Sinful Games (Sinful #2) | 18+

CHAPTER FIVE

"Life is more fun if you play games."
― Roald Dahl

Alexsei

"Did you bring it with you?"

By "it," Igor was referring to the ten kilos of white powder that Mankiev had promised him the day before. Ten kilos today, another ten kilos next week, with everything originating from Colombia and transported to Igor's warehouses outside of Moscow.

Mankiev nodded. "Da. It's in my car. Daryi, would you mind?"

Daryi, a tall and (probably) mute man, obediently rose from his seat and left to do Mankiev's bidding, as he had done all evening, communicating only through nods and head shakes.

Such a fucking weird dude.

Mankiev chuckled as he asked, "So, how are the blinis? They're Caia's grandmother's recipe, you know. She adores her babushka. Poor thing."

The way that bastard was talking about his daughter shouldn't have pissed me off, but for some godforsaken reason, it did. It really got on my fucking nerves.

"You have a nice daughter, Mankiev," Volk sneered. "Such a shame you raised her in our fucked-up world."

I decided to shift the focus to the blinis and took a bite, savoring their sweet and nutty flavor. They were surprisingly good, so I helped myself to another.

Mankiev leaned in closer to the table, lowering his voice with a sly grin. "Let me tell you one thing about my daughter, Volk. Caia loves attention. Give her attention, and you can have her all to your damn self."

Yep, that fucking bastard was pissing me off so much that I clenched my hands not to get up and kill him on the spot.

"Where's her mama?" Igor asked.

Probably an addict like her fucking lame husband or worse dead.

He probably killed the poor woman.

"Dead," Mankiev said, bringing a blini to his mouth. "Overdosed when Caia turned six years old."

I couldn't blame the poor woman. I wanted to punch him just looking at his ugly face.

Growing increasingly bored and craving some excitement, I decided to indulge in a little game. I reached for my pack of cigarettes and lit one, all while departing from the dining table.

As I made my way down the hallway, I focused on the faint sounds that might guide me to the girl's chosen hiding place.

Throughout the evening, I had been subtly observing her—scrutinizing the furrow of her brows, the distant sadness lurking in her emerald eyes, the way her red lips trembled with unease, and the sensuous cascade of her hair as she idly toyed with it.

It was clear she was experiencing heightened nervousness, as if she harbored a plan but was unsure of how to set it in motion or what the repercussions might be.

My curiosity grew with every step down the hallway.

What was the little witch doing?

Faintly hearing water splash in a sink, I knocked on the door to the left side of the hallway.

The water abruptly stopped, and she opened the door a few seconds later, looking somewhat flushed.

"There you are, Caia," I said, savoring the sound of her name.