Chapter 227: Dress Up

>>Riona

Riker led me down a dimly lit hallway, away from the noise of the casino floor. The air smelled of expensive cologne and aged whiskey, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses fading behind us. My stomach twisted slightly—not from nerves, but from the undeniable feeling that I was walking straight into something I couldn’t predict.

Yet at the same time, everything about this place seemed to do something to me, but I couldn’t quiet place my hand on it.

He pushed open a heavy door, and I stepped inside.

Nick was already there, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, a wide grin plastered across his face. He looked way too excited for whatever this was.

“Finally,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Took you long enough.”

I raised a brow. “You seem awfully eager about something.”

Riker crossed his arms. “We have a list.”

I turned to him, tilting my head. “A list?”

“A list of people who’ve been acting a little too interested in Demos and his business.” He walked over to the table in the center of the room and tapped a sheet of paper with a few names scrawled on it. “And one of them? He just so happens to be coming to a private room tonight with a bunch of his friends.”

Nick leaned against the table, grinning. “And guess who’s gonna go in there and get us some information?”

I stared at them both, then exhaled, shaking my head. “Let me guess. Me.”

Riker smirked. “You catch on quick.”

I glanced at the list, my mind already racing. This was it. My first real job for them. I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was going to be easy, but I also wasn’t going to back down.

I looked back up at Riker. “Alright. Tell me what I need to know.”

I stepped out of the changing room, adjusting the fabric against my body as I took a slow breath. The moment I emerged, Nick let out a low whistle, his grin stretching ear to ear.

He clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming. “Oh yeah, you’re gonna have every man in that room eating out of the palm of your hand.”

I shot him a disgusted look and rolled my eyes. “You’re gross.”

He just smirked, completely unbothered.

I glanced down at myself, finally taking in the full effect of the dress they had chosen for me. It was a Chinese-style dress—high-collared, deep crimson, and embroidered with golden thread in swirling dragon patterns. But that’s where the elegance ended.

The slits on either side of the dress went dangerously high, reaching my hips, exposing long stretches of my legs with every slight movement. The fabric clung to my body like it was barely there, the deep neckline dipping lower than I was comfortable with. The material shimmered under the lights, sleek and thin, teasing the skin beneath it.

I let out a slow exhale, resisting the urge to tug at the hem.

Nick gave me an approving nod. “Yeah, they won’t know what hit ‘em.”

I crossed my arms, giving him a sharp glare. “You better hope they’re too busy looking at me to notice how bad I want to stab you right now.”

Nick just laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

The low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses filled the air as I stepped into the private room, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor. A haze of cigar smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and the scent of expensive whiskey lingered in the dimly lit space. The room was lavish—red velvet walls, a crystal chandelier overhead, and a round table at the center where a game of high-stakes poker was already in full swing.

The moment I entered, all eyes turned to me.

Men in tailored suits leaned back in their chairs, their conversations pausing as they took me in. Their gazes traveled from my legs—left exposed by the dangerously high slits in my dress—up to the curve of my waist, and finally to my face, where I flashed a slow, sultry smile.

Everyone was looking—except for the dealer. He remained focused on the game, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced precision. His expression was blank, professional, as if he had seen a thousand women like me walk through these doors before.

I made my way to the bar cart, my hips swaying just enough to hold their attention, and picked up a bottle of top-shelf whiskey. Without waiting to be asked, I poured a glass for the man closest to me—a graying businessman with gold rings on his fingers.

“Drink?” I asked, my voice smooth as silk.

He grinned, showing too many teeth. “Don’t mind if I do.”

One by one, I made my way around the table, serving drinks with a flirtatious touch—a brush of fingers here, a playful smirk there. The men welcomed it eagerly, their laughter growing louder with every sip. I made sure their glasses were never empty, keeping the liquor flowing, encouraging them to drink more, to let their guards down.

I drank with them, too, tipping back my glass with practiced ease. But unlike them, the burn of the alcohol did nothing to cloud my mind. I for some reason, was never able to get drunk easily. I guess I was just born strong.

