She moves easily among them, nodding, stopping to take a question. A foreman asks about a service corridor; she gives him the answer and a deadline. A designer hovers near color samples; Caterina takes two and says, “Warmer,” and he nods.
I watch her work and feel it click into place in my head. Coming here, I was worried this was just a favor to a friend. But it’s not that. Cat isn’t messing around here. This is a job that fits, a person I respect, and a place that already feels right.
We stop at the edge of what will be a bar. An L-shaped expanse of plywood holds a water bottle pyramid and apaper blueprint weighted by a screwdriver. The blueprint is a neat overlay of lines and notes. Her index finger lands on a rectangle. “This is the main bar. You’ll build a service plan with F&B that keeps the entertainment nights flowing without bottlenecks.”
“Rope stanchions, an alcohol-free express line, satellite servers,” I say automatically. “QR codes at tables for a second round. Servers with trays for glass pickup instead of letting the bar back turn into a dish graveyard.”
She nods, that small, pleased nod again. “Good. You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve done versions,” I say. “Not at this scale.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says. It’s not encouragement. It’s a decision, and my body believes it before my brain can review the logic.
We loop the floor and come back to the entrance. “Last stop before I sign you and send you to HR,” she says. “The ballroom.”
The ballroom is on the hotel side, and the difference between it and the casino is jarring. It has finished floors, sconces wrapped in tissue paper, and a ceiling that glows warmly instead of glaring harshly.
The doors stand open, welcoming. Inside, it smells faintly of paint and new fabric. Light washes over the space from tall windows; you can see the ocean beyond in strips.
This is where all the big things happen. This room will be more than half my job.
“This is where we put the hospital gala,” she says. “This is where we make them feel cared for. They’ll bring the right people. They always do.”
I walk the perimeter slowly, imagining tables, sightlines, photograph angles, speeches before dinner. “We need acoustic panels,” I say, listening to the way my voice dies. “And a good mic.”
“Agreed.” She looks down at her watch again. “Time.”
Back in her office, she hands me a stack of papers and a pen. “Offer letter,” she says. “Everything we just said, in HR language. Salary, benefits, start date: today.”
“Today,” I repeat, and grin without trying to hide it.
“Today,” she says, and there’s the friend again, the girl from the photo for a second. “Sign it. Make me proud. Then go down to HR and get your badge before they go to lunch. Come back after, and we’ll start calling people.”
I read the offer while she answers an email. The numbers are what we discussed on the phone last week. The role is what we just covered. The tone is dry and official, and good. I sign.
She takes the paper, checks the signature with a tiny, happy fussiness, and slips it into a folder. When she looks up, her dark eyes are bright. “Welcome to the team,” she says.
“I’m glad to be here,” I say. “I’m going to make this place sing.”
“I know you are,” she says. She stands, and so do I. The hug is a little less professional, filled with giddiness, but we step back and compose ourselves.
At the door, I pick up my carry-on, which feels lighter even though nothing inside it has changed. “I’ll be back after HR,” I say.
“I’ll be here,” she says, already sliding back into her chair, already reaching for a pen. “Liv?”
“Yeah?”
“Welcome home,” she says, not looking at me. The word sends a little jolt through me, then settles warmly in my chest.
I take that warmth with me to the hallway, where the glue smell is strong. The drill starts up again. The door swings shut behind me, and I’m smiling as I walk toward the elevators, already building a calendar in my head.
Chapter Two
Roberto
I pull into the drive at dusk, and the house is quiet in that way I’ve paid for. The gate closes behind me without complaint. No clank, no squeal. Just a clean slide of steel on steel and the soft thunk of the lock engaging.
There are cameras; you’d have to know where to look. No tall walls with spikes, no man in a booth.
