Sinful Games (Sinful #2) | 18+

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"If you have two friends in your lifetime, you're lucky. If you have one good friend, you're more than lucky."

― S.E. Hinton

Alexsei

I pulled Caia closer to me, my arm around her waist as my phone rang for the third time in a row.

With a sigh, I ignored the call once more, only for my phone to buzz again.

"Answer that," Caia yawned. "It's disturbing my beauty sleep."

I chuckled and kissed her head before slipping out of bed and heading to the living room, closing the door quietly behind me to avoid waking her or our son.

"It better be fucking important, or I'll send shooters to find you after I hang up," I spat, answering my phone as I settled on our couch.

Angelo laughed on the other end. "Well, well, Romaniev. Always a pleasure to hear your sweet voice."

"Make it quick." I snapped.

Angelo sighed dramatically. "Ah, I'm good too, thanks for asking, stronzo."

Ignoring his response, I stepped out onto the balcony to smoke my cigarette, making sure the smell wouldn't linger in the room.

Angelo Lazzio embodied every Italian Don cliché imaginable: a billionaire – his penthouse overlooking Central Park was valued at over $35 million -–, a notorious playboy, CEO of one of the largest art companies in the US, and owner of multiple restaurants across Paris, NYC, Tokyo, and Cape Town.

His father was a close friend of Igor, which is how we met a couple of years ago.

"Let me guess," I exhaled smoke. "You lost your puppy again and you want me—even though I'm in fucking Russia—to come and find it."

"Leave Giorgio out of it; I just came back from the vet, and he has a fucking eye infection."

Giorgio was his Pomeranian puppy he got a couple of months ago because he said he wanted company.

I guess a girlfriend would've been too much commitment for him, so he went with a dog instead.

Typical Angelo behavior.

I rolled my eyes, taking another drag of my cigarette. "Well, what is it then?"

"Remember that favor you owe me? Well, I need it now," Angelo replied, his tone serious.

A couple of years ago, I was in NYC after a trip to Colombia when Angelo invited me to dinner at one of his restaurants.

Later, we decided to visit one of his father's clubs in downtown Brooklyn and ended up facing off with some bastards from a nameless and useless group of thugs who weren't thrilled to see a Silas in "their" territory.

As if they fucking owned anything.

A fight broke out, and before I could react, one of the bastards had a gun to my head. Angelo swiftly intervened and punched the fucker so hard he killed him and saved my life.

I jokingly told him I owed him my life, but I guess he took it seriously.

In total honesty, Angelo remains a trusted friend whom I could rely on, and I suppose I'd always be willing to return a favor.

I narrowed my eyes, smoke swirling around me.

A sudden curiosity rose in my chest. "What do you want, Lazzio?"