Page 1 of Sinful Games

Part One

The Devil

Chapter

One

“The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.”

?George Carlin

Alexsei

Four years ago.

"I'd rather have gone with some hookers," I muttered, casting a disappointed glance around the dimly lit, smoke-filled casino. The place was a dive, with dark, moody lighting and clouds of smoke hanging in the air, making it feel like an underground den.

Volk rolled his eyes and casually tossed hisace onto the table, letting out a hearty laugh as I begrudgingly threw my remaining cards down.

Losing to him always fucking stung.

He leaned back in his chair. "I can't think of a better way to celebrate your birthday,bratt."

I sighed. "Yeah, well, it's better than hanging out with Irina again. She's been all over me for weeks."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you can't resist her charms?"

I shrugged. "I mean, she does have some pretty big tits."

"Ain't that the truth."

I grimaced. "Please, don't remind me that we've fucked the same women. I'm gonna throw up."

I took a long gulp from my glass, letting the bubbly beer slide down my throat.

Today marked my 26th birthday, the twelfth one celebrated alongside Volk and the Silas clan. My mind drifted back to the day I joined the clan, my fourteenth birthday.

I stood outside Igor’s door, the stern image of Father Pasha playing on a loop in my head. In one hand, I held the severed head of the priest, and in the other, I gripped a bloodied knife—symbols of my grim determination and the lengths I’d gone to earn my place under Igor’s wing.

I'd first crossed paths with Igor a few days prior while working as a waiter at a bar, serving drinks to drunks. One night, a rowdy bastard tried to steal my hard-earned tips. In the heat of the moment, I swung a glass bottle at him, connecting squarely with his head. It was self-defense, but the bar owner promptly threw me out, my face meeting the cold, muddy ground outside.

As I dusted myself off and rose to my feet, there stood Igor, just a few inches away. He regarded me with a pensive expression, removed his leathery glove, and extended his hand towards me.

"Hello, son," he said, shaking my hand with a firm grip. "I heard you're in need of a new gig."

I released his hand and glanced down both sides of the street. It was the end of winter, and Moscow's streets were a mix of mud and melted snow, with only a handful of cars navigating the slushy roads. The streets were otherwise deserted.

Back then, I was young and naive, with a mother who worked as a prostitute and a father who struggled with addiction. My father's vices forced us to work tirelessly just to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Igor appeared as my only escape from a life of hardship, promising me a future filled with wealth, leisure, and power—how could I turn down such an offer?

But to enter the clan, Igor laid down a sinister request.

He demanded I bring him the head of a priest—Father Pasha, the head of the Moscow church, who had apparently incurred a debt with Igor and stubbornly refused to settle it.

The task was dark enough—to kill a priest—but bringing back his head? That was a level of darkness that chilled me to my core back then.

Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I embarked on my mission.

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