He says, "I have a job for you."

He comes in still happy from my gratefulness to him but approaches me like one of his own bodyguards. He wipes the smile off of my face. He grabs me by the shoulder and I grab a my faux fir trimmed hood jacket just in time before we head out the door. He talks to me like he wants to confide in me.

"I know you haven't gotten to know me or this place for a little while and I sorry," he says.

Confused, I say, "Don't be sorry."

"I know, I know. It's just that I have to send you on an errand."

"An errand?"

"My son Joey, is coming in from New York and I need you to take a driver and a car to the airport. Security will let you in because of my authority. The plane arrives in an hour, so be prompt."

"But-"

"I take it you are able to do this little task."

He pushes me off to the man waiting in the living room, who I assume is the driver. He has an Asian complexion but has the same poker face as the bodyguards outside. He's tall unlike other Asians and he is about a foot taller than me. I can't even see his eyes through his dark sunglasses, which I believe is useless in the dimly lit room. I try to talk it out with Mr. Forelli, but he disappears down an hallway. Without saying anything, the driver immediately leaves. We leave without saying another word.

We get into the elevator and the driver pushes the B button. We ride the elevator down to the basement and get out. The driver leads me to a private garage that has armored trucks, courier bikes, off-road trucks and bikes, and an armored Mercedes Benz and Rolls-Royce limo. The driver pushes his remote and he unlocks the car. The Benz typically is in black but has custom wheels on it. All the windows are tinted with a limo tint so no would-be tourists or assassin can get a look at his or her target. The driver respectfully opens a door to the backseat and I quickly get inside. He closes the door and walks towards the driver's side door. He gets in and turns the car on. I turn on a light in the back and I see the luxury and safety of the car. Specialized bullet and shatter proof glass surround me but I clearly see the outside environment. Beige leather seats comfort my butt and back. A half-transparent divider separate the business going on in the back front all the business going on in the front. I see the driver put the car in drive and we exit out a security door.

We drive out of the restricted area and onto a road leading to the airport. The day is around noon where the sun is highest in the sky. As the driver navigates through the local traffic, I see the businesses going in and out of the main terminal. Las Vegas Internation is seen in bold letters above the terminal awning.

The driver manuevers away from the traffic and main terminals and drive around the back to a security gate, usually restricting local traffic from getting into the runways. We approach the gate and the driver shows a badge that is now opening the gate. I see major airliners arriving and departing and boarding and unboarding passengers. We park in a private area reserved for VIP vehicles. The driver stops the car and puts it in park. I immediately get out of the car and motion the driver to stay inside the car.

I search the horizon for a private jet or helicopter. For two minutes or so I wait. Then I see bright lights from a distant jet in the air shine. It lands smoothly and rolls to a stop right in front of the car. A minute passes, which I assume is when the pilots and maintenance crew check if anything is loose, broken, or just plain acting unusual. Then I see the door of the jet open. I see an old man, with graying hair on his head and face unboard and descend the stairs. He stands like in military protocol, and waits for the next man to get down. The next man is younger, but older than me, about the age of 24 or 26. He has black hair and for some reason I feel a large sense of attraction to him. Dressed in a tux he greets the man waiting for him. He looks at the scene of Las Vegas and then sees the parked car with a young woman standing next to it. He doesn't smile or frown, just looks and walks to the car. As he nears the car, I offer my hand to greet him.

"Hello, Mr. Forelli. I'm Maya Milano. Your father sent me to greet you!" I say in an overly friendly voice matching that of Claire who is the clerk in the lobby of Caligula's Casino and Hotel.