“The window being double-sided does not erase the possibility of someone, with the right tools, while you're in front of a bright monitor, finding your silhouette,” he says. “You also have the same issue on the other side.”
He gestures to the windows that look down over the casino.
“You think someone is lining up a shot from the casino floor?” I ask sarcastically, knowing I'm being petty but not able to stop it. “You think someone would be so stupid as to attempt that knowing security will be on them in a second?”
“I think some people are willing to risk their lives depending on the motive,” he says. “And since we don't know the motive for the threat, we can't take that chance.”
He goes on in that same maddeningly level tone.
“You also have the frosted glass on your door, and that gives people a clear view of you,” he explains. “And since we know that there's a chance that this person is on the inside, we also know there's a chance that they have access to internal cameras. Or that they've been in your office before. Anyone who has a basic idea of your office setup knows exactly where you sit.”
That stops me.
I have no answer for that because it's the kind of risk assessment I do every day in my job, just with different numbers, different consequences. I'm always calculating the odds, weighing the risks. The only difference is that he's calculating the odds on my life, and that makes it very personal.
And he's thinking of things I never would have thought of.
“You built this office to command the room,” he continues. “I understand that. But right now it also gives away your position too easily.”
The words stick in my throat.
Not because it is sweet. It isn’t. There is nothing sweet about him.
Because it is direct.
I look at the desk. At the chair I have used since before we even opened. At the window behind it. I suddenly cannot stop seeing it the way he sees it.
At the camera in the corner that I once thought was keeping me safe but might be giving someone insight into my life that could be used to hurt me.”
Then back at him.
“I hate this,” I say.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “I know.”
And somehow that is worse than if he had argued.
Chapter Seven
Adrian
Regalia sits in a quieter corner of the casino, though that does not make the restaurant quiet. Nothing inside a place like The Regent Club is ever truly quiet.
Even with the lunch service over and the dining room between seatings, the casino is still alive beyond the walls.
A constant low pulse of voices, movement, slot chimes, money changing hands. The sound reaches the restaurant in softened waves, filtered through heavy doors, thick walls, and expensivedesign choices meant to make people feel they’ve stepped out of one world and into another.
It works. The place is polished without feeling cold. White tablecloths. Dark wood. Low lighting even in the afternoon. A long bar, gleaming at one end of the room. The open kitchen is partially visible from where I pause just inside the entrance, enough stainless steel and order to tell me the people running it know what they’re doing.
The air still holds the remains of lunch service. Garlic, wine, butter, slow-cooked meat, fresh bread, coffee.
Good food. Rich food. The kind that keeps people in their seats longer than they planned.
Bad for security, depending on where the seats are.
I stop there for a second and let my eyes move over the room the way they always do.
Entrances first.
