Page 46 of Maximum Bet

Sure. I type back, sipping on my water.

Three dots appear before his response.

Meet me in the lobby of Pharaoh’s Temple in half an hour.

I twist the lid onto my bottle and leave it resting on the counter. Dressed in dark, bootcut jeans and an old Pacific Ballet T-shirt, I know I need to change.

When I get to my closet, I flip the light on. I’m still not used to the custom shelves and racks fit for a luxury shop. A miniature chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and a plush gold ottoman sits in the center.

I trace my index finger along the fabric of my blouses, figuring I can dress up my jeans with a silky top. I pause on a pale-pink camisole with a lace appliqué. With a pair of wedges, it’s perfect for a late spring day.

I slip on the top and pull a pair of surprisingly comfortable, wedge-heeled sandals from my collection. Once dressed, I visit the vanity in our bathroom to touch up my makeup—subtle when I’m not on stage—and pull my hair into a sleek pony.

Before I leave, I grab my purse and tuck my phone and leftover sparkling water inside.

Satisfied with a quick mirror check, I take off to meet my fiancé.

Dominic hums, tilting his head to the side as he considers the lamb dish he sampled. There’s a spread in front of us that could feed Marcoandhis security team.

Lamb, chicken, rice, hummus, falafel—my favorite—all hand-selected by the Jewel of the Nile chef.

“I like it,” Dominic decides with a nod, then moves on to a saffron chicken.

I dip pita in hummus topped with oil and chickpeas. It’s creamy and perfectly seasoned with garlic and lemon.

“Okay,” I say, after swallowing. “This is delicious.”

“I’m happy with it.” Dominic places his fork on the table and reaches for his water. “I think the restaurant will do well.”

“I think it’s already doing well.” I laugh, gesturing to the packed tables. “If this is what lunch looks like, dinner will have a line going through the casino.”

Dominic smirks, obviously proud of himself and his accomplishments.

Despite the hiccup at the gala, the hotel opening has been smooth. The staff is well trained and provides exceptional customer service, and guests rave about their visits.

Dominic and Lucas beefed up security and updated all the associates’ clearance cards, and Leo installed a more secure firewall on the surveillance systems. A new class of Romano-Tariello soldiers came on last week, split between Il Palazzo and Pharaoh’s Temple. They’re well trained, armed, and on constant lookout for Bratva and cartel associates breaching the perimeter of the properties.

“I want to check in on the show’s rehearsal,” Dominic says after finishing his meal. “Violet keeps pushing back the opening date. I’m getting ready to cancel her contract. If I’d known she was this much of a diva, I wouldn’t have hired her.” He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration apparent.

Violet Taylor is a pop star who, up until a few years ago, was filling arenas and a sensation on social media. With her bleached blonde hair, toned abs, and fake boobs, she’s the California beach babe encapsulated. But after a couple of DUIs and an affair with a much older man who was caught embezzling money from other celebrities, Violet’s career stalled. She’s no longer the bright, shiny personality she once was.

When she left her second stint in rehab, Dominic offered her a chance to revitalize her career without the pressure of aworldwide tour. He needed a headliner for Pharaoh’s Temple, and she needed a fresh start.

“I guess I’m not surprised she’s difficult to work with.” I shrug, following Dominic as he stands. “She doesn’t have the best reputation.”

“She has a contract.” He throws a few hundred-dollar bills on the table as a tip. “She’s in violation of it.”

We make our way through the restaurant, a couple of security guards joining us at the exit. They walk close behind as we head toward the theater.

Dominic took to keeping a couple of his men close by at all times. Backup in case a battle breaks out.

Dominic swipes his key card to unlock the theater doors, and we slip inside quietly. The doors leading from the lobby into the auditorium are open. Through them drifts familiar pop music. If nothing else, Violet’s songsarecatchy.

Suddenly, the music stops, and a frustrated groan plays over the audio system.

“No, damn it. This is a hot fucking mess. How do you expect me to cross the stage when you’ve got your damn dancers spinning on either side of me?” Violet snaps at a woman standing in the third row.

With a disapproving huff, Dominic crosses his arms and takes a spot by the back wall.