6. Nikolai
Nikolai
The seventy-three monitors in the surveillance room run from floor to ceiling, each divided into multiple live feeds. Six operators watch them at all times. I can pull up any angle of the casino floor, the cage, the parking structure, or the service corridors from my office computer.
Screen fourteen has my full attention.
Gabby.
She’s on a table near the center of the floor, running a game with four players. I watch her hands. Dealers develop a rhythm, and after a few days, I can read it the way I can read anything else.
Nothing about her movements gives me pause. She deals the way a hundred other dealers do. Fast. Clean. No wasted motion.
But there’s something she does the others don’t.
She doesn’t keep her head down. Her eyes are constantly moving, scanning the floor, checking the entrances and corridors, and watching the people meandering through with drinks in hand.
It’s systematic. She does it without breaking her rhythm at the table.
I’ve seen that kind of scanning.
I do it myself.
It’s the habit of someone who learned that danger can come from any direction and exit strategies matter.
Pasha appears at my shoulder. He looks at the screen, then at me.
“How long have you been standing here?” he asks.
“A while.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I want a deeper dive,” I say. “On the blonde.”
He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a folder, and sets it on the desk.
My gaze drops to the folder before lifting back to him.
“I had a feeling,” he says. “When you get obsessed, you don’t stop.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
“You’re… interested. Curious. When you get curious, you want all the information you can get. I thought I’d save you some time.”
He knows me too well. It’s useful and occasionally irritating.
I pick up the folder and open it. Standard employee file on top. I flip past it to what Pasha added underneath. His notes. He’s gone deeper than HR, because he knew I would if he didn’t.
“Talk me through it,” I say.
“Gabriella Collins. Twenty-four. Social security number checks out. Nevada driver’s license issued six months ago, which was her first Nevada license.
Before that, a New Mexico license. Before that, nothing.
No digital footprint before about two years ago.
No credit history before that. No utility accounts, no lease agreements, no traffic violations. Nothing.”
I turn a page. There’s a printout of her employment application. Atlantic City. Reno. The casinos she listed.
“Did you verify the previous employment?”
“Atlantic City casino she listed closed eighteen months ago. Same with the Reno property.”
I almost smile. I’ve been around long enough to recognize a manufactured background. Whoever constructed hers did solid work. Solid enough to pass a standard casino background check, which isn’t nothing. But not solid enough to hold when someone pulls the thread.
The question is who built it and why.
“What set it off for you?” Pasha asks. “Specifically. You are suspicious of everyone. And I say that with love.”
“I was right.”
“You were,” he says with a small laugh. “How do you always know?”
“I just do.”
“Are you worried?”
“No. Not yet. Watch her.”
Pasha studies the monitor. “I don’t see anything.”
“The way she scans the room.”
He considers that. “A lot of people are paranoid.”
“Not like hers. That’s trained paranoia.” I close the folder. “And the hair.”
“The hair.”
“It’s dyed. Her brows are dark. Her skin is olive. The blonde is fake.”
“Nik, women dye their hair all the time. I’d guess half the women who work here have dyed hair. You don’t think blue or pink is natural.”
“This is different. It’s cheap.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”
“I think she’s hiding in plain sight.”
“That’s not necessarily our problem. Are we really the people to call out someone for hiding from something that might land them in a cell?”
“No,” I agree. “But I want the question answered before it becomes our problem.”
He gives a slow nod. “I’ll keep digging.”
“Good.” I look at the screen again. She’s laughing at something one of her players said. “She has a kid.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s neither. She brought the boy to work.”
He nods. “I heard.”
“No babysitter. Which means no father.”
“Not necessarily,” he says. “He might be working. Maybe he’s military. Or in jail.”
I frown. “Could be why she’s hiding. Maybe the father’s dangerous.”
“Possibly.” He checks his watch. “We need to go. I hired a marketing firm. I didn’t want to sit through all the interviews. The representative is meeting us over there.”
I tear my eyes from the screen. I will find out her secrets.
Fifteen minutes later, the SUV pulls up to Tatiana. The facade has progressed since my last visit two days ago. The glass panels on the lower three floors are in, and the effect is already striking. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment and look at it.
People walk past without a second glance. To them, it’s another hotel. They have no idea what I’m building.
Catherine Grimes, the marketing manager Pasha hired, waits just inside the main entrance.
She’s young. Mid-thirties. Sharp suit despite the heat.
She looks at me, assessing. I’ve met a thousand women just like her.
They see me. The tattoos. The black clothes.
They think they’d like to tap into their wild side.
I’m not interested in being anyone’s tour guide into the dangerous underground.
“Mr. Sokolov,” she says. “I’m glad you could be here.”
I nod and walk past her into the lobby.
Workers are everywhere. I insisted on hiring additional crews and paid them double what they’d make at the piece-of-shit hotel the Italians are renovating to keep up.
Catherine falls into step beside me as I cross the lobby toward the casino floor. She has a portfolio tucked under her arm, thick with materials I’ll be expected to look at. I’m already deciding how much of this conversation I can hand off to Pasha.
“We’ve developed three campaign directions,” Catherine starts. “The first positions Tatiana at the apex of luxury on the Strip.”
“They all do that,” I say.
She blinks at me. “Sorry?”
