Page 10 of Maximum Bet

“Can you believe it’s Marisa’s last show?” Whitney asks, fluttering her fake lashes in the mirror.

I swipe at my cherry-red lips. “It’s going to be weird without her.” I glance at the aforementioned dancer—a woman my age who, once upon a time, I thought Dominic was interested in. That was before I found out he was my not-so-secret admirer, and hers was a balding man with a family in the suburbs.

“LA,” Whitney sighs. “I’ve always thought about heading out there, you know? Trying my hand at acting.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Fear of failure.” She laughs. “Whatever. Marisa said she might have found an agent already.”

I toss my makeup wipe into the trash can and pull out another for my eyelids. “Good for her.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna miss her, though.” Whitey blinks away tears as she pulls on a pair of skin-tight jeans, then hollers, “I’m going to miss you, Marisa!”

Marisa blows a kiss through her mirror, which Whitney pretends to catch midair.

I turn to my reflection, blinking the fake lashes framing my amber eyes. Remnants of lipstick stick to my lips, giving my pout a cheap appearance. My high cheekbones look like they still have blush from the force I used to take off the actual makeup.

As I peel off my lashes, my gut twists, and my gaze cuts to the group of girls hugging Marisa and wishing her well. An aching in my chest makes me pause.

I’m not close with Marisa. Sure, I liked dancing with her, but in reality, we’ll keep in touch on social media, and that’s enough.

So why does it feel like she’s taking something of mine as she walks out the dressing room door one final time?

I’m one of the last girls cleaning up, so I quickly finish with my makeup and step into a pair of knee-high boots that complement my skinny jeans and slinky black top. I refresh my mascara and add a little lip gloss before picking my bag up off my vanity and slinging it over my shoulder.

I hate dressing up after sweating through a full show, but I have to look presentable for my walk through the casino to the private Tariello elevator bank.

As I step through the doorway, a feeling of relief washes over me. I stumble in my heels and realize the only thought running through my head is,thank God, I’m off that stage.

Right in the middle of the employee hallway, I come to a complete stop. Never once in my life have I had that thought.

I love performing. It’s what I live for.

Except . . . it’s not. Not anymore.

Then I recognize the feeling in my chest, the twist in my gut at Marisa’s exit—jealousy.

When I first started dancing at Il Palazzo, it was like a consolation prize. My career in ballet derailed, so I ended up in Vegas working as a showgirl. But the money was good, and I still got to perform. Then I befriended Sadie, and the two of us spent rehearsals together laughing and gossiping about our Romano-Tariello boyfriends. A few months ago, when Sadie left on maternity leave, those rehearsals became boring.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Head snapping up, I spot Dominic walking down the hall, hazel gaze regarding me with suspicion.

“Sorry. I got caught up,” I say, forcing my feet to move.

“Really?” He wraps his arms around me as I melt against his form. “Because from what I saw, you were zoned out in the middle of the walkway.”

“I guess I’m a little preoccupied,” I say, starting toward the casino.

“Wedding planning?”

“Something like that,” I mutter. A nagging in my gut causes me to hold back from sharing my thoughts with Dominic. He’s been working to get me off the stage for months. He tells me that he hates sharing that side of me with the audience. If I tell him I’m falling out of love with the position, he’ll probably havemy two-week notice written and turned in before rehearsal tomorrow.

Dominic releases me to open the casino door and allows me to pass through into the commotion of Friday night at Il Palazzo. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling give a soft glow, accenting the Italian marble and the golden hue of the ivory walls and patterned carpet. Slot machines ring out winnings, while murmurs emanate from an intense poker game near the Capri bar.

A group of security associates, in suits with earpieces, nod at Dominic and me as we pass. They’re young but professional, men who recently came on board, trained by Marco and Lorenzo at the Tariello facility hidden in the Nevada desert.

With his arm wrapped securely around my waist, Dominic steers me toward our private elevator bank. Retrieving his key card, he swipes it over the reader, and the door to the small lobby clicks open. We walk through, removing ourselves from the bustle of the casino.