Chapter 2

Alessandro Villa hardly noticed how his Italian oxfords sank into the thick pile of the silk Persian rug as he paced across it. The unfamiliar bubble of hope made him soar like a tourist on the zipline over Las Vegas Boulevard.

“Alex?”

“Say that again.” Gripping his phone, he planted his feet and stared at the polished mahogany surface of his desk.

“The rumor is that the Paradise is for sale,” Lev said.

His heart thudded in his chest. He’d never thought this day would come, the day when he could show everyone how far he’d risen above the rubble his father had made of their lives.

“You want it, right?” his real estate operations manager prodded. Alex had been silent too long.

“Yes.” He didn’t have to think about it. “You know I do.”

“The gaming board will have to approve it.”

Alex heard what Lev didn’t say. He’d had a prickly relationship with the board since he’d opened the doors of his casino, La Villa. In Vegas, he didn’t think there was such a thing as too over the top, but the gaming board disagreed.

“They’ll approve it.” He’d use all the levers at his disposal to ensure they did. He’d even grovel to his chief critic, Ray Richardson. He had a feeling Ray would demand it.

“Listen.” A note of worry softened Lev’s tone. “Remember, it’s not personal. It’s business. Stay focused.”

Alone in his office, Alex grinned. “I’m always focused. I’ll keep it professional.” Just like the Rissos had kept it professional when they’d bought the hotel at a fire-sale price after the feds seized the Villa family’s assets. He’d never thought the Rissos would sell, so he’d never dared think about what he’d do if he had the opportunity to buy his father’s old hotel and casino. Turning the Paradise into La Villa II—no, La Villa Prime—a world-class resort, would prove to everyone he’d risen like a phoenix.

No, he’d go a step further. He’d demolish the Paradise. Wipe that dump from everyone’s memory, and maybe they’d forget the humiliation his father had brought on their family, too. He’d build something truly ostentatious in its place. A neon-encrusted skyscraper would be an appropriate middle finger to everyone who’d doubted him.

“Anything else, boss?” Lev asked after they’d worked out their bidding strategy.

Alex’s euphoria waned as he remembered why he’d called Lev in the first place. “Yeah. I need you to find a job for Dante Campo.”

“Again?”

“He’s a good worker from a good family.”

“One of those statements is true,” Lev said dryly.

The Campos were a good family, but they’d fallen for his father’s swindle and lost more than money. Mr. Campo died from an aneurysm a few days after Alex’s father had been arrested, leaving Mrs. Campo to care for her two young sons. Alex would be making up for it until the day they carried him feet first out of his casino.

Though the older son wasn’t making it easy. “We just haven’t found the right job for Dante yet,” he said.

“What went wrong with the restaurant?”

“He set the kitchen on fire. A small fire, but my executive chef threatened to quit if I didn’t get him out of there. Maybe he’d be good at clerical work at your office. Less risk of fire.”

“That kid will find a way,” Lev grumbled.

“He’s promised to be on his best behavior. You’ll find him something?”

“Yeah, yeah. Send him over.”

“Thanks.” Alex breathed out a sigh. He’d kept Donna Campo’s boys employed since they were sixteen. Joey, who worked in his event planning department, was a good worker. Dante had always proved more of a challenge. Still, helping him was the least he could do for the family that had lost everything because of his father.

He disconnected the call and set down his phone. Propping his hands on his hips, he surveyed his desk. It was clear of clutter and papers as usual, though work always waited on his laptop. He should review the operations report, but he had too much adrenaline coursing through him to sit still. He needed to move.

Mentally flipping through the day’s activities at the hotel, he found a target for his energy: the wedding expo downstairs. Evie, his head event planner, should have it under control. But at the winter expo, she’d pulled in only eighty percent of the new business he’d been expecting. Six months later, he’d ensure that she was implementing the new tactics they’d discussed.

Going to the door, he pulled his suit jacket from its hanger and shrugged into it. He buttoned it then, glancing in the mirror, smoothed it over his flat stomach and straightened his shirt collar. When all was in place, he opened the door, told his assistant where he was going, and rode down the elevator to the mezzanine.

Only Alex and Lev, who’d seen it in its shabbier days, would have recognized the mezzanine as the top two floors of the budget motel he’d bought ten years ago. He’d hardly slept for a year, worrying over the amount he’d borrowed against his bar to turn the rundown place into a luxury casino and resort. Now, instead of cramped rooms and dim hallways, the mezzanine’s high frescoed ceilings soared over plush carpet, which was currently awash with frothy white tulle, the overpowering scent of roses, and the nervous titters of people about to drop thirty Gs on four hours of cheap champagne and a band that arrived in their mom’s Kia Carnival.

He pasted a smile on his face and strode in. But he didn’t go straight to his booth in the center of the room. He forced his feet to slow as he took a meandering circuit of the expo.

Brides stopped to flutter their false eyelashes at him. Most of them didn’t know who he was, but they liked his bespoke suit and wolfish grin. Vendors waved at him. La Villa hosted at least one wedding reception every weekend, and he’d worked with every major florist, caterer, and wedding chapel in Las Vegas.

“Alex!” The owner of the city’s premier Elvis impersonator agency clapped him on the shoulder. His name was Orville, but he didn’t let anyone call him that.

