How beautiful it is.
Page (1/3)
The first floor of the Los Hotel glittered with golden light in its grand lobby.
“Robert and Kade, one room,” Dean quickly arranged his drunken companions. “Noah and Liam. Last and Britney.” Dean winked at his buddy, whose dazed gaze instantly cleared. He shivered, looking at the flushed, radiant Britney leaning against his shoulder, his heart pounding wildly.
Was he finally going to share a room with his girlfriend?
“And then…” Dean glanced at Caroline, who was nearly unconscious. Her eyes were closed, her warm hands clinging tightly to his waist, long legs restlessly shifting as if afflicted by hyperactivity.
“I'll be with Caroline,” Dean declared, tossing a handful of driver’s licenses and bank cards onto the reception desk. “Top floor, four rooms. We want to watch the stars.”
The receptionist repeatedly checked ages and faces on the licenses, then glanced at Caroline’s flushed cheeks beside Dean. She sighed inwardly—another scene of a playboy deceiving an innocent girl.
“Sorry, the top floor is only open to VIP guests.”
“Then the nineteenth floor,” Dean replied offhandedly. “19-1, 19-2, 19-3, 19-4. Arrange them, please.”
“Sir, please don’t make things difficult. Guests aren’t allowed to pick room numbers; I’ll do my best to accommodate…”
Her words abruptly cut off as she discreetly accepted Dean’s five-dollar bill, swiftly slipping it into her sleeve, flashing a sweet smile, and efficiently swiping their cards.
“Please wait, I’ll have it ready right away.”
…
Everyone rode the elevator to the nineteenth floor. Dean distributed the rooms; he took 19-3.
“Kid, I’ve loved and protected her as if she were my own daughter for five years, just to ensure she wouldn’t be corrupted!” Robert’s plump body leaned against 19-2’s door, his drunken face suddenly serious. “She may be beautiful, but she’s never been a frivolous girl. If you take her tonight, you must be responsible for her and write her a few good songs!”
“Otherwise, I won’t let you off!”
“I’ll give special consideration to signing a contract with you,” Dean replied.
Robert’s shiny round face froze. He looked at Caroline, limp against Dean, and gritted his teeth in torment.
“Sweet dreams!” he called, shoving Kade inside and slamming the door.
…
19-3.
Dean surveyed the room. Even the standard rooms at the Los Hotel were larger than most inns—over fifty square meters, stretching nearly eight meters from the door to the balcony.
The walls were painted a gentle white, with two single beds side by side, a bathroom, and a balcony.
He closed the door and laid Caroline on the bed.
She lay quietly on her back, skin glowing under the room’s lights, her figure curvaceous beneath the thin jacket—a sleeping beauty.
But Dean could clearly see her fluttering eyelashes and trembling shoulders.
A layer of goosebumps appeared on her pale waist, like a little white lamb shivering in the cold wind.
“At last, we’ve checked into the nineteenth floor of the Los Hotel legitimately. Now, on to business.”
Despite the beauty before him, Dean had no interest in admiring her. His casual expression shifted to seriousness.
He activated the “God’s Perspective.”
Instantly, his view soared upward, past the three-meter-high ceiling, piercing thick steel, concrete, and wooden floors—
Entering a brighter, more luxurious, and splendid realm.
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20-3—The Presidential Suite.
The brilliant crystal chandelier on the ceiling radiated dazzling light.
The living room was empty. Down a few steps, in front of the leather sofa, the large TV was broadcasting a news conference from the Las Vegas mayor—reporting on the Mead Lake incident.
On the sofa sat a young man in a black tank top, muscular arms, a gun holster tucked beneath his armpit.
James Law’s personal bodyguard?
Dean closed his eyes and retreated toward the door.
His God’s Perspective moved with him, leaving 20-3’s entrance and revealing the corridor.
Two bodyguards in black suits and sunglasses guarded the door, their vigilant eyes scanning passing guests.
“So many bodyguards—how terrified must he be?”
To the left of the suite was the ‘First Lady’ bedroom with a walk-in closet and velvet bed, adjacent to a matching presidential bedroom.
On the right, the entertainment room housed games and a pool table.
