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“Yes.”
“Then look out there.” She turns toward the window and I slide my arm around her waist and put my lips close to her ear. “Do you remember which buildings are mine?”
The city lights paint colors on her beautiful face. All the casinos in Coldlake line the north end of the main strip, which is lit up white, yellow, pink and blue with flashing lights, neon playing cards and jets of water from ornate fountains.
“That one,” she says, pointing at a silver and white skyscraper as we glide by, and then turns to look back the way we came at another. “That one.”
The Bentley turns into the Grand Plaza Hotel and sweeps around the circular drive to pull up at the main entrance. The tiles are white marble, and the front entrance is shining glass and gold. All the bellhops wear the same cream and gold livery, and inside, a huge crystal chandelier hangs over the lobby.
“And this one,” Chiara finishes, gazing inside.
“Very good.”
We get out of the Bentley and I hold out my hand. Chiara takes it without thinking as she stares around at all the people in evening dress and the flashing lights and colors. As we stroll through the lobby, I watch people watching us. Most people around here know who I am, and I can tell they’re wondering who this beautiful and vaguely familiar blonde is on my arm. They’ve seen Chiara at events and on TV, but always looking so demure. They don’t recognize this bombshell.
I take Chiara upstairs to the member-only casino where the restaurant overlooks the casino floor.
“We’ll have a bottle of Dom Perignon,” I tell the waiter as we sit down. The table overlooks the private blackjack and craps tables, where men in tuxedos and women in long dresses and dripping with jewels are busy handing over their money to me.
I reach for her hand again. “See how nice I am when you’re good?”
Chiara seems to realize she’s letting me touch her and pulls away. “I’m notbeing good. I’m trying to prevent my throat from being slit like my mother’s was.”
“And I thought my charm was starting to work on you. What are you hungry for?” I ask flipping the menu open. “Lobster? Salmon? Caviar?”
She eyes the menu in bewilderment. “I don’t know. We never eat at places like these. Dad wants us to be seen at local businesses because it’s good for votes.”
When the waiter comes back and pours the champagne, I order for us. I push the champagne glass closer to her, smiling. “You’re with me. It’s all right.”
Chiara gazes at me, around the restaurant, down at herself, then to my surprise, she reaches for the flute and takes a sip.
My smile widens. So much for the rules when she’s tempted by something she wants. “Does my bride have champagne tastes?”
Chiara swallows, hesitates, and takes another sip. “It’s strange, but I don’t hate it.”
“Like me?” I ask, smiling at her.
She pretends I didn’t say that. “This place seems legitimate. Everyone in this city knows you run casinos. So…”
“So?”
“So, what’s the trick? You make most of your money illegally, don’t you?”
“The trick is…” I lower my voice and lean toward Chiara. She’s so curious that she leans toward me, too. “The trick is I don’t tell anyone how I make my money, and I admit to nothing.”
Chiara sits back and takes another sip of her champagne, watching me with narrowed eyes. Suspicious little cat.
One of the senior casino managers comes to the table and asks to speak to me, and I can tell from his face that it’s not something for Chiara’s ears.
We draw away from the table, and he tells me, “We’ve discovered a pair of card counters in the main casino. They’re from out of town.”
My jaw tightens. Card counting isn’t illegal, but it’s against the unwritten laws of every casino that belongs to me. Counters keep track of the cards that have been dealt in blackjack and bet high when they know a deck is stacked in their favor. Some counters work in pairs or groups to disguise what they’re up to. One person counts, and then another joins a game and receives a signal if they should bet high.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Chiara wave to a waiter and place an order.
If these assholes were from Coldlake, I’d kill them for their sheer fucking stupidity. Out of towners can take a message back to where they came from.
No one steals from me and gets away with it.
