Chapter 8 #2
As the elevator opens, I glance once more at my reflection in the mirrored panel.
Danger. Wrapped in velvet.
Death. Wearing red lipstick.
Let Rafael watch. Because tonight, I burn the board.
The soft hum of the elevator is the only sound between us. Ash stands beside me, arms folded, eyes locked on the descending numbers as if they might blink and vanish. Kellan is quiet, too. But his silence is never passive. It pulses with awareness. Readiness.
I watch my own reflection in the elevator’s mirrored panel. Red lipstick. Sharp collarbones. Daggered heels. And that look in my eyes—the one that always comes right before I do something reckless.
Good.
Let him see this version of me. The one that doesn’t flinch.
The one who doesn’t kneel.
When the doors slide open into the garage, the temperature shifts. Cooler. Harsher. The kind of stillness right before thunder breaks the sky.
We move together—silent, practiced. Ash heads for the car, the matte black one we always take when we don’t want to be seen. Kellan opens the back door for me like it’s instinct.
I slide in, cross one leg over the other, and rest my elbow on the door, fingers brushing the edge of my lips.
They both get in—Ash behind the wheel, Kellan riding shotgun. No music. No distractions. Just the sound of tires rolling over concrete as we pull out. I look out the window, watching the city blur.
“She’ll be there,” Kellan says after a while.
I glance over. “Who?”
“Your ego. Sitting at Rafael’s table, sipping your drink.”
Ash chuckles low. “Hope there’s room for the rest of us.”
I smirk. “Don’t worry. She’s generous. She shares her victories.”
Ash’s eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror. “What about her enemies?”
My smile fades into something colder. “She doesn’t.”
The car turns, neon signs beginning to flicker across the windshield. The sky is dark now, city lights reflected in the glass like broken stars.
“Viktor’s in a private suite, but he’s been walking the floor,” Kellan says, scrolling through something on his phone. “Our guy inside says he’ll come down again by nine. You’ll spot him.”
“Romanov?” I ask.
“Already there. Corner table, same spot he always takes when he’s surveying.” Kellan glances back at me. “He’ll see you.”
“Good.”
Let him. Let him watch me slip into the arms of a man who wants to kill him and look like I’m doing it for fun.
Ash clears his throat. “This is dangerous, even for you.”
“Exactly why I’m the one doing it.”
They don’t argue. They never do when I say it like that. Because we all know I’ve already made up my mind.
I lean my head back and exhale slowly as the lights of Rafael’s casino come into view, bold and gleaming like a crown of fire.
I tilt my chin up, watching the glass doors grow closer. “Let the games begin,” I whisper.
The moment my heel touches the marble, the entire casino seems to shift. Not outwardly. Not visibly. But in that slow, invisible way that tension ripples through a room when something just walked in that doesn’t belong—yet owns every inch of the ground it claims.
I step in alone.
Kellan and Ash had peeled off silently at the entrance, slipping into their positions without a word. No nods. No parting looks. Just instinct and trust.
The doors close behind me. And I walk into fire.
Gold light spills over the walls like melted coins. The scent of expensive cologne, perfume, and power fills the air, laced with cigarette smoke and the undercurrent of sweat and adrenaline. Chips clink. Laughter bubbles. Ice shifts in whiskey tumblers.
But all of it dims beneath the echo of my heels.
I don’t rush. I never rush.
The dress clings like sin, the gold chain belt glinting with every slow sway of my hips. The slit reveals just enough to earn attention—calculated, never careless. My ponytail swings like a whip behind me, and the red lipstick is a slash across my face, a warning painted pretty.
I know exactly what I look like. And that’s the point.
I walk toward the bar, feeling eyes track my path like lasers. Some filled with curiosity. Others with hunger.
But one… only one burns with something colder. Sharper.
I order a drink—something dark and bitter, poured slow and neat. I take it in my hand and lean against the bar like I have all the time in the world.
And then I glance sideways—just enough to see him. Rafael Romanov. Seated like he owns the room. Because he does.
He’s angled in his chair, one arm resting on the back, a crystal tumbler in his other hand, ice glinting. He’s surrounded by men—Bratva, no doubt—but it’s him that the light finds.
Dark suit. White shirt. No tie. The top buttons undone, revealing the curve of his collarbone and the whisper of tattoos beneath it.
But it’s his eyes that strike me. Because they’re already on me.
I meet his gaze without blinking. And then, with a slow, deliberate lift of my hand, I raise my glass to him.
Smile.
Sip.
His expression doesn’t change. But something shifts in his jaw. Something that makes heat coil in my stomach.
