Page 103 of Sinful Games

But I knew I had to seek justice for her, for what had been done to her. No one lays a fucking finger on my wife and gets away with it.

I had four fucking names on my list.

Volodymyr Babikiv / Klark Polanski / Slavoy Sadiek / Kristian Mankiev

I decided to start withPolanski, just to give the other guys a taste of what was coming for them. Taking him out was surprisingly easy; he barely seemed to suffer for his crimes.

I found him in his office this morning at 8. He’d just come back from Phuket, bragging about his wild times with ladyboys and his reckless spending. I played along, pretending Silas was interested in investing in his company. He was fucking thrilled.

Casually, I asked him about his favorite pimp, just in case I needed an escort. Polanski fell right into my trap. When Mankiev’s name slipped out of his mouth, something inside me snapped.

I grabbed my small hatchet from my suitcase and brought it down on his desk, chopping off both his hands. His scream was so loud, I half-expected it to reach Antarctica. Without missing a beat, I cut out his tongue to shut him up.

Afterward, with adrenaline still pumping, I made a quick stop at the security office. A bit of cash and some persuasionmade sure the morning’s video footage went conveniently missing. Money really does smooth over any fucking problem.

Then I headed to findVolodymyr Babikiv. I knew he wouldn’t be at his office because his contract at a small IT company had ended abruptly two weeks ago, with accusations of embezzlement and thousands missing. I checked his apartment in downtown Moscow, but it was empty.

Frustrated, I reached out to Volk, asking if he had any leads on Babikiv. Hours dragged on without a word, and my patience was wearing thin. Finally, Volk came through, saying Babikiv had been spotted on a security camera at one of our casinos in Saint Petersburg.

So, here I was on this damn Sunday night, an hour-long flight on our private jet behind me, here I was, strolling through the various aisles of our casino. I nodded at a few customers, ensuring everything was running smoothly. The place wasn’t as packed as it would be on a Friday night, but there were still six or seven tables filled with men gambling, drinking, and smoking.

Babikiv’s face caught my eye immediately—just as repulsive as the mugshot Volk had sent me.

I approached their poker table and smoothly took a seat beside him, ordering a whiskey with a nod to the dealer. I greeted the people around the table, exchanging nods with two middle-aged men sitting across from me, before focusing on Babikiv to my right. With a confident smirk, I settled in, ready for the game.

A waitress sauntered over; her smile seductive as she placed my whiskey on the table. Before she left, she let her hand brush against my arm, but I quickly pushed her away.

“So, Babikiv,” I began casually, swirling the whiskey in my glass. “What’s your take on this hand?”

Babikiv glanced at his cards, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Hmm, tough call. I think I’ll raise.”

I nodded, a faint smile playing on my lips. “Bold move.”

“Wait.” His eyes widened. “How do you know my name?”

I leaned back. “Oh, just a lucky guess. Names tend to float around in places like these.”

He regarded me with suspicion before shrugging it off. “Fair enough.”

Babikiv was a fucking nightmare to look at, like something straight out of a horror movie. His face was covered in acne scars and rough, cratered skin, with glasses that were way too big for his face. His gut bulged out from under his shirt, and his chest hair sprouted like weeds. The worst part was his long, greasy hair that smelled like it hadn’t been washed in ages, making my stomach churn.

“You know, sometimes, Babikiv, winning comes with a price,” I said, my gaze locked on him.

Babikiv raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled. “What do you mean?”

I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice. “Let’s play. I’ll bet 15K.”

Babikiv’s eyes widened in surprise. He glanced nervously at the sizable stack of chips in front of me, then back at his own meager pile.

“You sure about that?” he muttered; his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Absolutely. In fact, make it 30.”

Babikiv hesitated, clearly weighing his options. Finally, with a shaky hand, he pushed his chips into the center of the table, matching my bet.

“Alright then,” he said, trying to sound confident but failing miserably. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

As we played, I couldn’t resist using some of the sneakytricks I’d learned from Igor over the years. Thanks to his lessons, I had a few aces up my sleeve—both figuratively and literally. Babikiv was completely fucking clueless, making it easy to outmaneuver him at every turn.

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