Amauri comes around the corner, giggling, clutching his notebook and lunchbox. The joke is old, repeated almost daily, but he's still young enough to enjoy it, to believe that repetition is proof of love. He hands me my keys with a flourish, as if he's the only thing keeping this operation afloat. Maybe he is.
He slings his backpack over one shoulder with the easy athleticism of a kid already too big for his own body. "I'm ready."
Of course you are. You always are.
The drive to school is mercifully quiet. It's just Amauri and me. I try to savor it, every traffic light and crosswalk, every stretch of silence. He hums along to the radio; the sound is barely audible, more vibration than music, like the way cats purr when they're happy. I glance over at him; his profile is soft in the morning light. He looks nothing like me, not really. He looks exactly like an echo of someone else, someone who left a stamp on his DNA and then vanished.
The radio host clears his throat and switches gears, and I hit the brakes. My hands go white on the steering wheel. "—and in other news, casino magnate and philanthropist Massimo Manetti?—"
"Mummy!" Amauri yelps, grabbing the door handle, panic in his voice.
"I'm sorry," I gasp, heart thumping so hard I can taste it. "Sorry, honey. I just—traffic. Someone cut me off." I try to laugh the lie off, but my mouth is dry.
Manetti.
Of course.
He's always on the news. Always in the background, a hum of gold and arrogance and something colder. Casinos, charities, city projects, his name stamped on everything that matters in this town. There are whispers of organized crime, but no one says it out loud. Not anymore. He's cleaned up, they say. Legitimate, they say. The American Dream. How am I supposed to forget him when his name is everywhere? When Vegas says it like a prayer and a warning all at once?
I force myself to breathe, to unclench my jaw, to keep my eyes on the road. Smile. Drive.
"Are we late?" Amauri asks.
"No," the word is but a hiss of air, before I add more gently, "We're fine. You'll be early, actually."
He nods, reassured, and goes back to his humming. Oh, to be a kid and be able to forget. I drop him off in the car line, kiss his cheek, and make him promise to text when he gets inside. I watch until he disappears through the doors, his backpack bobbing with every step. He's safe. He's out of sight. Only then do I let myself fall apart a little, hands shaking as I grip the wheel. When a car behind me honks, I take in a deep breath and drive to the office, my mind stuck in a loop. The radio keepstalking, filling the car withhisname,hisreach,hispower. It's like there's no air in the city that isn't touched by him.
And all I can think is:Fucking Manetti.
As if forgetting him was ever an option. Even if it weren't for Amauri.
The office is on the twenty-third floor of a glass tower that overlooks the strip. On the elevator up, I catch my reflection in the gilt trim, lipstick intact, eyes steady, all signs of panic erased. I step out into the corridor, my heels echoing off the marble, and I make it almost to my office without incident, but at the last second, I see Carter through the glass wall of the conference room, already holding court, his expression filled with the same good old boy charm that made me fall for him. He spots me instantly and waves. Keeping up appearances.
I take a breath, smooth my skirt, and walk past, head held high, ready to play my part. Because if there is one thing my father and Carter and every man like Manetti has ever taught me, it's how to armor up and walk into the fire like you own the place.
The following meetings are a blur of talking points, media strategies, and not-so-veiled threats. Carter wants me to draft a press release by noon. Dad wants a personal statement ready for the evening news cycle. There's already a rumor that Manetti is hosting a gala in honor of the dead performer, and the optics are brutal. It's a chessboard of grief and leverage, and who can look the most moral for the cameras.
I nod, take notes, and promise the impossible. When the meeting adjourns, I slip away to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and give myself my sixty seconds of Massimo. That's what I allow myself when things go really, really bad. I think of Massimo and me ten years ago, before he just up and left. Sometimes I think about that night we met. The night I killed a man. It helps to remember that I was brought low before androse. Granted, I had Massimo then, but I like to think I would have come out on top even if he hadn't shown up when he did. Sometimes I think of him and me in bed. Of how good his hands felt on me. His kisses, oh God, his kisses. No man has ever kissed me the way he did. So deep and full of confidence and possession. That's where I go now. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let myself fall into his imaginary arms.I love you, he whispers in his deep, dark voice.I love you too, I reply, meaning it with every part of my soul. His arms are around me, strong and steady, holding me in a way that lets me know the world around us could fall apart, and nothing would happen to me because I have him. I breathe in his strength and feel it surrounding me like a heavy coat. We're at the Shark Reef aquarium, surrounded by filtered, bluish light, walking through an underwater glass tunnel. Big and small fish swim all around us, but I only have eyes for the man by my side. The most handsome man I've ever seen. The man who saved me in more ways than one. I still can't believe he calls me his. It seems as surreal as the under-the-sea illusion in the middle of the desert. And yet, here we are.
I can almost smell the air from ten years ago. Just like I can almost feel Massimos' hand around mine.
The timer beeps. My sixty seconds are up. I fix my makeup, wash my hands, and get back to work.
The next day…
The Sovereign never sleeps. Its heart beats in time with the city, a pulse that thrums inside my own chest, making me as restless as the machine I've built. The casino is alive at all hours, all seasons, all states of the soul. No matter who you are or where you come from, if you step onto my floor, you belong to me for as long as I want you. You might not know it, but that's the only thing keeping you safe.
I had the Sovereign constructed for a single purpose: to be unbreakable and unbreachable, as inevitable as gravity. But even the best machine is only as good as the people who run it, and so every corridor, every secret camera, every reinforced door, and silent elevator is an argument against human error. I have spent years learning that no matter how you engineer a system, it's the flesh that betrays you first.
I step through the private entrance, the one guests never see, and take the elevator that requires both a thumbprint and a code that is changed daily. The world outside the elevator shrinks as I rise: the gaming floor, oxygenated and cacophonous, fades into nothing, replaced by soundproofed silence and the kingly monotony of carpet meant to last generations. By the time I reach the top, the only thing that matters is what's on the other side of the door.
The private conference room was modeled on a Roman triclinium, minus the louche decadence. Instead of couches, there are leather chairs. Instead of mosaics, there's a view: the entire valley, the Strip curling below like a neon necklace. The windows are triple-layered, bomb-resistant, and cleaned every morning before dawn by a man who never takes the same route to work twice. If you know where to look, you can see the penthouses where most of the major players sleep, the rooftop pools where their wives and mistresses get sunburned ‘til noon, the little alleyways and garages where their foot soldiers and capos negotiate the price of betrayal.
These are not the things outsiders notice. But I notice everything.
I pause just outside the conference room, listening through the open door, just for the pleasure of knowing these men have already forgotten that nothing in the Sovereign belongs to them, not even their secrets.
"…I'm telling you, if I had that kind of luck, I'd start believing in God again," someone says, and the laughter that follows is sharp and genuine. I know that voice. Damiano Ferrante: raised in Summerlin, first arrested at twelve, a man who never met a rule he couldn't bend or break. His family is big in Vegas and disowned him when he turned eighteen; now he's a billionaire in his own right, buying out his family's businesses one by one. He's good with numbers, even better with people, but what sets him apart is the way he enjoys every minute. Most men in this business develop a death wish or a self-preservation instinct. Damiano managed both.