Let it burn, Rafael.
You drugged me. You let me fall asleep with a weapon still strapped to my thigh. Tonight, I remind you what happens when you underestimate the knife you sheathed.
I turn away from him and refocus on the floor. Laughter. Clinking chips. The low hum of tension that never leaves this place.
And then I hear it. Kellan’s voice in my ear, quiet and clear. “Viktor’s in. Black suit, no tie. East corner, two tables past the roulette. He’s seated. Alone for now.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. Too many eyes. Too much risk. I just lower my gaze to the rim of my glass and take another sip, letting the ice kiss my lips.
My pulse calms. My spine lengthens.
I wait three minutes. Then I set the glass down, cross the floor with slow precision, and spot him exactly where Kellan said he’d be.
Viktor Dreshaj. Albanian. Ruthless. And perfectly placed.
I smile as I approach.
Let the second game begin.
He doesn’t look up right away. Not until I’m standing close enough that he can smell the perfume on my skin—dark jasmine, black pepper, and something smoky beneath it.
Then, slowly, Viktor Dreshaj turns his head. His eyes sweep me, shameless and unhurried. Not like Rafael’s—measured and assessing—but like a man who assumes he already owns whatever stands before him.
I give him nothing. Only a tilt of my head. Only a smile.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask, voice silk-wrapped steel.
He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs a little, arms loose over the sides. Like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort of a response.
“Depends,” he says, voice low and rough. Albanian accent curling around the word. “You here to sell something or steal something?”
I smile, unbothered. “Neither. But if I was , that’s a hell of a way to greet me.”
He chuckles—just a breath of it—and nods toward the seat across from him. “Sit, then. Let’s see what you’re worth.”
I slide into the chair, crossing my legs slow enough to catch his attention. His eyes dip once, then return to mine.
“I haven’t seen you before,” he says.
“I haven’t given you reason to,” I answer.
He leans forward slightly. “You usually work the floor?”
My lips curve. “Do I look like I work here?”
His gaze flicks to the dress. “You look like trouble.”
“And you look like you want it.”
That earns a smile from him. Not warm. Not kind. But interested. The kind of look that predators give each other before they decide whether to fight or fuck.
“Name?” he asks.
I take a sip of the champagne that a server silently places at the edge of the table. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“I’m asking.”
“Then it’s Isabella.”
“Isabella,” he repeats, like he’s tasting it. “And what are you doing at my table?”
I glance around us casually, then back to him. “Your table? I didn’t see your name engraved anywhere.”
Another flicker of a smirk. “You’re sharp.”
“You’d be amazed how few men enjoy that.”
“I do.” He takes a sip of his drink—vodka, neat. “But I still want to know what you’re doing here.”
I lean in a little, just enough for the gold chain at my waist to glint beneath the low lights. “I was bored.”
“You came to the casino alone?”
I shrug. “Not everyone needs an entourage to feel important.”
That makes something shift behind his eyes. He studies me, really studies me now. “Are you here to win something?” he asks.
“Maybe.” I swirl the drink in my hand. “Or maybe I’m just here to watch people lose.”
He chuckles again, and it’s deeper this time. He’s relaxed now, leaning in like the hook has already caught. “That’s dangerous talk.”
“I like dangerous things.”
He cocks his head. “You always this direct?”
“Only when I want something.”
“And what do you want?”
I pause, letting the silence stretch. Letting it wrap around us, thick and warm. Then I smile. “You’ll have to keep me entertained to find out.”
He shifts forward, his hand brushing the rim of his glass, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “You want to play a hand?”
“Poker?”
“Unless you had something else in mind.”
I set the glass down and lean forward just enough that the curve of my chest grazes the edge of the table. “Maybe I do. But we’ll start with poker.”
He lifts a hand and signals for a dealer. The table begins to reset.
My smile never falters. Let’s play, Viktor.
And let’s see if you bleed as easily as you bluff.
The chips clink. Cards shift. But all I hear is the silence between my breaths and the unspoken weight behind every glance Viktor throws my way.
He thinks this is a game of chance. It isn’t.
It’s war, dressed in velvet and lit by chandeliers.
I rest my elbow on the table, fingers toying with the edge of my champagne glass, eyes locked on the dealer’s hands as he begins to deal the first hand. Five cards, neat and clean. Viktor watches too, lounging like a king bored of his crown.
But he’s not bored now. He picks up his cards without rush, and I do the same, letting my expression remain unreadable.
Three kings. The kind of hand that tempts you to smile. I don’t.