Page 24 of Maximum Bet

Jaqueline schedules our next fitting in one week, whisks away her wardrobe rack, and heads to the boutique downstairs.

“I don’t know what we’d do without her,” Sadie says after we grab bottles of sparkling water and exit the penthouse.

“Look a lot less glamorous.” I laugh as we enter the elevator. “You interested in a shoe-shopping trip this weekend?”

Sadie’s eyebrow cocks. “Ma’am, when have Inotbeen interested in a shoe-shopping trip?”

“Saturday before the show?”

“It’s a date.”

Once we reach the casino, we share a parting hug, and I leave Sadie to go on her way. She has her first birthing class this afternoon. It’s adorable how excited both she and Lucas are as they prepare for their bundle of joy.

Securing my purse over my shoulder, I turn toward the lobby where Dominic texted me to meet him. As I stroll through the casino, I catch heads turning my way. Las Vegas locals whisper when I pass, familiar with the girl regularly pictured with Dominic Tariello. Out-of-towners cock their heads in question, wondering if I’m a celebrity.

Nope. Just a showgirl who happened to snag the city’s most eligible bachelor.

I settle on a plush bench near the front doors, next to an ornate fountain with Botticelli babies pouring water from a jug. A young girl runs up to toss a penny in before scurrying back to her parents.

I spot Dante hovering nearby with a few of the new Romano-Tariello associates. He nods when he catches my eye. I should have known better than to think Dominic would allow me to be in the lobby without protection.

A bellhop passes through the front doors with a luggage rack. He weaves around a retired couple, focused on his job, before his steps stutter and his eyes widen. Suddenly, his back straightens and his head lifts. He’s all business, as if delivering suitcases has become life or death.

I twist to find out what he sees that has garnered such a reaction, and I chuckle.

Across the lobby, near the entrance of the casino, a group of men walks in, three in front, two behind. They’re all business with black suits and shined shoes. The two in the back have discreet security earpieces.

I stand and smooth my hands along my shirt, making sure the hem hasn’t bunched. Walking toward the men, I send a smile to the bellhop, who allows me to pass in front of him.

The leader of the group, none other than my fiancé, stops, and the other four follow his lead. He speaks first to his brother, who returned from his honeymoon over the weekend, and then to his adviser. The two men nod in sync at whatever directions Dominic gives them before they split off, with Lucas and Lorenzo following them.

Dominic scans the area, taking in the staff and patrons milling about. His brows furrow as a particularly obnoxious group appears through the hotel’s front doors. They’re holding enormous neon-colored drinks that they procured somewhere along The Strip.

I approach, linking my arm in his. “Hi.” I grin up at him, excited to be by his side.

He squeezes my hand where it rests on his bicep, and his lips curve into a smirk. “Miss me?”

“Always.”

“Good.” He spurs me toward the doors, and I follow willingly. “Hungry?”

“Famished. Sadie and I spent all morning trying on dresses. It works up an appetite.”

He laughs as he leads me down the front steps. At the bottom, a valet attendant opens the passenger door of a black Maserati, one of the many cars Dominic owns.

The car purrs to life as Dominic presses the ignition, and we pull away from the curb onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

“You seemed to be deep in conversation with Marco and Leo,” I say as we turn left past Caesars Palace.

Dominic hums and places his hand on my thigh. “We’re figuring out logistics for a trip.”

“Another?” I squirm in my seat. Dominic’s travels usually mean Romano-Tariello business. It’s not often he has to leave Las Vegas for his hotels.

“We can talk at lunch.” He turns again, and I recognize the course of direction. We’re headed toward his great-Uncle Sal’s restaurant, Trattoria Palermo.

Yep. Whatever’s going on definitely has to do with the Romano syndicate. Trattoria Palermo is one of the few places Dominic and his family can talk business without fear of repercussions.

I’m quiet for the remainder of the drive. The jazz Dominic has playing over the radio does little to quell the nerves building in my belly. By the time we arrive, the idea of eating makes my stomach churn.