined shoes. The two in the back have discreet security earpieces.
I stand and smooth my hands along my shirt, making sure the hem hasn’t bunched. Walking toward the men, I send a smile to the bellhop, who allows me to pass in front of him.
The leader of the group, none other than my fiancé, stops, and the other four follow his lead.
He speaks first to his brother, who returned from his honeymoon over the weekend, and then to his adviser.
The two men nod in sync at whatever directions Dominic gives them before they split off, with Lucas and Lorenzo following them.
Dominic scans the area, taking in the staff and patrons milling about. His brows furrow as a particularly obnoxious group appears through the hotel’s front doors. They’re holding enormous neon-colored drinks that they procured somewhere along The Strip.
I approach, linking my arm in his. “Hi.” I grin up at him, excited to be by his side.
He squeezes my hand where it rests on his bicep, and his lips curve into a smirk. “Miss me?”
“Always.”
“Good.” He spurs me toward the doors, and I follow willingly. “Hungry?”
“Famished. Sadie and I spent all morning trying on dresses. It works up an appetite.”
He laughs as he leads me down the front steps. At the bottom, a valet attendant opens the passenger door of a black Maserati, one of the many cars Dominic owns.
The car purrs to life as Dominic presses the ignition, and we pull away from the curb onto Las Vegas Boulevard.
“You seemed to be deep in conversation with Marco and Leo,” I say as we turn left past Caesars Palace.
Dominic hums and places his hand on my thigh. “We’re figuring out logistics for a trip.”
“Another?” I squirm in my seat. Dominic’s travels usually mean Romano-Tariello business. It’s not often he has to leave Las Vegas for his hotels.
“We can talk at lunch.” He turns again, and I recognize the course of direction. We’re headed toward his great-Uncle Sal’s restaurant, Trattoria Palermo.
Yep. Whatever’s going on definitely has to do with the Romano syndicate. Trattoria Palermo is one of the few places Dominic and his family can talk business without fear of repercussions.
I’m quiet for the remainder of the drive. The jazz Dominic has playing over the radio does little to quell the nerves building in my belly. By the time we arrive, the idea of eating makes my stomach churn.
Sal greets us when we walk in the door. After hugs and kisses, he ushers us to the back room and to Dominic’s usual booth.
While Sal and Dominic catch up in Italian, I glance at the pictures lining the walls—black-and-white photos from an FBI raid on the restaurant decades ago.
The Feds never found anything incriminating, but the family has been paranoid since.
They regularly sweep for bugs, and only known Romano-Tariello associates and their families are allowed in the back room.
A waitress appears with a plate of antipasto and a bottle of Chianti. We thank her as Dominic pours the wine into glasses, and I place an olive and a piece of salami on my appetizer plate.
Dominic isn’t in a hurry to talk. He wraps a few pieces of cheese in prosciutto and finishes half his wine before stopping to stare at me.
“I thought you were hungry.” He scrutinizes me, emerald and gold, watching every move I make as I wring my hands in my lap.
“I was.”
He wipes his napkin against his mouth before leaning in, forearms resting on the table. “What’s wrong?”
I catch my lip between my teeth before releasing a long breath. “Where are you going with Marco and Leo?”
Dominic leans back, settling in his seat as his eyes flick to the empty tables next to us. “Ah. You’re concerned.”
“Should I be?”
We pause as a busser passes by.
Dominic tilts his head as his lips purse, further swirling the anxiety in my gut. “I’m not going to lie and tell you there’s no risk involved. That’s not new, though, Cassandra. There’s risk involved with everything I do.”
“I know.” I pick at my olive with a fork. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”
He takes a drink of water, eyeing my plate. “I will if you eat.”
“Fine.” I place the olive in my mouth and chew slowly.
He scoots around the circular booth until he’s by my side, and his voice drops. “We think we know where Kozlova and Perez are.”
“Where?” I gasp. This is huge. Dominic has been looking for those assholes since they disappeared in Mexico.
“San Juan. Or at least they’re meeting there. We’re going to fly to Martinique on Monday and take a boat to San Juan on Tuesday.”
I eat my salami. “Why Martinique? Can’t you just fly directly to Puerto Rico?”
Dominic smirks and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve got someone on my case who’s keeping track of my flight logs. I don’t want them to know my final destination.”
“Oh, my God.” I lift my wine to take a sip as I roll my eyes. “Are you two still working together?”
He gives me a sharp glance and shushes me. “No one knows.”
“No one would care,” I retort.
“Trust me. Everyone would care.”
“Dominic.” I take a few more items from the antipasto tray and place them on my plate. “I think that after everything that happened in Mexico, your family and organization would understand why you’re working with—”
He slaps a hand over my mouth. “Don’t say it.”
“Fine.” I shake my head. “Working with you know who.”
“Anyway.” He side-eyes me as he returns to his side of the table. “That’s what’s going on.”
I chew and swallow a bite-sized ball of mozzarella. “Just stay safe and check in with me while you’re gone.”
“Only if you’ll send me pictures while I’m away.” He winks.
I laugh. Of course, he’d try to barter with racy selfies.
As I sip on my Chianti, I remember my recent purchases at La Perla, and the idea of a photo shoot doesn’t seem so bad.
With a coy smile, I say, “Deal.”