Page 126 of Sinful Games

She bit her lip before sighing. “Okay…” She sat back on the bed, hugging a pillow, looking sheepish. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but… he’s dating Valeria.”

I stayed silent; my amusement barely hidden behind a neutral expression. Caia gasped, throwing the pillow at me,which I caught before it hit my face, unable to hold back a laugh.

“You knew?!” she exclaimed, standing up angrily. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Still chuckling, I moved toward the door, slipping on my shoes. “Caia, I don’t give a damn who Dve fucks; that’s his business, not mine.”

She picked up our son and placed him in his playpen in the living room, her footsteps quick and annoyed as she followed me barefoot to the entrance.

“Stop saying that!” she snapped.

“Saying what?” I glanced back at her, amused.

“You know what!” Her emerald eyes darkened with irritation, something I found irresistible. “They’re dating, not just…” Her face twisted in disgust. “Anyway, I don’t want to see him. I’ll walk, or I’ll take one of your cars. I don’t need him.”

I shook my head, smirking at her embarrassment.

“When peopledate, they usuallyfuck, baby,” I teased, grabbing her hips and dropping my head to kiss her neck. “Just like we do.” I nipped at her skin and squeezed her ass. “And when I get back, I’m gonna fuck you all night long?—”

“Alexsei!” She shoved me away, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Alright, alright.” I raised my hands in surrender, grinning. “I’ll bring you and Lukyan a nice souvenir.”

Her expression softened. “Good. Have a safe trip.”

I leaned in for one last kiss, frustrated as hell about leaving them behind to deal with Lazzio and his rat-infested city.

Chapter

Forty-Two

“Any star thinks it's out of reach until it falls.”

?Tamerlan Kuzgov

Alexsei

I nudged the man’s leg, but he didn’t budge. "Yeah, dude’s dead," I said, arms crossed.

"Oh my god," Scarlett cried, covering her face as she sobbed.

"We know he's fucking dead," Angelo snapped, rolling his eyes. "We don’t need you for that, Sherlock."

I sighed. "Alright, so what’s the plan?"

The hotel room fell silent, broken only by Scarlett’s ragged sobs. She stood there in a cropped t-shirt and a shredded mini leather skirt that barely covered her bruised legs. Her high heels, the kind you’d expect to see on a stripper, gaveher the appearance of someone far from in control. She was shaking, her whole body trembling like she was about to shatter.

“I-I can’t b-believe I-I killed him,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

By "him," she meant the lifeless figure sprawled on the floor. The random creep who’d been hiding under her bed, probably waiting for the right moment to drug her or worse.

As an international superstar, Scarlett attracted her fair share of psycho stalkers and unhinged groupies. A few weeks ago, some fifty-year-old lunatic had jumped on stage during her performance, armed with a knife. Her security had barely managed to tackle him before she got hurt.

"Don’t stress it, he probably had it coming," I said, smirking as I tugged at the dead guy's Hawaiian shirt. "Just look at this shirt. Crimes against fashion should be punishable by death."

Scarlett looked up, her tear-streaked face registering my words before she collapsed back into sobs.

“So, what happened?” I asked, turning to Angelo, who scratched at his beard, glancing at his watch like he had somewhere better to be.

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