I guess I thrived in the casino business because, at heart, I was a “well-managed” gambler. I was the guy who could shrug off losing a million on a Friday and make it back by the time the eggs benedict was served at Saturday brunch.
I’m the workaholic who clawed his way out of the grime and hopelessness of trailer park life. The gambler with an eye for business. But I’m also an introvert at heart, lacking charisma. I needed to lure the whales into our casinos, keep the gaming commissions off our backs, and have politicians eating from the palm of my hand. I needed to radiate charm that wasn’t in my nature. And a few lines of the finest “Bolivian marching powder” usually did the trick.
No, Manhattan is better for my state of mind.
“Did we bait Tony Astion from Royal Casinos into an interview?” I ask.
“Tony’s not cut out for this,” Connor cuts in. “JP, you’re the guy. You’re the only one we trust with the casinos. Nobody knows the Vegas scene better. You’ve got the connections, the influence, the contacts into the mob, the feds, the high rollers.”
“Why, thank you, Connor,” I respond, my voice heavy with irony. “Always good to remember I have a veritable directory of unsavory characters at my fingertips.” This conversation has been on repeat for the past two months. “I’m not disappearing. I’m stepping back. And ideally, not living in Vegas.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Killian intervenes. “Fifteen years in the business, and now you want us to switch gears and start a damn hippie commune?”
What I’m actually trying to start is a wellness retreat branch of Quinn & Wolfe. My jaw tightens. Without the Quinn brothers onboard, this could become a one-man uphill battle. “If I can make it rain in a casino, I can sure as hell get people to chill out in a spa.”
A year ago, the idea of meditation and green juice would’ve had me doubling over. But after everything, maybe that kind of peace is exactly what I need.
“Just as long as you’re not aiming to create some sort of ‘Let’s chant together, drink matcha, and find our inner peace’ kind of place,” Connor chuckles, cracking himself up. “If we’re swapping roulette wheels for yoga mats, JP, we’re gonna need to have a little chat.”
“Maybe a bit of meditation would do your sarcastic ass some good,” I counter, rolling my eyes.
Connor shoots me a knowing smirk. “This smells like a midlife crisis. Must be something in the water. Killian just had his.”
“And what was my midlife crisis?” Killian fires back, eyes narrowing.
“Hooking up with the nanny.”
“Clodagh is not a hook-up,” Killian growls. “And watch your words, or my actual midlife crisis might involve me introducing your face to my fist.”
Ah, Killian had to pick the Irish nanny, as if he was auditioning for some heartwarming Hallmark movie. The arrogant tycoon, suddenly finding himself head over heels in love with the vivacious, fiery Irish nanny. Although Clodagh doesn’t seem like the typical nanny.
“But Killian’s downward dog is on point,” Connor chortles, pressing his brother’s buttons. While Killian’s off playing Mr. Darcy with his Irish nanny, Connor, in contrast, is on an entirely different trajectory with most of the models in Manhattan. “His delightful yoga instructor, Clodagh, has schooled him well. You’ve already got your first customer, JP.”
“All right, enough,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. The weight of these incessant conversations is starting to weigh down on me. All I seem to do these days is try to convince people that I’m trying to take my life on a different course.
Killian looks at me, his teasing smirk fading to a more serious expression. “JP, we’re in your corner. Rehab, yoga, fucking crystal healing, you name it. But let’s not forget the backbone of Quinn & Wolfe: nightlife, luxury hotels, and casinos. NotEat Pray Loveretreats.”
“We had a deal,” I remind him, annoyance creeping into my voice. “We test one. I can make it profitable.”
“Look, JP,” Connor says, voice uncharacteristically gentle, “I get you’re passionate about this, but don’t let emotion cloud your judgment here. You know that’s dangerous.”
And I do know. One bad business decision fueled by emotions sank me once already. Long before the Quinn & Wolfe hotel empire was even a glint in our entrepreneurial eyes. I clung onto my first motel, long after it had become a sinking ship.
But the irony is, Connor’s wrong––emotion is always part of my business, I just didn’t see it.
“One wellness retreat,” Killian concedes after a heavy pause, pushing away from the table and standing up. “But you promised you’d get Tangra over the line before we find someone else to run the casinos.”
“And I will.” My voice is firm, resolute. Because, hell or high water, I’m determined to carve out a new path—one that doesn’t involve drowning myself in neon lights and empty debauchery. One where, perhaps, I might stand a chance at earning Lucy’s forgiveness.
Implementing Project Tangra nationwide will elevate us to new heights. It’s the most important project in the works right now, with a projected 15 percent revenue increase.
The gamblers want to be able to throw around their money, without the hassle of counting bills and chips. And we’re here to provide that service.
I need to get Tangra across the line before I can step back. I never go back on my word. We have some of the games cashless—but not all yet.
Killian paces toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “This sudden urge for a yoga retreat… Has it got something to do with a certain blue-eyed member of the IT department?”
He turns to stare at me intently. As subtle as a sledgehammer to the face.
