Page 22 of The Bratva King

“Better.” I start walking again.

We move through what will be the casino floor. The subfloor is in. The lighting rig hangs overhead.

“The ballroom,” I head for the east corridor.

They follow me.

“I want this to be the premier venue in the country,” I say. “Your job is to make people believe it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to see the penthouse floor before we leave,” I say. “That’s what you’ll be selling. It can’t feel like the rest.”

We take the service elevator because the main elevators aren’t operational yet. There are drop cloths over everything, and the smell of fresh drywall and primer hangs in the air. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the north wall are in, and I walk straight to them.

Forty stories.

The Strip spreads out below me, sizzling in the July sun. It doesn’t look like much during the day, but at night, the view will be worth the price.

“This is incredible,” Catherine calls from the bathroom. “Wow. Honestly, this bathroom alone will sell the suite.”

I look out at the city I’ve spent the better part of a decade claiming. The Italians think if they make this expensive enough, I’ll cut my losses and go back to New York.

They don’t know me.

Vegas is mine. The first thing I’ve built without the weight of the bratva behind me.

I turn from the window. “Let’s check the spa.”

We’re halfway down when the elevator jerks to a stop, knocking Catherine to her knees. I catch myself with one hand against the wall. The elevator goes black for a second before the security light comes on.

“What happened?” Catherine shrieks. “What’s happening? Are we going to die?”

I press the button for the ground floor.

Nothing.

Pasha presses the emergency button. It buzzes once, then goes silent.

“Okay,” Catherine breathes. “Okay, okay, okay.” She presses herself into the corner. Her portfolio lies where she dropped it when the elevator lurched, papers fanned across the drop cloth. “We’re stuck. We’re forty stories up in an elevator that just lost power inside a building that isn’t finished.”

“We’re not forty stories up,” Pasha says patiently. “We came down several floors. We’re probably closer to thirty.”

“That’s not helpful!”

“Catherine.” I say her name once, quietly. She stops talking. I keep my eyes on the emergency panel as I pull out my phone.

Three bars. Good enough.

I scroll to Frank’s number and call.

He picks up on the second ring. “Mr. Sokolov⁠⁠—”

“I’m stuck in the service elevator between floors. What happened?”

“We lost main power to the east grid. The generator should’ve kicked in automatically, but it didn’t.”

“Should have.”