I remember a young woman in the kitchen, petite with dark hair.
“Sofía’s excellent,” I say. “You raised a pro. Have you two had a chance to eat yet?”
“We just did,” Miguel says, pride lifting his chin. “She sent out something with clams and fennel. I don’t even like fennel. I liked that.”
“Then she did it right,” I say. “Would you like to try the tables? A quick spin? On us.”
They trade a look that’s equal parts curiosity and panic.
“We wouldn’t know where to start,” Teresa says, laughing at herself. “We’ve never… gambled.”
“Then start with learning, not gambling,” I say. I signal a floor host, and an envelope appears in my palm. I offer it to them. “A few chips on the house. A little welcome. No pressure, no expectation. We’ll keep it simple.”
Miguel takes it carefully, as if it might bite. “What do we do with them?”
“We start with blackjack,” I say. “Simple rules. I’ll walk you through a hand or two. If you hate it, we stop, and I point you toward the pastry table I’ve been trying to stay away from all night. If you love it, we celebrate”—I smile, quick and charming—“at the pastry table I’ll end up at before the end of the night.”
Teresa laughs, nerves breaking. “Sounds good either way.”
“This way,” I say, offering my arm. “We’ll go slow. You’ll be experts by dessert.”
Chapter Twenty Three
Olivia
Sunday morning finds me at my desk with the door half-closed and a mug that went lukewarm an hour ago. The building is quieter than it’s been since we opened after a late Saturday night. I’ve got the comp reports open on one screen, the guest ledger on the other, and a legal pad full of flags I’ve been jotting down all weekend so I don’t forget what to check.
I know we still have the rest of today before the grand opening is over, but I prefer to stay ahead of it instead of leaving it to pile up for Monday.
We comped a lot the last two nights. First-weekend generosity buys second-weekend loyalty. I know where the push is supposed to be: midweek room offers to locals, buffet certificates tied to slot play, table-game match for first-timers who signed up for cards, drink credits for guests seated in the lounge during the music sets. Most of it is within the limits we set.
I start tagging the usual outliers—an overzealous floor host who doubled a drink allowance, a server who comped fivedesserts on a single ticket when two would have been enough, a manager who offered late checkout to a big group. Nothing out of the ordinary, but some things that need to be addressed.
That can wait until Monday.
I click on a suite offer and note a comp code I don’t recognize. Guest spend is modest, table time short, slot rating barely in the system. Offer: two nights in a top-floor suite next month with lounge access and a spa credit. I check the authorization trail. Approved.
I cross-check the list. Another name pops: a local couple with a small tab at the steakhouse and a few low-limit roulette spins. They’ve got tickets held for a major headliner. Approved.
My brow furrows. This isn’t overcomping to save face on a service miss; this is deliberate generosity aimed at people who wouldn’t normally trigger it. I pull their play history. Nothing jumps.
I check notes. “Good prospects.” “Community connectors.” Vague. A third file shows a quiet guest with no table play at all, just bar receipts and a gift-shop purchase, tagged for an upgrade pathway if they return within thirty days. Approved.
I note the names down on my legal pad and give a brief description of the approved comps. I check the approval on all three and see the initials: CC.
Not a junior host trying to curry favor. Not a rookie making mistakes.
Caterina herself.
I drill into the comp rules we set together. The structure is tight for a reason. We don’t give comps away without a reason. We trade value for value.
I flip through the rest of the comps to see if there is anything similar, but don’t find anything. Just the three.
I tab over to messaging and start a draft to Caterina with my questions.
A knock snaps against the door—two quick raps, then it swings in before I answer.
“Time to get ready,” Caterina says, already halfway in, eyes bright. She’s in leggings and a zip jacket, hair braided down her back like she’s about to run a 10K. “Come on, Olivia. You promised me you’d let me turn you into a weapon tonight.”
