The slot machines sing their siren song through the vast expanse of the Olympus casino floor. I adjust my white wide-brimmed hat as I begin my nightly rounds. My white suit—Valentino—draws eyes as I move through the space. Mark, my head of operations, falls into step beside me, his tablet open to tonight’s numbers.
He hasn’t changed out of his usual black since he started working for me, as if he’s permanently in mourning for fun. “Food and beverage revenue’s up twelve percent from last week,” he says, voice low. “The new Greek street food court is drawing crowds.”
I pause to watch an elderly woman feed quarters into a Zeus-themed slot machine, her rhinestone-covered jacket catching the pulsing lights. The massive LED screen above shows the king of gods hurling animated lightning bolts with each spin. She doesn’t notice me, too focused on her ritual—spin, sip of Diet Coke, cigarette, adjust her oxygen tank, repeat.
“Mrs. Ho is back,” Mark notes, nodding toward the high-limit slots area. “Third time this week.”
I see her, perched on a leather stool in front of a $500-minimum machine, immaculately coiffed. She catches my eye and gives a friendly nod. We’ve spoken several times in the high-limit lounge, usually about her grandchildren in Vancouver and her love of classical music.
We pass the Olympian Garden, where a thirty-foot sculpture of Athena rises from a cascading fountain. Her spear points toward the high-roller rooms, a subtle suggestion to the wandering masses. The water features create a constant white noise that helps mask the casino sounds, making conversation more intimate. Every detail is considered, down to the specific angle of the goddess’s gaze.
“The Parthenon Restaurant is fully booked through next month,” Mark continues as we climb the marble stairs to the mezzanine level. “That Michelin star really stirred things up. Chef Dimitris is asking for another sous chef.”
I pause at the railing, surveying my domain. From here, the layout reveals itself—the flow of foot traffic, the strategic placement of bars and restaurants, the ways we guide players toward higher-stakes games, all paths eventually leading to more opportunities to spend money.
“Give him whatever he needs,” I say. “The Parthenon is our crown jewel.” The restaurant sits at the top of the hotel tower, its glass walls offering panoramic views of the Strip. The menu is a modern interpretation of Greek cuisine—items supposedly favored by gods and heroes, each dish coming with its own mythology. It’s theatrical, certainly, but Vegas demands spectacle.
We pass through the Agora, our mid-level shopping arcade designed to mimic an ancient Greek marketplace. The spaces between luxury boutiques feature street performers—a woman painted gold poses as a living statue of Aphrodite, a fire-breather dressed as Prometheusentertains a crowd of tourists. The scent of souvlaki and fresh pita drifts from the street food court, where locals and tourists alike queue for authentic Greek food at reasonable prices. I insisted on keeping those prices low so everyone can have a small taste of real Greece amid the glamour.
“Security flagged a potential card counter at table twelve,” Mark says as we approach the main gaming floor. “Robert’s watching him.”
I spot Robert, our head of security, lingering near the suspect’s table. He catches my eye and gives an imperceptible nod. We don’t rough up card counters—that’s a myth. We simply make them uncomfortable enough to leave on their own, usually by offering them a free room upgrade and a personal escort to their new accommodations. Most get the message, especially if it’s delivered by four beefy security guards.
A commotion draws my attention to the craps table, where a man in an expensive but rumpled suit is celebrating a winning streak. I recognize him—a tech CEO whose company is about to go public. He’s been here three nights in a row, his bets getting progressively larger. The cocktail waitress hovers nearby, keeping his glass full with our best Scotch.
“Mark, make sure Mr. Harrison there gets an invitation to the Pantheon Room,” I murmur. The Pantheon is our most exclusive gaming space, accessible only by personal invitation. The minimum bet is $100,000, but more importantly, it’s where the real business happens. Many a merger has been negotiated over its tables. I’ve built my empire not just on games of chance, but on the whispered conversations and handshake deals that happen in that room—intelligence that proves invaluable for both my casino operations and my other, more discreet venture in my basement.
We take the private elevator to the Pantheon level, where the air is literally different—we pipe in a custom fragrance, a subtle blend of leather and cedar with notes of vanilla. The carpet is thick enough to swallow the sound of footsteps, and the lighting is specifically designed to flatter aging skin.
A Saudi prince looks up from his private blackjack table as we pass. “Ah, Ms. Stavros! Join us for a hand?”
I pause, letting my hand rest on the back of his chair. “Your Highness, you know better than to invite the house to play. But…” I lean in conspiratorially, “I hear the Poseidon Suite has an excellent view of tonight’s fountain show. I’ll make sure it’s free should you choose to spend the night.”
He laughs, appreciating the deflection. The Poseidon is the most popular suite in the house, with its private infinity pool overlooking the Strip. The art of running a casino is knowing when to press and when to retreat, when to comp a room and when to let them pay full price.
Mark and I complete our circuit through the high-limit areas and emerge into the hotel’s grand lobby. The ceiling soars fifty feet overhead, covered in a mosaic depicting scenes from Greek mythology. During the day, natural light streams through skylights, making the gold tiles shimmer. At night, carefully placed spotlights create the same effect.
“The nightclub numbers are holding steady,” Mark says, scrolling through his tablet. “Though the Margot is trying to poach our DJ.”
“Double his contract,” I reply automatically. “And give him a suite. The last thing we need is talent drain right before high season.”
We head to the Elysian Pool, where private cabanas rent for thousands per day during peak season. Even at this hour, it looks to be full—beautiful people in expensiveswimwear lounging on daybeds, ordering bottles of champagne, pretending the night will never end.
Two women catch my eye, and they lean in close to whisper when they spot me.Club members. They don’t acknowledge me; we never acknowledge each other in public.
Mark and I end our rounds at my private elevator, which takes me back to my office. “One more thing,” Mark says, hesitating. “The gaming commission is asking questions about our win rates. They’re two percent higher than industry standard.”
I remove my hat and ruffle a hand through my hair. “I suppose a dinner with Commissioner Jenkins will solve that problem. His wife still volunteers at that children’s hospital we support, right? Perhaps it’s time for another donation.”
Mark nods, already typing. “I’ll ask Maria to set it up.” He knows how this works—we’re not doing anything illegal, just operating more efficiently than our competitors. But efficiency makes people nervous, especially in Vegas.
“Oh, and Mark?” I add as the elevator doors open. “While you’re there, will you ask Maria to send some of that street food up to my office? Souvlaki, extra tzatziki.”
He smiles—a rare sight. “Sure. Extra tzatziki.”
The elevator rises, and I watch the numbers climb. Below me, three thousand people are winning and losing, celebrating and despairing. Up there in my office, I feel like Zeus himself, watching the mortals at play. Though lately, my attention has been drawn to a different kind of observation—a single window in a mansion in The Ridges, where another woman sits alone.
SEVEN