“Elvis! Looking good. I see you’re enjoying the peanut butter, banana, and bacon sandwiches.” Alex gestured at the stretched middle of his sequined jumpsuit.

Elvis leaned in closer. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve had more requests for, let’s say, a more full-figured Elvis lately. People like a wedding officiant who seems more like your cool uncle than a sex object.”

“Cool, huh? More like eccentric.”

“Don’t forget flamboyant. Why get married in Vegas if you’re not all-in on the razzle-dazzle?”

“True.” Over-the-top glamor was what La Villa promised with its gilded statues and frescoed ceilings. Not to mention the casino dealers with their faux-leather corset tops, short shorts, and fishnets. And every weekend, glitzy events brought in a steady stream of cash.

He glanced at the hotel’s gold-and-white booth in the center of the room. Wait. Why weren’t there any potential customers in it? Brides should have been poring through the galleries of photos or at least taking the ribbon and organza-wrapped candies. Distractedly, he excused himself and hurried to the large, carpeted square in the center of the room where his event planner leaned against the gilded copy of Michaelangelo’s David—his little golden pecker had to be poking her in the back—staring at her phone.

“What are you doing?” he barked.

Evie bobbled her phone. “Don’t scare me like that! I’m checking on the Murray-Achebe cake.”

“You’re supposed to be drawing in clients for next year’s weddings.”

Fire sparked in her usually placid gaze. “My immediate concern is tonight’s reception. If that goes poorly, no one will hire us for a wedding next year.”

“You should have everything in hand for tonight. You’ve got to be more strategic.”

She squared her jaw. “Strategy is your job. Mine is ensuring every event goes flawlessly and reflects well on La Villa.”

“Strategy is everyone’s job.” How could she not see it? The only way he’d gotten himself and his mother out of the poverty his father had landed them in was to look years into the future, to set seemingly impossible goals, and to work his ass off to achieve them. Now thousands of people depended on his success. Strategic thinking was why he was standing in a hotel he owned in a ten thousand–dollar suit.

She pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

“I’ll show you how simple it is.” He turned to face the bustling aisle and cracked the knuckles on his right hand. There. A meandering mother-daughter pair. When he grinned, the mother’s steps faltered. It was almost too easy.

“Good morning.” He reached out his hand, and the white woman took it, just like he knew she would. She stepped onto the carpet, tugging her daughter along. “Who’s getting married?” He glanced between them like he couldn’t tell. It was a rare day when someone surprised him.

“My daughter, June. I’m Valerie.” She didn’t release his hand. That was fine. Alex continued to pump it slowly.

“Your daughter? I was sure you were sisters.” Evie shifted, and he could sense her eye-roll.

Valerie tittered. “I’ve been married for twenty-five years. Everything is so different these days, and I’m a little overwhelmed. The last wedding we went to, there wasn’t even a formal invitation. We got invited on Facebook.”

“Ah, no.” Alex clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Here at La Villa, we value tradition.” Actually, he valued whatever would make him a sale, and today, that would be embossed, hand-addressed invitations. “Our in-house wedding planner, Evie, will help make June’s special day truly unforgettable.” When he turned the full force of his smile on the bride-to-be, her gaze went glassy. He had them.

“Why don’t you start by telling Evie what you have in mind? Then she can tell you how La Villa can make your wedding dreams come true.” He shot his wedding planner a meaningful stare, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. If she couldn’t close the sale he’d served up to her on a platter, he’d cut her loose. He couldn’t afford dead weight in his organization.

With a dip of his chin, he stepped away from the women and almost bumped into the muscled form of someone he knew. Rafe Forza, towed by a suited man and woman he didn’t know. Rafe was almost unrecognizable with his hair gelled into place and wearing khakis and a logo golf shirt instead of his usual mechanic’s coveralls. His eyes were wild like he didn’t like where this situation was headed. But Alex still remembered the sickening snap of his nose when Rafe’s fist connected with it almost twenty years ago. He smirked and let them pass unmolested.

If Rafe was here, that meant… Alex scanned the room. Yes, there it was. The Forzas’ elegant black booth with the red script Forza Elite Motors on the sign above it. But it was missing the person who held the family business together. Mary.

Alex widened his search and found her in the next booth over, her voluminous dark curls and expressive brown eyes calling to him like a beacon. Or maybe it was her olive skin, which seemed to glow like she’d swallowed the early-summer sun.

The sign over her head read, Forza Events. Events? That was new. Putting on his most careless swagger, he sauntered toward the corner booth and paused a dozen feet away to observe.

Mary stood before a pair of men, her hands doing at least half of the talking. In the air before her, her fingers shaped an imaginary layer cake, possibly with flowers on it. Gears would’ve more fitting for a motor-head like Mary. Back in high school, she’d scoffed when he’d told her he was taking his car—his first one, a BMW, before it was repoed—for an oil change. She had him drive it to their shop and showed him how to do it. They’d put on matching coveralls from the rack, and she’d swiped grease off his cheek with a rag.

He’d laughed, wondering why anyone would worry about the hundred dollars the service would’ve cost at the dealership. What an arrogant prick he’d been. Little did he know how useful the skill would be in the lean years ahead, when he’d changed the oil in his next car, an ancient Ford Escort, more times than he could count.

What was she doing with that second booth? He stepped closer.

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