I put my hand on my stomach. It’s still flat with nothing to feel, but that won’t be long.
My mother was pregnant and she stayed and the alpha who gave her those years broke her into pieces so small she never got them all back. She should have left when she was carrying me. Or before. Or after.
But she didn’t. Maybe she couldn't. Same as me.
16. Dom
It’s finally time.
I put Kozlov and Petersen on the front doors and tell them nobody comes in and nobody goes out. Kozlov doesn't ask questions. Neither does Petersen. They're Viktor's men, vetted, steady. They take their positions at either side of the main entrance and stand with their hands clasped in front of them.
The casino floor is running at half capacity. Tuesday night. The mid-week crowd is lighter, which is why we chose it. Fewer guests to manage, fewer variables.
I've been planning this for a week. Viktor's been planning the logistics for three days. The digital file is on a tablet in his jacket pocket: photographs, names, shift patterns, known associates. Every outside runner who's touched my floor in the last three months. Every insider Theo identified. Every name Cath confirmed.
Viktor is at the pit, speaking to the floor manager. I watch him gesture toward the doors and the floor manager's face changes. Confusion first, then something closer to alarm. Viktor's hand goes to the man's shoulder. The floor manager nods and picks up his radio.
"Ladies and gentlemen." The PA system crackles to life. "The Claremont Grand will be closing early this evening due to a private function. We apologize for the inconvenience. All activebets will be honored at current value. Please make your way to the cashiers, where our staff will be happy to assist you."
The reaction is immediate and predictable. Confusion at the blackjack tables. A group of college kids at the slots look at each other as if they've been told school is out early and they're not sure if it's a trick.
The dealers handle it. They're trained for this, or something close enough. Chips are counted, hands are settled, the polite machinery of eviction begins. My staff are good at this. I pay them well and they move through the floor with the kind of courtesy that keeps people walking toward the exit instead of arguing.
There's a moment where it could go wrong. A man at the high-roller table, mid-fifties, flushed, three bourbons deep. He doesn't want to leave. He's up twelve thousand and he's convinced the next hand is going to double it. The floor manager approaches and the man's voice goes loud and his hand slaps the felt and I watch from across the room as one of Viktor's independents — a woman in a dark suit with a radio in her ear — appears at the man's elbow. She says something I can't hear. The man looks at her. He looks at the table. He picks up his chips and walks to the cashier.
Nobody else argues.
I stand near the central bar and watch the floor empty. Viktor materializes beside me.
"Twenty minutes," he says. "Give or take."
"Where are we on the roster?"
He pulls a folded sheet from his inside pocket. Every name cross-referenced against tonight's shift assignments. Eleven people. Seven are on the floor right now. Two are in the back offices. One is in the cage.
One is not here.
I'm not thinking about the one who isn't here yet. Right now, I'm watching the last of the public drain out through the doors. The heavy glass doors shut and the casino floor, for the first time since I took over this building, goes quiet.
The silence is strange. The slot machines are dark. The roulette wheels are still. The only sound is the low murmur of staff gathering on the main floor.
I think about Theo. He's upstairs in the suite with the door locked. I told him to stay put tonight
Everything is coming together. The phrase keeps circling in my head and I know better than to trust it because the moment you think you've got control is usually the moment it starts slipping, but the facts are the facts. I have the names. I have the evidence. I have Cath on my side and Viktor's men in position and a digital file on every outside runner who's set foot on my floor in the last three months.
And I have Theo, pregnant and furious, sleeping in the room next to mine with a lock on the door that he uses every night.
I know the way I've gone about this isn't going to win awards. He hates the monitor. He hates the restrictions.
He hates that I won't let him leave and he's right that it's not fair and I don't care.
He'll come around. Once the Castellanos are dealt with, once the threat is gone, I can start giving him back the things I've taken.
He'll see. He'll understand why I did it this way. I believe that. I have to.
Viktor checks his watch. "Ready."
"Staff," he says into his radio. "All personnel to the main floor. Now."