The game continued—chips stacked high, cards flicked across the table. As the drinks poured, the men grew looser, their tongues looser. They spoke about money, business deals, women. I laughed at their crude jokes, leaned in just enough to make them think they had my attention. But I was listening for something else.

Something useful.

The men had grown bolder as the night stretched on, their inhibitions drowned in the amber depths of their whiskey glasses. Hands roamed too freely—grasping at my waist, brushing against my thigh, lingering too long on my arm. But each time, I slipped away effortlessly, turning the moment into a game.

"Drink up," I would purr, pressing a fresh glass into their hands, redirecting their attention.

I even surprised myself. Why am I so good at this? Was my real family in this business or something?

They were too drunk to notice the pattern—how each time they reached for me, they found a shot of liquor instead. One by one, they fell into my trap, their movements becoming sluggish, their words slurred, their heads lolling against the cushioned chairs.

It wasn’t long before their laughter faded into quiet murmurs, and those murmurs became nothing but the sound of slow, heavy breathing. Their bodies sagged, their heads slumped forward or against the backs of their seats. The game had died down completely.

Silence settled in the room, save for the soft clicking of chips being stacked by the only other person still awake—the dealer. He hadn’t spoken a single word all night, nor had he paid any mind to the way I had manipulated the men right under their noses. He merely continued his work, unmoved by the scene before him.

I finally stood, stretching my legs as I glanced at the unconscious players. This was my chance.

Carefully, I reached for the first man’s suit jacket, slipping my fingers into his inner pocket. His wallet was thick, expensive leather. I flipped it open, skimming the contents. Credit cards, cash, a business card with his name on it. Not what I was looking for.

I moved on to the next one, crouching down beside him as I searched his pockets, checking for identification. I needed to find the detective among them.

Just as my fingers brushed against something solid in the third man’s pocket, the door creaked open behind me.

I froze, my back still bent over, my hand halfway inside the man’s suit jacket.

A voice followed, casual and slightly apologetic.

"Sorry I’m late, had something personal to take care of—"

I stopped breathing.

That voice.

I knew that voice.

My body stiffened, and I could feel his stare burning into my back.

There was a pause, a beat of stunned silence as he took in the room—the heavy scent of alcohol, the unconscious bodies sprawled around the table, the untouched poker chips stacked in neat piles.

And then, finally, he spoke again, slower this time.

"...What the hell happened here?" He stepped forward

I straightened immediately, my hands slipping away from the man’s pockets as if they had been burned. The moment I heard his voice—clearer now, more certain—I knew.

Oh My God! It’s him!

My pulse pounded against my ribs.

He stepped further into the room, surveying the mess before him. The air was thick with alcohol and cigarette smoke, the scent of cologne clinging to the unconscious men slumped around the table.

His brows furrowed. "I’m pretty sure I’m not that late," he muttered, stepping closer. "The plan was to stay here all night, so how the hell are they all passed out already?"

I kept my head down, turning slightly so my hair fell over the side of my face. The dim lighting of the private room worked in my favor, casting enough shadows that I could keep him from getting a clear look at me.

The man walked toward the nearest man, giving him a slight shake on the shoulder. He groaned in response but didn’t wake. "This is troublesome," Niall muttered under his breath.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing.

I had been prepared for a lot of things tonight, but not for this. Not for him.

Of all the people in this damn city, why did it have to be him?

Niall—my ex’s brother!!!

I kept my head down, my fingers gripping the tray just a little too tightly. My heart hammered as I took slow, measured steps toward the door, my legs tense beneath the silk of my dress. I could feel Niall’s presence behind me, his confusion thick in the air.

Just a few more steps.

I reached for the door handle, my fingers brushing against the cool metal—

“Wait.”

My breath hitched.

His voice was firm, not loud, but commanding enough to freeze me in place.

I forced myself to keep my expression neutral as I slowly turned my head, just enough to see him from the corner of my eye. He was staring at me now, his sharp gaze no longer distracted by his unconscious friends.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his tone edged with suspicion.