17. Cassandra
Cassandra
The midday sun beats down on Las Vegas, but that doesn’t stop drunken tourists from meandering The Strip.
I stare out the penthouse windows, watching people move from casino to casino.
If I didn’t have to be supervised by an army of guards, I would call Sadie to see if she wants to meet me at Il Palazzo’s pool.
Okay, so maybe I’m being dramatic. It wouldn’t be an actual army. Maybe a squadron?
“I’m thinking of adding lilies to the centerpieces.” Natalie interrupts my internal complaint session. “We’ve obviously got the roses in there, but I think lilies would give the floral arrangements a nice romantic vibe.”
She looks up hopefully, and I nod, forcing a smile.
To be honest, I don’t care. I want to marry Dominic and have all the planning over with. If we could go to a chapel tomorrow and have Elvis officiate, I would probably be okay with that.
All right, maybe not.
I have always dreamed of walking down the aisle in a beautiful dress with Pachelbel’s Canon in D playing in the background. The issue is, I never thought I’d be planning a Mafia wedding. Each detail of this wedding has to be perfect, down to the silverware and napkins.
“I feel like you’re not totally into this.” Natalie closes her design book.
“I’m sorry.” I leave my perch by the living room windows and sink down on the other end of the couch. “It’s overwhelming. You know?”
“Cassie, I have an idea.” She begins collecting her notes and catalogs. “What if I put a couple of design concepts together, and you choose which one you like best?”
“Really?” I sit up straighter, her idea giving me hope that I’ll make it through the planning after all.
“I know this isn’t your thing,” Natalie says. “Let me do what I do best, and we’ll go from there.”
“Oh, my God,” I say, launching myself toward her for a hug. “You don’t understand how much stress that takes off me.”
Natalie chuckles as she pats my back. “I think I’m getting the idea.”
Pulling back, I help her collect the remainder of her things.
“Let’s meet next week. I’ll have the cake decorator come with tasters. Dominic might want to be there for the samples.” She winks. We stand, and I lead her to the door.
“Looking forward to next week.”
She waves as she passes through the foyer toward the elevators.
Retreating into the penthouse, I let out a sigh of relief. That’s one stressor down. If only there were answers to the rest.
Well, mainly one.
While Dominic works to neutralize the threat from our enemies, he has left me out of the loop. I’m on a need-to-know basis, which is driving me crazy. With the wedding planning weighing on me and work turning into a shit show, I’m one step away from checking myself into the mental ward.
I can’t control the Romano-Tariello business, so that leaves one thing I do have a say in.
Dance.
My quest to learn hip-hop is going better than I thought. Jaxon works hard with Whitney and me, urging us to loosen up. I’ve got the moves, that’s not the issue. It’s the perfect ballerina posture and graceful transitions that were beaten into me for decades.
He’s patient, and I love working with him, but I’m still not sure I’m performance-ready. Judging by Zachary’s arched brow and eye roll when he tried hip-hop choreography with us last week, he doesn’t think I am either.
I pull a sparkling water from the fridge and sit down at the kitchen bar.
With the intention of scrolling social media to take my mind off things, I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans.
Before I unlock the screen, I notice a few text messages that came through during my meeting with Natalie.
I go to my text app and open Dominic’s thread.
I’ll have a break in an hour. Lunch?
How about Middle Eastern?
He’s talking about the featured restaurant at Pharaoh’s Temple that we haven’t tried yet. Dominic had a preview with the head chef before the hotel opened to approve the menu, but he told me he needs to go in and get the full experience.
Sure. I type back, sipping on my water.
Three dots appear before his response.
Meet me in the lobby of Pharaoh’s Temple in half an hour.
I twist the lid onto my bottle and leave it resting on the counter. Dressed in dark, bootcut jeans and an old Pacific Ballet T-shirt, I know I need to change.
When I get to my closet, I flip the light on. I’m still not used to the custom shelves and racks fit for a luxury shop. A miniature chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and a plush gold ottoman sits in the center.
I trace my index finger along the fabric of my blouses, figuring I can dress up my jeans with a silky top. I pause on a pale-pink camisole with a lace appliqué. With a pair of wedges, it’s perfect for a late spring day.
I slip on the top and pull a pair of surprisingly comfortable, wedge-heeled sandals from my collection. Once dressed, I visit the vanity in our bathroom to touch up my makeup—subtle when I’m not on stage—and pull my hair into a sleek pony.
