Chapter 7 - The Gathering at Lake Las Vegas
Three weeks later.
The private villa at Lake Las Vegas was lit up with golden fairy lights, reflecting off the dark, still waters of the artificial lake.
It was the annual winter summit of the Western Regional Hospitality Syndicate—an event where casino owners, hotel moguls, and high-level investors gathered to negotiate territory, contracts, and seasonal distribution deals.
Two hundred wealthy guests filled the marble terrace, wearing designer tuxedos and sparkling floor-length gowns.
Near the center of the terrace, standing beside a ice sculpture of a soaring falcon, was Penelope Davis.
She was not wearing dark navy. She was not wearing shapeless black.
She wore a custom-tailored, crimson silk gown that hugged every magnificent curve of her body, cascading down to her ankles in heavy, luxurious folds. Her dark hair was styled in sleek, elegant waves over one shoulder, and a diamond choker—a gift delivered to her suite that morning with a hand-written note reading 'Take up space'—glistened against her collarbone.
She was holding a clipboard, speaking calmly but firmly to the head beverage manager.
"The vintage champagne goes to table four, not table seven," Penelope instructed, her voice crisp and commanding. "And if Mr. Moretti’s representatives ask for a third bottle of scotch, inform them that the host has personally capped their table's consumption."
"Yes, Ms. Davis," the manager said quickly, nodding before rushing off to execute her orders.
Penelope turned around, taking a slow sip of sparkling water from a crystal flute.
Across the terrace, standing near the marble balustrade overlooking the water, was Dominic Rossi.
He was surrounded by four major hotel executives, listening to a pitch about a new resort expansion on the North Strip. He was wearing an immaculate charcoal tuxedo, his silver-capped cufflinks catching the terrace lights.
As if feeling her gaze, Dominic turned his head toward her.
He didn't care that three hotel CEOs were mid-sentence. His grey eyes locked onto Penelope in her crimson dress, a slow, dangerous, utterly devoted smile spreading across his handsome face.
He raised his glass slightly toward her in a silent, private toast.
Penelope smiled back, raising her water flute in return.
Suddenly, a harsh, nasal voice interrupted her quiet moment.
"Well, look who got a wardrobe upgrade."
Penelope turned around slowly.
Standing behind her was Victor Moretti—the younger brother of Chicago mob chief Joseph Moretti. He was a skinny, rat-faced man in his late thirties, wearing a pinstripe suit that cost more than a small car, flanked by two heavy-set muscle men whose jackets bulged suspiciously under their arms.
"Victor," Penelope said smoothly, her posture remaining perfectly upright. "I see you managed to find the terrace. I trust your table is satisfactory?"
Victor stepped closer, his eyes scanning her crimson dress with an ugly, condescending sneer. "I heard Tony Lombardi got sent on an extended vacation to the desert. And now the catering director is wearing fifty thousand dollars worth of diamonds. Did you sleep your way to the top of the Rossi payroll, sweetheart?"
The two bodyguards behind him chuckled.
Penelope didn't flinch. She didn't look down. She took a slow, measured step toward Victor Moretti, stepping directly into his personal space, using her full height and presence to look down at him.
"Mr. Moretti," she said, her voice dangerously clear, carrying over the string quartet playing nearby. "Tony Lombardi is currently residing in a state-monitored facility awaiting federal indictment for extortion and conspiracy. If you speak to me with that disrespectful tone again, I will have my security detail escort you to the parking lot, where Mr. Rossi will be waiting to discuss your family’s unpaid debts in Chicago."
Victor’s sneer instantly evaporated. He looked over her shoulder, noticing that Dominic had already left his group of executives and was walking across the terrace toward them, his broad shoulders clearing a path through the crowd like a warship cutting through waves.
Beside Dominic, Matteo and two tactical guards were stepping out from the shadows of the arched doorways.
"You're making a mistake, lady," Victor muttered, taking a quick step backward.
"I don't make mistakes, Victor," Penelope said, her voice as smooth as crushed velvet. "I manage events. Now go back to table nine and eat your dinner."
Victor glared at her, but when he saw Dominic reach the edge of the terrace carpet ten feet away, he quickly turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd of guests.
Dominic stopped beside Penelope, his heavy hand resting naturally against the small of her back, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle through the silk of her dress.
"Do I need to throw him into the lake?" Dominic asked quietly into her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
"No," Penelope said, turning her head to give him a radiant, radiant smile. "I handled it."
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Dominic looked at her—at her strength, her beauty, her total lack of fear in a world built on terror—and let out a low, satisfied laugh that warmed her down to her toes.
"I know you did, my queen," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple in front of two hundred powerful people. "I know you did."
