Page 12 of Slots & Sticks
Dot’s shoulders shake once, then stop. “He loved those dogs.”
“You all did.”
She nods, but her face collapses. Knova wraps an arm around her, murmuring something soft that I can’t hear. I stare at the ceiling tiles until my eyes sting, wishing there was a script for moments like this. Something to say that could make it hurt less.
But there isn’t. There’s just the hum of the lights, the thawed ice in her cup, and the weight of everything we can’t fix.
Dot’s shoulders quake once, and she folds into Knova’s side. “I’m going to have to tell him,” she whispers. “That they’re gone too.”
Knova holds her tighter. “Oh, sweetie.”
The words shatter something in the quiet. I grip my coffee, knuckles white against the paper. There’s nothing to say that doesn’t sound stupid or small.
Then the elevator doors open with a soft ding, and Dante Giovanetti steps out. No suit parade. No bodyguards. Just Dante—older, slower, shoulders still broad enough to fill the space. The years have carved him, but they haven’t softened the gravity around him.
“Dot.” His voice rolls through the room, rough and gentle all at once. “There’s my girl.”
Dot blinks like she isn’t sure she’s seeing him. He crosses the waiting room, hat in hand, and lowers himself in front of her. No handshake. No speech. Just a hug that swallows her whole.
“I’m so damn sorry, kid,” he says. “Your mom was one of a kind. Drove me crazy half the time, but she had fire. Vegas’ll be colder without her.”
Dot nods against his shoulder, her fingers trembling where they clutch his sleeve.
“Thanks, Mr. Giovanetti,” she manages.
He pulls back, eyes soft. “Dante, to you. Always has been.”
He looks past her, then finds me. I stand automatically.
“Thanks for coming, Dante.”
He arches a brow, a ghost of his old smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’s Mr. Giovanetti to you, Beck.”
“Right. Of course.”
He chuckles once, but it dies quickly. His gaze goes back to Dot. “Listen, sweetheart. You don’t worry about a damn thing right now. The team’s family, yeah? Your dad’s on payroll. Whatever you need—rides, meals, house repairs, anything—you call me. And if some reporter gives you grief, you send me their name.”
“Thank you,” Dot says, barely above a whisper.
He squeezes her hand. “Your mother sang in the main bar at the Mona Lisa. I’ll never forget that. I’m going to make sure the whole city remembers her that way—light on a stage, not smoke on a screen.”
Her chin trembles, and for a second, I think she’s going to break again, but she nods.
Dante straightens with a small grunt and pats my shoulder on the way out. “Keep an eye on her, Beck. Don’t let me down.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doors close behind him, and the room feels smaller for it.
Knova hands Dot a sandwich. She holds it like she’s forgotten what food is, then forces herself to take a bite.
I do the same, so she won’t feel watched. The bread sticks in my throat. Eating gives my hands something to do besides shake.
By the time a nurse appears, the clock above the check-in desk says one a.m. Dot rises on autopilot when they call her name. Her gait is unsteady, like she’s walking through deep water. She doesn’t look back.
The door swings shut behind her, and the silence that follows is heavier than the waiting itself.
Knova rubs her temples. “What a fucking nightmare. Poor Dot. I wish I’d gotten to her faster.”