“Every luxury property on this street calls itself the apex of something. It means nothing.” I stop, and turn to face her. “What makes Tatiana different from every other property on this road?”
She looks around. I know the difference. If she’s going to sell my hotel, she needs to know it, too.
“Don’t tell me the amenities,” I say. “Don’t tell me the thread count of the sheets or how many Michelin stars the restaurant has. Those are facts. Facts don’t make people feel anything.” I look up at the atrium ceiling. “What does it feel like?”
Catherine looks to Pasha like he might have the answers.
Pasha looks back at her, giving her no help.
“Arrival,” Catherine blurts out.
“What?”
She nods, looking around. “You’ve stepped into a palace. Exclusive, but not cold. Elevated. Effortless. Pampered.”
“Better.” I start walking again.
We move through what will be the casino floor. The subfloor is in. The lighting rig hangs overhead.
“The ballroom,” I head for the east corridor.
They follow me.
“I want this to be the premier venue in the country,” I say. “Your job is to make people believe it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to see the penthouse floor before we leave,” I say. “That’s what you’ll be selling. It can’t feel like the rest.”
We take the service elevator because the main elevators aren’t operational yet. There are drop cloths over everything, and the smell of fresh drywall and primer hangs in the air. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the north wall are in, and I walk straight to them.
Forty stories.
The Strip spreads out below me, sizzling in the July sun. It doesn’t look like much during the day, but at night, the view will be worth the price.
“This is incredible,” Catherine calls from the bathroom. “Wow. Honestly, this bathroom alone will sell the suite.”
I look out at the city I’ve spent the better part of a decade claiming. The Italians think if they make this expensive enough, I’ll cut my losses and go back to New York.
They don’t know me.
Vegas is mine. The first thing I’ve built without the weight of the bratva behind me.
I turn from the window. “Let’s check the spa.”
We’re halfway down when the elevator jerks to a stop, knocking Catherine to her knees. I catch myself with one hand against the wall. The elevator goes black for a second before the security light comes on.
“What happened?” Catherine shrieks. “What’s happening? Are we going to die?”
I press the button for the ground floor.
Nothing.
Pasha presses the emergency button. It buzzes once, then goes silent.
“Okay,” Catherine breathes. “Okay, okay, okay.” She presses herself into the corner.
Her portfolio lies where she dropped it when the elevator lurched, papers fanned across the drop cloth.
“We’re stuck. We’re forty stories up in an elevator that just lost power inside a building that isn’t finished. ”
“We’re not forty stories up,” Pasha says patiently. “We came down several floors. We’re probably closer to thirty.”
“That’s not helpful!”
“Catherine.” I say her name once, quietly. She stops talking. I keep my eyes on the emergency panel as I pull out my phone.
Three bars. Good enough.
I scroll to Frank’s number and call.
He picks up on the second ring. “Mr. Sokolov—”
“I’m stuck in the service elevator between floors. What happened?”
“We lost main power to the east grid. The generator should’ve kicked in automatically, but it didn’t.”
“Should have.”
“We’re checking it now.”
I look at my deathtrap companions. Catherine has both hands pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are wide. She’s on the verge of a panic attack.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes. Maybe an hour.”
“Call the fire department. Get them here and get us out.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up and pocket the phone.
“Fire department?” Catherine’s voice climbs another register. “I have to get out! I don’t do well in small spaces. I can’t be here.”
“Breathe.” Pasha bends to gather the papers from her portfolio. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. We’re not in any danger. The elevator is locked on its cables. It’s not going anywhere.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s how elevators work.”
She makes a sound that could be a laugh or the beginning of a sob. Hard to tell. If she starts screaming, I might open the doors and jump.
I move to the opposite corner and lean against the wall. I cross my arms and keep my breathing even.
The generator should have kicked on. This isn’t a coincidence or a mechanical failure. Someone interfered with it. Which means someone got onto my site today, slipped past the additional security, and sabotaged me.
“Nik.” Pasha’s voice is quiet.
I look at him. He’s watching me. Checking in. Making sure I’m not about to lose my shit with Catherine.
I give him a slight shake of my head.
He nods.
“How long have you been in Vegas?” he asks Catherine, smooth as anything, like we’re in a conference room instead of a stalled box thirty stories above the ground.
She blinks at him. “What?”
“Vegas. How long?”
“I… four years.”
“You like it?”
She looks at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Yes,” she says. “I like it.”
“Hot,” he observes.
“Very hot.”
Pasha’s most underrated quality is that he could make small talk in a burning building and somehow make people feel better.
He does the same for me when things get tense.
My phone buzzes with a text from Frank.
Fire department ETA: eight minutes. Generator tampered with. Wire pulled from the automatic transfer switch.
I type back.
Lock down the site. Nobody in or out. I want the name of everyone who stepped onto this property today.
I pocket the phone.
Eight minutes.
I can do eight minutes.
Catherine has stopped hyperventilating. She sits on the floor with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up, breathing carefully, the way Pasha coached her. He’s settled beside her, telling her about the book he was reading to Mila.
Catherine hangs on every word.
I count the seconds and tell myself to keep it together.
Pasha looks over his shoulder. I see the concern in his eyes. I try to look indifferent.
I’m failing, but he pretends not to notice.