Before I leave, I grab my purse and tuck my phone and leftover sparkling water inside.
Satisfied with a quick mirror check, I take off to meet my fiancé.
Dominic hums, tilting his head to the side as he considers the lamb dish he sampled. There’s a spread in front of us that could feed Marco and his security team.
Lamb, chicken, rice, hummus, falafel—my favorite—all hand-selected by the Jewel of the Nile chef.
“I like it,” Dominic decides with a nod, then moves on to a saffron chicken.
I dip pita in hummus topped with oil and chickpeas. It’s creamy and perfectly seasoned with garlic and lemon.
“Okay,” I say, after swallowing. “This is delicious.”
“I’m happy with it.” Dominic places his fork on the table and reaches for his water. “I think the restaurant will do well.”
“I think it’s already doing well.” I laugh, gesturing to the packed tables. “If this is what lunch looks like, dinner will have a line going through the casino.”
Dominic smirks, obviously proud of himself and his accomplishments.
Despite the hiccup at the gala, the hotel opening has been smooth. The staff is well trained and provides exceptional customer service, and guests rave about their visits.
Dominic and Lucas beefed up security and updated all the associates’ clearance cards, and Leo installed a more secure firewall on the surveillance systems. A new class of Romano-Tariello soldiers came on last week, split between Il Palazzo and Pharaoh’s Temple.
They’re well trained, armed, and on constant lookout for Bratva and cartel associates breaching the perimeter of the properties.
“I want to check in on the show’s rehearsal,” Dominic says after finishing his meal.
“Violet keeps pushing back the opening date. I’m getting ready to cancel her contract.
If I’d known she was this much of a diva, I wouldn’t have hired her.
” He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration apparent.
Violet Taylor is a pop star who, up until a few years ago, was filling arenas and a sensation on social media.
With her bleached blonde hair, toned abs, and fake boobs, she’s the California beach babe encapsulated.
But after a couple of DUIs and an affair with a much older man who was caught embezzling money from other celebrities, Violet’s career stalled.
She’s no longer the bright, shiny personality she once was.
When she left her second stint in rehab, Dominic offered her a chance to revitalize her career without the pressure of a worldwide tour. He needed a headliner for Pharaoh’s Temple, and she needed a fresh start.
“I guess I’m not surprised she’s difficult to work with.” I shrug, following Dominic as he stands. “She doesn’t have the best reputation.”
“She has a contract.” He throws a few hundred-dollar bills on the table as a tip. “She’s in violation of it.”
We make our way through the restaurant, a couple of security guards joining us at the exit. They walk close behind as we head toward the theater.
Dominic took to keeping a couple of his men close by at all times. Backup in case a battle breaks out.
Dominic swipes his key card to unlock the theater doors, and we slip inside quietly. The doors leading from the lobby into the auditorium are open. Through them drifts familiar pop music. If nothing else, Violet’s songs are catchy.
Suddenly, the music stops, and a frustrated groan plays over the audio system.
“No, damn it. This is a hot fucking mess. How do you expect me to cross the stage when you’ve got your damn dancers spinning on either side of me?” Violet snaps at a woman standing in the third row.
With a disapproving huff, Dominic crosses his arms and takes a spot by the back wall.
“Vi,” the woman pleads, “I promise they’ll stay out of your way. Can you please try it again?”
Violet rolls her eyes but turns and shoos her dancers away. From the grim looks on their faces, I get the impression this isn’t the first time they’ve dealt with complaints.
The music resumes from the chorus. Violet picks up instantly, singing into her headpiece microphone. Her voice is surprisingly good for someone who producers constantly autotune.
She slinks forward on stage while her dancers hit poses in the background.
I cock my head, scrutinizing the choreography. The fast movements and chaotic line changes don’t fit the song. Hell, I’m not sure they fit any song.
Violet reaches the part where she paused earlier. She tosses her hair, pops a hip, then slides to the right, heading to the side of the stage.
I understand her complaint. Two of the dancers spin downstage, with one headed directly where Violet is walking. He’s doing his best to avoid her, but with the choreography, it’s hard for him to see.
He stops short, off count, so he doesn’t hit Violet, but still causes her to flinch and get off beat.
“Damn it!” She motions to cut off the music while she turns to her choreographer. “This isn’t working.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dominic grumbles.