Chapter 30
And that evening, with three babysitters in my apartment, our kids were loaded with donuts, pizza, ice cream and more candies.
We walked out in slow motion, like the trailer to a summer blockbuster no one saw coming.
People stopped and stared. A valet walked into a lamppost.
Even the car alarms went off. I opened the door of the SUV like a queen entering a battlefield.
“Let’s go win some money,” I said.
Mylene slid in beside me. “You look like you belong in a spy movie.”
Jhing Jhing grinned. “No. She looks like the final boss.”
I smirked.
“Good.”
The Grand Entrance.
We didn’t walk into the high-roller floor.
We descended like gods with credit limits.
The moment the elevator doors opened, the symphony of money greeted us—slot machines ringing like bells in a cathedral, cards shuffling like whispers of fate, the low murmur of wealth, and the occasional laugh of someone who hadn’t yet realized they were losing their mortgage.
All eyes turned.
Mylene, dressed in shimmering silver, winked at a pit boss like she owned him. Earlier she said about how sexy she was and something like “I'm not plus-size, I'm just easy to see from afar.” And yes, I agree, she was hot. In a way she had curves in all the right places.
Jhing Jhing, in fire-red silk and heels that could impale a man, strutted like it was Paris Fashion Week. And while we were all busy earlier? She said that she was not fat at all. God loves her so much that He decided to supersize her. That's my girl. Her confidence was top notch.
And me?
I was death in black velvet, with a slit up to heaven and lips painted in blood promises.
Though I'm still in a large size era, take note, not extra large anymore, curves are my fashion superpower, and I'm not afraid to flaunt them. I am Leon Darrow for a reason.
I raised my brows as I looked around those vultures.
Those whispers rose like smoke.
Who were we? Why were we here?
Then I caught his eyes. One of Alec’s men. Mick. My former surveillance operator, now wearing a cheap suit two sizes too small and a name tag that said “Casino Loyalty Officer.”
Poor guy. He narrowed his eyes as if he’d seen a ghost—but I tilted my chin, laughed lightly, and said to a nearby wealthy patron in a fake posh voice, “Well, when you win the lottery, darling, you have to celebrate.”
The rich man nodded appreciatively.
Mick? He smirked. That knowing smirk. The kind that said: “Ah, tourists.”
I could see it all in his smug little face: three overdressed women who didn’t know blackjack from baklava.
Three walking, talking bank accounts for the casino to bleed dry.
And that’s when I knew I had him. We walked right past him.
Mylene nudged me. “Did he buy it?”
I grinned. “Oh, he bought it and gift-wrapped it for Christmas.”
Jhing snorted. “Great. Now tell me again—how exactly are we not losing everything we own tonight?”
I touched the gold bracelet on my wrist—the same bracelet Alec once gave me when I “accidentally” saved his life during a yacht shootout off the coast of Marseille. Funny how things circle back.
“Trust me,” I told the girls, my voice low and confident. “Just go with the flow. Follow my lead.”
They nodded, heels clicking with mine in perfect sync as we made our entrance to the high-roller floor.
And let me be clear—we didn’t walk in.
We arrived.
It was like the casino itself paused to catch its breath.
Three women dressed in danger and dripping in designer. Hair perfectly tousled, makeup sharp enough to commit federal crimes. Our dresses shimmered with every step—liquid silk in deep crimson, emerald green, and midnight black. Each slit, strap, and open back strategically chosen to make powerful men forget how to count.
Jhing Jhing’s dress clung to her like a second skin and sculpted to her every generous curve. She looked like a goddess who’d come down from Olympus just to empty your bank account. Her smile? Lethal. Her laugh? A siren’s song that made two men crash into each other near the poker pit.
Mylene's smile highlighted her dusky skin like moonlight on obsidian. Her neckline dipped low enough to give a man religion. She played with the strap of her clutch absentmindedly, the way one might fiddle with a dagger.
Me?
I said I wasn’t here to play—I was here to take souls and leave smudges of lipstick as my signature. We moved like synchronized predators. Every head turned. Men whispered. Women glared or stared—either in admiration or envy. We weren’t just players.
We were the show.
First stop: Blackjack.
The table was dimly lit, like something out of a noir film. Velvet green felt. Polished mahogany trim. A gold plaque reading Minimum Bet: £5,000.
Perfect.