For a moment, I only stare at the sentence.
Then, beneath it, I start making columns.
Threats.
Access.
Information.
Business impact.
Family impact.
The action steadies me in a way the emails do not. They’re an outlet for the panic pressing against the edges of my mind. It’s not real information. Not a conclusion. But enough to make me feel less like I am floating aimlessly.
I pick up the pen again, and I start writing. Everything I can remember and all the details.
The note. The route change with Erica and Emma. Regalia. Halloran. The attack on the floor. Press sniffing around. Board wanting a meeting.
I tap the pen once against the page.
The men downstairs are probably focused on shooters, badges, routes, weapons, and who had physical access.
They should be. That matters.
But it is not all that matters.
Someone knew when to pull me onto the floor. Someone knew Halloran would make noise. Did someone somehow cause it? Someone knew how casino operations respond under pressure. Someone knew enough to create chaos and hide in it.
The thought sinks in slowly.
Not fully. Not yet.
But enough.
I sit back, the pen still between my fingers.
Maybe this is not just about Papà.
Maybe it is not just about blood, revenge, or some old enemy with a gun and a grudge.
Maybe part of this is about the casino.
The second I think it, something inside me sharpens.
The casino is not only where the attack happened.
It is where I am most visible.
It is where the family is most public.
It is where legitimate power and old power overlap. All of the moving pieces of the casino. A thousand small openings wrapped in polished marble and velvet ropes.
I lean forward again and write:
“What if The Regent Club is not just the stage?”
Then, after a long second, I add:
