Page 166 of Sinful Games

Some were filled with tears, heartache, and despair; others with apathy, and a few with moments of gratitude. I was grateful that, despite the cruel way life had taken my precious baby, I was still blessed to have been, and always will be, his mommy. My baby boy brought so much joy, color, and light into my life, even in such a short time.

I was also grateful for Alexsei. He was the love of my life; there were no doubts about that. I was grateful that we met, even if the circumstances were bizarre and tinged with ulterior motives—like being forced to marry a killer with more skeletons in his closet than I could ever dream of.

Despite all the games, lies, and pain, I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have been Caia Romaniev, the wife of the beautiful, kind, and loyal Alexsei Romaniev—well, as kind as a mafia boss can be.

Irina also taught me so much about womanhoodand the importance of women standing together. She was my guardian angel in that small city called Soroca in Moldova. And after 90 days, with the help of the kind Nikita Grivok, I received my visa for America. A new chapter was beginning, and with it came a renewed sense of hope.

"Remember what I said to you, Caia," Irina whispered as we said our goodbyes, my luggage at my feet. "When you're down, the only way is up. Keep that in mind." She kissed my cheek and waved goodbye before retreating into her inn.

Then my life in New York began.

Nikita welcomed me at the airport, casually mentioning that his boyfriend Steven would be thrilled to have me as his housemate. “We don’t live together yet,” Nikita explained with a smile. “Steven wants us to buy a house in his hometown near Boston, and I promised him we would in two years when the mayor’s mandate ends. So, I kept my apartment, and he kept his.”

I nodded. “Thank you again, Nikita. You have no idea?—”

He flashed a grin. “Don’t worry. You’re Valeria’s best friend, so you’re mine too. Now, let’s go!” He hailed a cliché yellow cab. “Time for you to meet Steven.”

As the cab whisked us through the city, I soaked in the sights: towering buildings, bustling crowds, dogs trotting alongside their owners, and vibrant street art. For a fleeting moment, I felt like I was living in an episode ofSex and the City—minus the drama, of course.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the cab halted in Brooklyn, in front of an apartment building with those quintessential New York stairs.

"Quick heads up," Nikita said, helping me out of the cab and gathering my bags. "Steven is big on physical touch. Quite un-Russian, I know. So be prepared for a lengthy hug."

I arched an eyebrow.

Guess the stereotype of Americans being overly friendly wasn’t just a cliché.

"Caia!" A man slightly taller than me, with short black hair and warm brown eyes, called from the top of the stairs. He was decked out in black jeans and a white AC/DC t-shirt. With a broad smile, he bounded down the steps, enveloping me in a tight embrace and spinning me around like I was the star of some rom-com.

As he finally set me down, I felt a bit dizzy.

"I'm so glad to finally meet you! I'm Steven, and let me tell you, gorgeous, you and I are gonna be best friends!" he declared, playfully kissing my cheeks.

And so unfolded the first pages of my new chapter.

Or so I thought.

"Can you drop the check here in a few days? I still have a lot to discuss with Alexsei and?—"

Steven interrupted with an exaggerated scoff. "Is he holding you hostage? I mean, the past few weeks have been weirder than a pigeon wearing a top hat, but this is New York, sweetie. Odd is practically our middle name!"

I chuckled softly. "He just wants me safe, Steven. That's all. Anyway, I have to go. Thanks for checking up on me."

"Always, sweetie. Take care and call me if you need anything."

"I will."

With that, I ended the call and headed to the bathroom, moving quietly to wash my face, praying for a sprinkle of extra courage from the universe to handle my ex-husband without feeling like a guilt-ridden mess.

“Tea?”

I nodded, taking a seat at the table. It was spread with a typical Russian breakfast: dark rye bread slathered with creamy butter, thinly sliced smoked salmon, hard-boiled eggs, and an array of cheeses. There were small bowls of jam, honey, and sour cream, plus blini and a steaming pot of buckwheat porridge.

Alexsei poured me some tea and settled into the chair across from me. He looked tired, with bags under his eyes, a subtle flush on his cheeks, and his usually polished light brown hair now disheveled, as if he’d run his hands through it a few too many times.

"Please, eat. My cook came bright and early this morning, and I promised her we’d devour everything," he remarked, managing a small smile.

"Thanks again, and I'm sorry you went through all that trouble," I said, guilt creeping in.

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