Page 4 of Sinful Games

Swear words and curses filled the air.

“You thieving scumbag!” one of them hollered.

“I ain’t no damn thief, you bastard,” the other retorted, his hand darting under his shirt to draw a knife. He then viciously thrust it into the man’s chest.

The room erupted with a chaotic mix of yells, curses, and shrieks as the knife plunged into the guy's chest, leaving a bloody mess in its wake.

What was supposed to be a night of fun had turned into chaos.

The wounded man clutched his chest, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe he’d just been shanked in a casino, before collapsing to the floor. His attacker, still reeling from what he’d done, hovered over him, hands trembling like leaves in the wind.

Amidst the tumult, I couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic chuckle.

“Whores it is next time,” Volk laughed, raising his cup to his lips.

Chapter

Two

“It is not titles that honour men, but men that honour titles.”

?Niccolò Machiavelli

Alexsei

After a few more rounds of drinks and losing thousands to Volk, we made our way back to the office, just a few quiet streets away.

The city had settled into a tranquil silence; it was well past midnight, but business never truly slept.

Igor had recently made a significant discovery.

He’d connected with a new supplier dealing in a sinister blend of narcotics that had caused quite a stir in the underground. This concoction was unlike anything we’d seen before—a potent mix of painkillers, cocaine, and someillicit substance that had somehow slipped under law enforcement’s radar.

The appeal of this new drug lay in its unparalleled addictiveness, making it a goldmine for those who knew how to distribute it—and that was our fucking specialty.

“What’s his name?” I asked, as Volk tossed his cigarette to the ground.

He then removed his glove, revealing his hand to enter the code that unlocked the heavily guarded doors.

“Kristian Mankiev.”

“Never heard of him,” I replied, stifling a yawn.

We sauntered past the two armed pricks near the entrance, engrossed in a poker game like they had all the time in the world, and headed for the elevator.

“Late fifties, has a daughter, and owes the Silas a whopping 100 grand,” Volk explained.

The elevator doors slid open with a chime, and we stepped inside as Lady Gaga’s "Poker Face" blared through the speakers.

100 grand?

That’s one hell of a debt for the Silas.

Igor usually doesn’t loan more than 50k—it always turns into a fucking bloodbath.

“So, the bastard thinks he can wipe out his debt by selling us his shit.”

Volk nodded silently. “Good shit, though.”

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