The middle right was crammed with bookshelves—a study.
Lower right, a luxurious bathtub in the bathroom.
Inside, a second elevator served as a secure escape route, with another guard stationed at its entrance.
Presidential suite or not, it rivaled a fortress-like mini-villa.
For most, entering the room meant facing professional guards, submitting to frisking and inspection.
Dean was an anomaly.
No matter how sharp the guards, they could never imagine a sinister assassin was observing their every move from downstairs!
Every breath they took was within Dean’s awareness.
Moreover, Dean was not on the twentieth floor, so the dense corridor and suite cameras posed no threat.
A surge of excitement washed over Dean as he realized he was controlling everything from the shadows.
He searched thoroughly.
The 20-3 suite was several times larger than 19-3 below; his God’s Perspective could only reach five meters, creating many blind spots.
Dean could only glimpse the suite’s rooms from the doorway; deeper areas were shrouded in darkness.
He saw no sign of James Law yet.
“With the bodyguard inside, he can’t be far.”
The night was still young.
Dean settled in patiently to wait.
To avoid neglecting Caroline for too long and arousing her suspicion, he quietly lay down beside her.
He wrapped his arms around her waist.
Burying his face in the nape of her neck, he inhaled deeply.
Here it comes!
Caroline’s mind grew hazy, her cheeks flushed like apples.
Nervous yet expectant.
But she waited in vain for him to take things further.
Dean pulled her left hand over, playing with her slender fingers.
He gently kneaded her fleshy palm.
Pinched her delicate fingertips.
As if her elegant hand were a toy.
When the girl before him grew bored and drowsy, almost falling asleep—
Dean suddenly sat up, excitement flickering in his eyes.
Upstairs.
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A middle-aged man in a white bathrobe walked from the study into the living room, cradling a photo frame in his arms. His round face had grown gaunt, his aquiline nose more pronounced, eyes bloodshot, restless, and weary.
He muttered a few obscure phrases in Italian to the bodyguard, accepting a bottle of red wine in return.
Left arm clutching the frame, right hand holding the wine, he strode barefoot toward the balcony.
Silent as a shadow, Dean followed him, slipping from the bed and moving forward.
Upstairs and downstairs.
Four meters apart.
James Law and Dean—a pair of puppets on a string—walked to their balconies at the same pace and stride.
The bodyguard observed from the living room.
The night breeze stirred.
Las Vegas’s daytime heat had yielded to the coolness of night.
And the Strip.
From the top floor of the Los Hotel, leaning on the railing, the dazzling city shimmered with neon lights—skyscrapers rising like a concrete jungle.
Dangerous beauty, amplified by the darkness.
“Bob… give me a little more time. I swear, I’ll spare no cost to send them to join you,”
James Law, bleary-eyed, leaned on the railing, staring at his son’s portrait. He gulped wine, then hurled the bottle violently off the balcony.
Inside, the bodyguard sighed, rubbing his face, utterly unaware of the shadowy figure slipping from the nineteenth-floor balcony, sweeping across the void like the wind.
Ascending, turning.
Landing on the twentieth-floor balcony, behind James, eyes deep and cold, watching the man teetering on the “cliff’s” edge.
“Do it!”
19-3.
Dean issued the command.
The shadow unleashed an invisible force, neither heavy nor light, pushing the man’s back.
With a startled cry, James Law, half-draped over the railing, lost his balance and toppled over.
Head down, feet up.
Falling!
The wind howled!
From the Los Hotel’s twentieth floor, he plummeted in a perfect free-fall.
His frenzied screams sliced through the night.
Countless hotel guests awoke, rushing to their windows.
Caroline rubbed her eyes and stepped onto the balcony, instinctively wrapping her arms around Dean’s waist, her cheek pressed to his back.
“What was that sound? Did you hear it?”
Bang!
The ground trembled lightly.
On the marble floor, the billionaire was now a blood-red and white blossom—a flower of flesh.
Dean gazed down at the panicked crowd pouring from the hotel lobby, a faint smile curling his lips.
“A shooting star has landed.”
“Beautiful.”
Dean turned, lifting Caroline into his arms.
“Come on, let’s go to sleep.”