“Fine,” she says. “We’ll survive.” He nods and disappears. Her eyes go back to me. “Okay. Comps,” she says, back to business. “I like comping for strategy, not for sport. Opening month, we’re generous. But no random hemorrhaging.”
“Clear criteria,” I say. “Earned through play or through partnerships with an expected return.”
“Exactly. VIP policy will run through me.” Her tone is calm, casual, but there’s a firmness underneath. “Hosts will havediscretion within a spend band. Anything above the band is my call.”
“Got it.” I make a box around the note. The lights flicker again, warning us.
“Security,” she continues. “You’ll coordinate with our team on event access. I want your guest lists clean and your vendors badged. No one wanders. No chaos.”
I nod. “Do you have a head of security already?”
“I do,” she says, and that’s all. She doesn’t go into detail, so I don’t push. The list of things I will ask her after the interview grows by one.
She flips to a page with brand mood boards with fonts and color swatches, photos of textured plaster and linen card stock. “I want our marketing materials to feel tactile even when they’re digital. Classic, readable type. Generous white space. A sense that we are competent and generous and selective.”
“Selectively generous,” I say, underlining. “Geography. We target NYC, Philly, Jersey, DC?”
“Yes. We’ll start with drivable markets and radiate. There’s a segment out of Boston that’s worth testing, too. And I want a small signal in Miami and LA. We have people who go back and forth.”
“You have lists?” I ask.
“Some,” she says. “We’ll build more.”
The power drops. The monitors go black; the air unit hushes. The sudden quiet is startling.
Caterina leans back in her chair and looks at me over the dead monitors. She’s still for a moment. Something I don’t see often. “How was the move?” she asks. “You didn’t have to jump this fast.”
“I wanted to,” I say, and it comes out too quickly. I clear my throat. “California was… it was home. Always has been until I went to Wharton, but it felt like a postscript. I wanted the next chapter.”
“Is this a next chapter or an ellipsis?” she asks.
“It’s a chapter,” I say. I didn’t realize I meant it until I said it. My eyes flicker to the photo on the desk. Us in our caps and gowns, ready to take on the world. I never considered that we would take it on together, but I love that we are. “And I wanted to work with someone I trust.”
She nods once, and that’s as much emotion as she usually shows. “I trust you, too,” she says. “I trust you to be good at this, and to tell me when something’s off.”
“I will.”
“You always did,” she says. She looks like she might say more, then doesn’t. The power surges back; the monitors blink awake in sequence. She makes a face at the one that takes longer, taps the tower with her knuckle. “There you are.”
“Let’s talk about your day-to-day,” she says. “First thirty days: build the opening calendar and a straw-man budget;identify and secure anchor partners; draft and circulate the media list and the outreach ladder; write the first-pass brand copy for the launch series; and create the pitch deck we’ll use for sponsors and co-hosts. At the same time, build the VIP event criteria and a clean comp policy document that host operations can apply without calling us every five minutes. Oh, and hire two coordinators to start. A junior event coordinator and a social content specialist. You’ll be their manager.”
“I’ll need job descriptions and a salary band.”
“I have the bands. You write the descriptions. We’ll post by end of week.”
I jot that. “That’s not a huge team for marketing a hotel-casino of this size.”
“We start here and decide as we go.”
“In-person meetings with local stakeholders?” I ask. “Hospital foundation, tourism board, county commissioners?”
“Yes. I’ll go to the foundation with you; you go to tourism and bring back their calendar. For county, I’ll make the introduction; you handle the meeting.” She pauses. “I’ll tell you who not to meet without me. If I say no, it’s no.”
“Understood.” I don’t question further. It’s not my business why some meetings are a no. It’s my business to ace the ones that are a yes.
She pulls a key card from a desk drawer and slides it across the glass. “Office access. The security team will badge youproperly this afternoon. You’ll set your own hours for now. Use them. Don’t kill yourself.”
“Copy,” I say, trying not to look too elated. The opportunity I’m being presented here never comes along for someone my age with my experience. It’s the golden goose, and I better not fumble it. “What about housing? I’m at a hotel tonight, but I’ll be at a sublet while I look.”
